by Katherine Yoerg In a variety of colors, they sit in plastic bags, the days of youth arrayed with symbols of the times; Motorolas and Tulips, Versace and Mickey Mouse – beckoning you into the darkness, into the strobe lights, into the drum, bass, and luminescence of being up all…
by Gonzalinho da Costa Morning steps forward, freshly washed, newly fed, tautly wound, a limber bow, Ready to spring, tumble, wheel, pull at oars, throw the hammer, leap the long jump, High kick, vault, cartwheel forward, lunge, Superman punch, elbow strike, grapple, Throw, bound, mount a motorcycle, zip, zap, round…
by Don Mager Sun’s exuberant rush up the sky sweeps off shadows. The polish of fresh light sizzles icy mica flakes on lawns. Exhaling from the Juniper hedge, a tang of morning sweetness wafts across the shivery air. Like a bundled up gnome, a child bobbles up the curb to the hilltop…
by John P. Kristofco what the house keeps secret, things not meant for life outside the walls, only ours to tell, and so we never do: how we look when we get up, stairs we climb, noisy doors, dust and socks on floors, our angry words and soft, “her kerchief…
by Don Morgan The ghost of night shades the waterfront, cliffs and his hasty footprints in the sand. Painted flowers and her tears flow back to the sea.
by Gil Hoy I never appropriately Thanked you, Mr. Blue Man. I was just a dumb kid and didn’t know any better. I was moving, one day after turning eighteen. Signed up one of those cheap orange, black and White Rent–a–trucks, only Twelve bucks a day. My high school friends…
by Don Mager The fog presses through the cold swamp of morning and eventually takes on, like an unfamiliar rival, the early afternoon’s occluded light. With its beams aimed low, each car crawls past the other cars like old men on their knees with flashlights quivering as they look for…
by John P. Kristofco …lives apart, among us like the silence we all hear, implore, avoid, the face we never see on sidewalks, on a thousand mile hill; …cannot walk in worlds he does not know, except for words he’s taken up like stones to build a wall, a dream,…
by Gil Hoy In Squirrel Hill, Pennsylvania, while in the third grade, I often trekked to my best friend’s home up the street, a backpack of books strapped to my small growing back. We read through pages and pages then, in a quiet little study in a remote corner on…
by Don Mager Don’t stop looking just to take sides with the wriggling cricket. You see victim then. Look simply. This thread is a line taking a slow walk around itself to view every side. It sees angles and arcs. It sees interstices. Its eloquence wavers in the light. Its journey forth and…