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Eulogy to a Friend~ By Ahmed Mehdi

2/8/2023

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An endearing Dove would from early morn
Sing a series of soft, sublime ditties,
Comforting the needy and the forlorn
In remote communes and unfriendly cities.
Without expecting praises in return,
She would kindheartedly help her fellows.
Munificence being her sole concern,
Be it healing wounds or appeasing woes.
On beholding a heaven-bound shadow,
Soaring against the orange -tinted skies,
I was overwhelmed with angst and sorrow
That I could neither deny nor disguise.
With an utmost chagrin did I surmise
The empathetic Dove met her demise.


Author Bio:
Ahmed Mehdi is an EFL teacher from Sfax, Tunisia. He has been writing poetry as a hobby, including Shakespearean sonnets, for the last 16 years. He firmly believes that poetry is, to some extent, articulation and perception, but it is essentially, and above all, inspiration!
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And the two new tuxedo cats~ By Emalisa Rose

2/7/2023

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It won’t be the one car garage,
the multiplex deck we never did
build, the shutters, the awnings
or aluminum siding.

And hardly the cobblestone streets
round the circuit of cookie cut homes
on the cul-de-sac, in the meet and greet

“hiya Jane, hiya Joe, see ya at the
block party on Saturday.”

It will be the assortment of critters that’s
always found their way to the yard;

the squirrels, the rabbits, the songbirds
that sang to the sycamores and the two
stray tux tuxedo cats that I’ll miss.

I hope the new owners will continue
to feed them. (now that we’re leaving.)


Author Bio:
When not writing, Emalisa Rose enjoys crafting with macrame. She walks with a birding group on the weekends. She lives by the beach, which provides much of the inspiration for her art. She volunteers in animal rescue tending to cat colonies. Her work has appeared in Mad Swirl, Ariel Chart, The Voices Project and other grand places. Her latest collection is "On the whims of the crosscurrents," published by Red Wolf Editions. 
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plymouth, rock~ By Elizabeth Hashimura

2/2/2023

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I was not the first place
you landed.
Further north, across the bay, where that spit of land
curls in on itself.
A primordial fist clawing
back at the sea.

Protective, yet fierce.
Protective yet--
fierce.

I was never meant to be--
here.
I am a glacial erratic.
Born of Gondwana, carried by Pangea;
A cruel whimsy of the epochs deposited me here--
elsewhere.
Waiting to be exposed.
I am glacial, erratic.

I was whole; for a time,
for millennia.
Laid bare but not yet trespassed upon.
Until you wrenched me from my foundations
of sand.

Paraded through the town, first riven in two and then slowly abraded.
One piece of me found its way into a home as a doorstop. A door,
stop.
Another to the Smithsonian, branded with the inscription “Broken off from the Mother Rock.”
Broken,
off from the mother.

I was never meant to be revealed, to be revered.
But you erected a baldaquin over me.
Not to enshrine but to entomb.
A mordant gate at my base keeps the sea from rushing in to engulf me.
To envelop me. To absolve me.

They were always meant to come.
To gaze down upon me, mouths slack-jawed in disappointment and regret.
“I came all this way for that?”

Forgive me, forgive me, forgive me.

I came all this way--
for that.


Author Bio:
Elizabeth Hashimura is a translator living and working in rural southwestern Japan. Originally from Massachusetts, she has called Japan home for the past 20 years. Her translation work focuses on advocacy and visibility projects for international aid agencies. She holds an MPhil in linguistic anthropology and a BA in Japanese.
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​The Mayor and Mort~ By Hoyt Rogers

2/1/2023

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The Mayor, a pink, puffed-up toad,
receives me grandly at Hamlet Hall.
I was in Mumbai last year,
he intones. Drill for water,
and all you find is fire.
In Greenland, only ice.
 
Is this science? I wonder.
No, you mean melted ice:
that’s our crisis right now.
 
He barrels on, declaiming
from his script: Oh, y’all
may be in danger, on islands
and down by the shore. Drill,
and you’ll tap the sea.
First the fish come up,
then the dolphins and sharks,
the whale-sharks and whales…
 
The Leviathan, too, I laugh.
Why not? I stare into his eyes:
they’re a low-watt, empty blue.
Hey, there’s a wheel I can turn!
No, he objects. You’re a wimp.
But I’ve got the dude you need,
the boy who lives next door.
Only he can master the flow.
 
Mortimer… just “Mort” to us
in our plush retirement home.
Dirty glasses, orange shorts.
He smiles as we walk away.
The guy’s a moron, man.
You can turn that wheel,
same as me. But as soon as
you do, the world will drop
down a sinkhole, and it’ll seem
to be your fault. — Why seem?
I badger him... Why
no more than seem?


Author Bio:
Hoyt Rogers is a poet, writer, and translator. He translates from the French, German, Italian, and Spanish; he is known for his English versions of Bonnefoy, du Bouchet, and Borges. He has published many books; he has contributed poetry, fiction, essays, and translations to a wide variety of periodicals. His edition of Yves Bonnefoy’s Rome, 1630 received the 2021 Translation Prize from the French-American Foundation. His forthcoming works include a poetry collection, Thresholds (MadHat Press), the novel Sailing to Noon (book one of The Caribbean Trilogy), and a translation of Bonnefoy’s The Wandering Life (Seagull Books). For more information, please visit his website, hoytrogers.com

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When You’re Born with a Female Body~ By Elizabeth “Liz” Enochs

1/31/2023

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The thing no one tells you when you’re born with a female body is how often that body is likely to absorb the violence of men and boys, and I don’t just mean in the obvious ways. I don’t just mean your body may be assaulted or abused, perhaps many times. What I mean is: you may find your body holding secrets, like the one about the boy knocking you down during backyard baseball and then screaming at you for making him do it. Like the one about your uncle, pastor, coach, friend, boyfriend, husband. What I mean is: you may find your body on your parents’ porch, pinned against house siding by a young man you thought you had a crush on, begging for mercy, apologizing profusely for some perceived insult, praying to be set free before your dad and brother — visible through the window, sharing a laugh near the dining room table where a rifle sits mid-cleaning — look your way and come running. What I mean is: you may find your body being pushed down repeatedly by your boyfriend — in the presence of another man, his best friend — and even then your body won’t cry for salvation, she won’t ask Best Friend to do what he eventually does, won’t ask him to shove your boyfriend’s body so hard the wall receiving him shivers. What I mean is, this is the thing no one tells you about being born with a female body: when home is the body of a girl, a woman, home is often standing between boys and men, arms outstretched, bracing for impact.


Author Bio:
Elizabeth “Liz” Enochs is a queer writer from southeast Missouri. After graduating with a bachelor’s degree in English, Liz spent most of her twenties working as a journalist, essayist, and occasional travel writer. Now, she writes poetry, fiction, and creative nonfiction in her spare time. Liz has been writing since the day her mother gave her a blank notebook and told her to fill it up with stories. Liz’s cup runneth over with delightful femmes and coffee and cats. More often than not, you'll find her in the woods. You can check out Liz’s writings on her website: http://elizabethenochs.com/.
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in the bewitched aviary~ By Pawel Markiewicz

1/26/2023

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In the bewitched aviary.
The sonnet according to Mr. Shakespeare

Helots muse about moony Golden Fleece of the condor.
Drudges think of the dreamy eternal dew of the hen.
Philosophers ponder on winged fantasy of the crow.
Kings ruminate on a picturesque gold of the jay.

Priests contemplate the dreamed, soft, meek weird of the woodpecker.
Masters daydream about nice marvelous songs of the tern.
Soothsayers dream of fulfilled gold of the yellowhammer.
Knights philosophize about poetic dawn of the wren.

Hoplites fantasize about a red sky of the sparrow.
Athletes describe the most tender treasure-charm of the snipe.
Gods remember an enchanted, dear temple of the seagull.
Goddesses recall fairytale-like heroes of the kite.

Poets commemorate the elves-like heaven of the owl.
Bards reflect on most amazing dreamery of the rook.


soothsayer – fortuneteller


Author Bio:
Paweł Markiewicz was born 1983 in Siemiatycze in Poland. He is poet who lives in Bielsk Podlaski and writes tender poems, haiku as well as long poem.
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Memories are Crimson-Coloured, Reality is Grey~ Marzia Rahman

1/25/2023

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You were singing a lullaby. Lying in the front yard, I looked up; a shooting star swished by, and I made a wish.

We were fighting; you said everything would be fine, and I almost believed you until I saw the scars and the broken vases, and I turned into a teenaged rebel, once again.

Holding your wrinkly hand, I said, in another life, in another world, I’d like to reverse our roles: I’d be your mother, you’d be my daughter. I’d raise a strong girl who would have a voice of her own, a job and a life worth living.

Smiling vaguely, you murmured what if we get only one shot at life.


Author Bio:
Marzia Rahman is a Bangladeshi writer and translator. Her flashes have appeared in 101 Words, Postcard Shorts, Five of the Fifth, The Voices Project, Fewerthan500.com, WordCity Literary Journal, Red Fern Review, Dribble Drabble Review, Paragraph Planet, Six Sentences, Academy of the Heart and Mind, Potato Soup Journal, Borderless Journal, The Antonym, Flash Fiction Festival Four and Writing Places Anthology UK. Her novella-in-flash If Dreams had wings and Houses were built on clouds was longlisted in the Bath Novella in Flash Award Competition in 2022.
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A Better Way Through~ By Marie Turco

1/24/2023

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“Don’t never go to sleep on the
world, girl. Whiles you sleeping
the world scrambles on. Keep
yo’ eyes open all the time.”
Sonia Sanchez

The world is on fire
And we have sand and smoke in our eyes
And toxic particles in our lungs
People keep searching for quicker,
More powerful ways to kill each other
And then themselves

Our elders—the poets and peacemakers
The justice fighters and artists
The visionaries
And martyrs
Are with us still
We still have their shoulders
Upon which to stand
To make our way through this

It is why we know there is
Still a different way through
There is a better way through

They made those paths with their
Bare hands, with their
Marching feet, with their
Refusals to move out of the way
With their very lives

It is why we still search their words
Their wisdom, look to their actions
We put our feet in their boot marks
Which will never disappear

We know there is a different way through
There is a better way through


Author Bio:
Marie is a poet, writer, and playwright. She taught herself needle felting and is learning to play the Djembe drum. Her poetry and writing has been published in various places, such as Rebelle Society, The Mighty, Untitled, and others. Her poems were made into a play, “The Sanity Trials,” in 2018 by The Bridge-PHL, a Philadelphia theater company.

Marie is a vocal advocate for disability rights. She was a clinical social worker/psychotherapist for 30 years. She is from Philadelphia, and currently lives in an RV in the high desert of Santa Fe, NM. Her main inspirations are fighting against mental health and disability discrimination, the Almighty, Social Justice, and her faithful angel-service dog, Maya. Marie’s next writing projects may include creative nonfiction/memoir writing, as well as publishing a book of poetry.
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The Destruction~ By Rebecca M. Ross

1/19/2023

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It's still hours
to Poughkeepsie
by foot
Human rights-neglected cities
invisible by car
lie fragmented on the side of the road
where poverty shames, claims
blameless victims

A square-jawed man with an attitude
steals pages from an art exhibit
on the loading dock
of an abandoned
turn of the century
textile factory
A basket maker offers me
a half-priced deal to relieve her of her wares
so she can continue, hands free
The history of Wonder Woman
is arranged on a table
covered in black, collared in lace–
those Powers can't save us now

Lady Justice comes out,
face fallen, disturbed
Bricks crumble from buildings
as the temperature changes
whole cities shake, seeds fail to germinate
flowers wilt
strong trees die
Her eyes glisten tears

It's not Us, it's Them


Author Bio:
Rebecca M. Ross is originally from Brooklyn but currently lives, hikes, and teaches in New York’s Hudson Valley. Rebecca’s writing has been published in Live Nude Poems, The Metaworker, Last Leaves, Uppagus, Whimsical Poet, Streetcake Magazine, The Westchester Review, Soul-Lit, and Peeking Cat. She has poetry forthcoming or published in Pif Magazine. Rebecca has a BFA in creative writing and an MA in English from Brooklyn College. She also has a well-developed soft spot in her heart for dad jokes and clever puns.
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January 19th, 2023

1/19/2023

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