the age of the forest is negotiable
at the edge
of sanity
foghorn
Hemapriya Chellappan
haibun
This is America God damn it
It is likely the Bronx. Battered housing projects. Stretched shadows in groups. They’re the frame. A spontaneous memorial sprung up of mourning candles sputtering. Most have pictures of Mary or Jesus painted on their glass. Some withered roses hanging on there.
The police have cordoned off the crime scene. Mothers are weeping. Neighbors have come out in their robes. Whispering. It seems it was a child caught in the crossfire.
A gang banger with tattoos drawn like a religious text scrawled up to his chin says to no one in particular,
Bang. Bang.
it’s America
you’re dead
Jack Galmitz
One Can Always Count On Dave And The Gang
Head bangs, laughter and dancing. Live streaming Foo Fighters at the Roxy.
shared joy finds its way
virtual
sing-along
E. L. Blizzard
Silence
Today I want to see how many cars go by. It’s cold outside and there’s not a soul around.
Neither a passer-by, nor a cyclist.
[…]
Nobody.
This is the rush hour.
A car arrives. It moves slowly. I think it’s someone who lives nearby and comes home after work.
Others should follow.
[…]
Nothing…
from one lockdown
to another
winter fog
Andrea Cecon
Goldilocks Syndrome
Mama’s coffee sucks. Chicory-harsh with powdered cream. On a scale of one to ten, it’s a three. Better than Pop’s brown water with powdered cream. It’s a two.
grown woman
back-and-forth parenting
continues
E. L. Blizzard
Unnamed Counts
Dinner flip-flop-flips on the hooks. They climb the bank to their fire drum. Salted, sizzling skins are popped in mouths that grin warm-belly bliss. A mutual moment of plenty before tomorrow’s rumblings. Reading lines by flashlight from second-hand journals is their nightly home entertainment. Laughter stumbles over spoken word, interrupting their recitations with impersonations of celebrities.
Cold fingers share communion in this private camp. Praying over one another’s skin, their joined bodies sing hymnals. Two voices rise and call and hush into exhaustion. Sleeping under rainfall, they do not dream.
A cough and another. Their days tighten into wheezes and fevers. Wrapped up holding each other, they sleep in fits and starts. Sipping pine needle tea and breathing in its steam, their comfort word offerings weaken. They are together alone and scared.
a hike find
ruined artifacts
deserted tent
E. L. Blizzard
A brief history of the Mesophile
The earliest records of the Mesophile refer to a Creation Myth: how they emerged from the primeval darkness and, thanks to the Sun’s bounty, moderate temperatures and an adequate supply of oxygen were able to take root and thrive.
By their reckoning thousands of generations had passed since The Great Sprouting.
Mesophilian culture had passed through three stages: the coccus, bacillus, and spiral. They were now on the cusp of advanced civilisation.
The ancient seers spoke of the Dark One, whose coming would blot out the Sun and plunge Mesophilia into blackness.
Then Craig came and binned the mouldy cheese.
the universe turns in on itself
a thought trips the synapses
and an eternity passes
Robbie Porter
Suite
At what frequency does this thread vibrate?
Bach at twilight
the spider’s choreographic
moves
Diana Webb
cacophony in the eye
pssst listen a cloud respirating
it’s the wind sighing, “You’re mine”
a woman’s vibrato could be sadness in a real world
am I stepping into a soul?
carbuncled cheeks a shivering chin
absent sky absent life still life
my toes sanded gray ten wiggling stones
deciphering the language of seals
rumours rise on a bench the now a honking overhead
a flickering V hurriedly ink-brushed
pierces the blue that ocean groans have frayed
no matter the pitted grass footfalls crackle on brittle heliotrope limbs
in the eye in the end
a cacophony
on the beach
Alegria Imperial
n.t
Fairies left gifts here beneath the tree where she dreams. Which to choose. A trinket of wood? A trinket of gold?
a breath
through the leaves
sky’s alchemy
Diana Webb
