Two poems by David Vincenti

A Kite In Winter

for Jaclyn

How she longs to be the welcome interruption,
the eye-catching exception in a world of blue.

How she wants to contradict continuity,
to trace a tethered track answering only

to the one who loves her deeply enough
to unravel string with gloveless hands,

to let her out long into a cloudless sky
that loves her more than warmth, more than

the seasons, more than home. How she longs
to return that love with one perfect flight.



Red Shift

Red Shift is an increase in apparent wave length, caused by the movement of a source away from the observer. The phenomenon causes light to appear redder and sound to have a lower pitch. The opposite, Blue Shift, occurs when the source is moving toward.

It may have been that morning by the lake
when you realized you’d rather row than swim,
but the shore was so still, so free of birdsong,
that surely you think you’d have heard the turn,
felt the mosquito touch of passing time,
sensed a change in pressure. The years rush
toward you for so long then start to rush away
and you still produce the same sounds but
they strike the world differently than they do
your own stationary receiver. From within
a new confluence of volume and flash,
like a Stones concert whose hangovers
you can no longer stand, someone produces
a signal more sturdy than your own fallible voice
carrying this choice: stretch to a new note
or trust the echo as your song deepens
and fades, soundtrack of the reddening sunset


David Vincenti ( is a father, husband, lector, engineer, project manager, accordionist and bowler whose poems have appeared in numerous journals including Schuylkill Valley Journal, Presence: A Journal of Catholic Poetry and the anthologies Rabbit Ears: TV Poems and Meta-Land, Poets of the Palisades II. He has authored two collections: To The Ones Who Must Be Loved (2010) and A Measure of this World: Galileo’s Dialog with the Universe (2015).

Wanda by Ryan J. Torres


The first girl I ever kissed
when I was 8 years old
is wanted for manufacturing
and dealing
in my home town.

Judging by her mugshot
from an arrest a year ago,
it was a more serious chemical.

Back then,
she was cute and shy.
A rose of promise.

Her father was gone,
but her mother would beat her with one of his belts
on a regular basis.
Her brother was overbearing
and protective.

There was no neck tattoo
Not luggage under her lids
No scar on her left cheek.

She was as pure
and as tan
as untouched
Puerto Rican
along Arecibo.

We were building with Legos
in the toy room
of my old house
when she leaned it
and I felt the softness of the opposite sex
for the first time upon my lips.

“If you tell anyone, I’ll kill you,”

She said with a smile,
before strolling down Chestnut street
back to Lebanon’s own little Barrio
on the other side of the train tracks.

Flower Seller by Elisabeth Horan

Flower Seller

Rivera, 1941
On the asphalt I go
To Acapulco
Past the rubble; burned tires,
El agua ‘no potable’

A family, a girl, their roses,
Tantas calas
White pinafore; white linen
I can smell her youth changing over to woman

The donkey tied
The Fiat parked

I walk across the black tar flat
To ask: cuánto es para una docena
Me dice: pa’a usted Senor,
Solo ciento-cincuenta.

Miracles – these flowers
To my wife I get on one knee
Tell her – eres toda,
Completamente toda para mi

But the girl
By the road
Was in white
Her hair tight
Behind the nape
Her arched neck
Like a child

With the bouquet of calas
I cannot taste these offerings
Yet the existence of her beauty
Hangs like an odor
Of me wanting her everywhere.


Elisabeth Horan is a poet from Vermont fighting back with her words. She advocates for animals children women warriors of mental illness and those tender souls left feeling isolated and misunderstood. @ehoranpoet

Just Because, Bad Heart by Michael Lee Johnson

Just Because, Bad Heart

Just because I am old
do not tumble me dry.
Toss me away with those unused
Wheat pennies, Buffalo nickels, and Mercury dimes
in those pickle jars in the basement.
Do not bleach my dark memories
Salvation Army my clothes
to the poor because I died.
Do not retire me leave me a factory pension
in dust to history alone.
Save my unfinished poems refuse to toss them
into the unpolished alleyways of exile rusty trash barrows
just outside my window, just because I am old.
Do not create more spare images, adverbs
or adjectives than you need to bury me with.
Do not stand over my grave, weep,
pouring a bottle of Old Crow
bourbon whiskey without asking permission
if it can go through your kidney’s first.
When under stone sod I shall rise and go out
in my soft slippers in cold rain
dread no danger, pick yellow daffodils,
learn to spit up echoes of words
bow fiddle me up a northern Spring storm.
Do you bad heart, see in pine box of wood,
just because I got old.


Michael Lee Johnson lived ten years in Canada during the Vietnam era and is a dual citizen of the United States and Canada. Today he is a poet, freelance writer, amateur photographer, and small business owner in Itasca, Illinois. Mr. Johnson published in more than 1037 publications, his poems have appeared in 37 countries, he edits, publishes 10 different poetry sites. He has been nominated for 2 Pushcart Prize awards for poetry 2015/1 Best of the Net 2016/and 2 Best of the Net 2017. He also has 169 poetry videos on YouTube. He is the editor-in-chief of the anthology, Moonlight Dreamers of Yellow Haze, and editor-in-chief of a second poetry anthology, Dandelion in a Vase of Roses which is available at Amazon. Michael is also editor-in-chief of Warriors with Wings: the Best in Contemporary Poetry, a smaller anthology available now.

Two poems by Ross Stager

The Madness of Sunflowers
after Robert Altman’s Vincent & Theo

Mix the food coloring with a bit
of butter for a paint we can spread
with our mouths.

He started with a palette.
The paint never got
on the canvass.

Yes, there is one original.
Just one. We live in it
all the time. Swim its rivers
constantly. We’re a gallery.
This is just one exhibit.
Each second of the day
a single case study in a file
drawer for which the clock & I
are negotiating still a name.

In the same vein, I turn
these poems over
for public examination.

Girl with Cigar
after Robert Altman’s Vincent & Theo

I plucked this one from the market
just like any eggplant or cantaloupe.

Now we’ve traded terms of value
on all minutes of the day, a cage

you’re glad to inhabit. You allow me
to capture you in pages, with language

& imagery. How my hands inquire
after the facts of sight & vision!

To witness you at our wits’ ends
& hold you so close. Tonight

a great haze clouds our inhibitions,
all that talk of once again making

discourse of shadows relevant
such are these wicked polygons

pursuing a modicum of sublimity.
But our principles of artistic system

outpace the alcohol, balance
the randomness. It’s a pattern

of cause & effect in theories
of order & chaos, metaphysical

schemas of greens, forms of yellow
& orange & reds in the context

of brushstrokes, oils & acrylics
in soul mechanics this wordy

abstract poetry a verbal energy
that insinuates a crazy music

exactly how the world idea
reifies itself, becomes actually being.

You just puff & puff until
we blaze & disappear into

the cloud of symbolic infinity,
fall on the canvass as our

bodies take shape & like paint
drip down & accept mixture

with impurities of the flesh
& spirit & a love of it all.


Ross Stager is a student of philosophy and English at the University of Minnesota and works as a night manager at a small grocery store in the southern suburbs of Minneapolis. He has published poems in such places like Otoliths, Alimentum, Inner Sins, Lunaris Review, Penwood Review, CultureCult Magazine, Chantwood Magazine, and 30 North, as well as a short-story for The Bacon Review. Catch him on Twitter with the handle @RossStager.

Three poems by Marisa Silva-Dunbar


There is some relief in this rejection.
Build a dam to where another life might’ve flowed,
that brook would never grow up to be a river anyway.

It is a sigh and a sting—the shedding of old delusions.

For my Friends with Lovers Better Left in the Dust


I’ve seen you shrink as she devours you.
You never ask what she’s taking—
the parasite consuming the host.

Her pettiness makes you weak,
runs you in circles. She promises paradise
served in a glass of lemonade.

I worry you will become a shadow woman,
a shell of longing and illusion.


Wedded young to a guy with no imagination—
overgrown frat boy wannabe. We knew he’d try
to box you in, make you a domesticated lady,
in a house that is really all his, you’re just an ornament.

You dream about decorating your skin, with a brightly
colored peacock winding its way up your torso, and back.
The ink peeking through your suburban mom uniform,
but even this he forbids, the only marks he wants on you—are his

You are a fire-sparked, earth mother with claws
ready to rip out throats. He’s running scared,
still a silly little boy zoning out in front of a screen.

The life you want is waiting for you.


Oh, Lonely Girl—worrying every man will leave you.
You have chained yourself to a guy too lazy to move.
He stopped working months ago, just sinks into your sofa
as the stress from your job wears you away.

He promises trips to a foggy city where you can lose
your troubles—those are the only things you own
these days. Even if you catch him with his fingers
in another girl, you’ll stay.


Spittle stuck to your cracked lips—
I have never seen a man drain youth
from a girl, like your lover does.
You are all teeth, jaundiced skin

and sunken eyes.
What happened to the wild raven
waves of your hair? What locks
did you give away when he was building
shrines for former flames?


Found poem from Francesca Lia Block’s Echo

A pulsing sacrifice—beautiful dark bruise.
Obsessive eyes like mouths.
You’re the perfect food,
My little blood orange.
Flesh—He eats bloody.
She’s disarmingly shady—a slicked mouth.
I wanted to erase her voice—the pleasure voice
telling me to breathe.

They separated me:
spasms struck,
bones break,
a curling stomach.

I dreamed:
I was translucent—a thousand ghosts.
Our bodies under water—
cut, blood marbling, flowering—
Dark circles under the eye—a fruitlike wound.

I see inside him:
He bought blood for the soil.
He was staring into a mirror—nothing stared back.

I tried to scream: Take me home!

Nothing comes out.


Marisa Silva-Dunbar’s work has been published in Rose Quartz Journal, Awkward Mermaid, Spider Mirror Journal, Mojave He[art] Review, Anti-Heroin Chic Magazine, Poetry WTF?!, Better than Starbucks Magazine, Redheaded Stepchild, Words Dance Magazine and Gargoyle Magazine. She graduated from the University of East Anglia with her MA in poetry, and has been shortlisted twice for the Eyewear Publishing Fortnight Poetry Prize. She has work forthcoming in Mojave He[art] Review, Sixfold, Pussy Magic, Midnight-lane Boutique, and The Same.

Two poems by Bruce Niedt


After transcribing scripture all day,
interrupted only by frequent prayer
or a Spartan meal, one would think
that those medieval monks would be anxious
to break out a little, to think outside the box,
or margins as the case may be. And they did.

After hours of drudgery copying Luke or Revelations,
after the day-in, day-out regimen of faith and devotion,
they strayed onto the edges of the parchment
and created something fanciful, a little divertissement
to amuse themselves – a snail with a cat’s head,
an elephant imagined with a wolf’s body,
a guy blowing a trumpet from his buttocks.

Then their pens would return to the realm
of rote and reason, as if nothing had ever happened,
as if imagination had never opened the borders,
but their smiles might last a little while longer.

The Back Door

Heaven is a place where nothing ever happens….
– Talking Heads

There are chaise lounges lined up to infinity
on a cloud like a cruise ship deck.
Some people are playing shuffleboard
or ping-pong or mah jongg. Some people
are reading all the favorite books
they didn’t have time for on Earth;
some are binge-watching old TV series.
There’s a 24-hour buffet, and no one
ever worries about gaining weight.
There’s a party in the community room,
and there’s music playing but everyone hears
their own favorite music. I hear the Beatles.
People still make small talk so no one knows
how they really feel, and everyone leaves
at eleven o’clock. There’s a couple kissing
in the corner; they’ve been doing it all evening,
the same kiss over and over again.
A pretty woman who may have been a model
walks up to me and whispers,
“I’ve heard that Hell is more interesting.”
So we slip out the back door to find out.


Bruce W. Niedt is a retired civil servant and New Jersey native who is now enjoying the joys of grand-parenthood. His poetry has appeared in numerous publications, including Rattle, Writer’s Digest, Tiferet, Spitball, The Lyric, and US 1 Worksheets. He has been nominated twice for the Pushcart Prize. His latest chapbook is Hits and Sacrifices (Finishing Line Press).