Gulls cry above combers,
plovers ebb with the tide. 

It’s time to lift the pail
painted with red starfish

and blue leaping dolphins 
with the yellow tin shovel 

to try the wet sand. You’ll
find an indigo mussel shell

and pink carapace of crab,
shiver as ocean rages over 

lost sailors’ cries in Davy 
Jones’ dark locker though

streaked with green veins
water isn’t all deeper blue. 

At the top the wave breaks,
curves and thins to faintest

jade, sea blanched by sky
a pale door you can enter. 


​Author Bio:
Nels Hanson grew up on a small raisin and tree fruit farm in the San Joaquin Valley of California, earned degrees from U.C. Santa Cruz and the University of Montana, and has worked as a farmer, teacher and contract writer/editor. His fiction received the San Francisco Foundation’s James D. Phelan Award and Pushcart nominations in 2010, 2012, 2014 and 2016. His poems received a 2014 Pushcart nomination, Sharkpack Review’s 2014 Prospero Prize, and 2015 and 2016 Best of the Net nominations. 

So this is what’s left.
Despite how it looks,
What it is
Is much different.
This beautiful place,
A pharmaceutical wasteland.
Flowing through it, is a toxic river
Slowly eroding the tunnels through which it runs.
Overcoming already the few bridges that existed.
Now they lie crumbled and broken.
Once it was thriving,
Now, barely surviving
The factories run,
But they do not function
The government gave up
And have all gone away
There is no worship at the temple.
The beauty remains but the promise is gone.
The hope has all faded,
Maybe it's easier to NOT carry on.
What have we done?
Lying in silence,
Forgotten but not gone.
It sits,
Waiting for nothing.
Wishing for no one.
Wanting no more.
This land is my life,
This place, is my body.
I drank too much.
Took too many pills.
And this is what’s left.
What have I done?


Author Bio:
Jenn Mena has been inspired by a life rich of experiences and a deep connection with the power of words. Born in California, her love for writing began at a very early age, even participating in writing contests before she was ten. Growing up it was exceptionally clear she was gifted with a very natural and remarkable way with words. Her life has been built on consistent change, requiring adaptation and resilience. Much like her life, her writing reflects a keen ability to become what is necessary for that moment, skillfully versatile and seemingly effortless. She now, finally, is guiding her life path towards my love of words, coming second only to the love of her phenomenal son and greatly supportive, equally talented partner. Still an emerging writer, there is great hope and expectations in what is to come of Jenn Mena.

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Often, my mind wanders
            Thinking about where I was, where I am, where do I want to be?
                       Just two summers ago I was in San Francisco
                                 A new world: interning, tech, and personal politics not made for me
                                            Petty arguments, new money claiming diversity is a worthless costs
                                                       Pseudo-intellectual manifestos, remind me of old IRC groups.
                                  I just learned that my old team at that company got let go
                                               An acquisition by a goliath, social impact is the first to disappear
                                                        Antitrust and trust, it seems, are loops of the distant past.
                       Today I sit at a coffee house on the south side of the city
                                   It’s hard to turn off when reading the news
                                                 These last two years haven’t been easy, how do you regulate
                                                        A train of thoughts at full speed?
                                   This degree I’m working for, I tell myself it’s for my mom
                                        First in the family, all that jazz, but only I know it’s a receipt
                                                  Written to the State, maybe then they’ll let me stay.
                         I’m not sure where I’ll be in a week
                                    And maybe things will the same as before
                                            Something I must keep at hand are these thoughts
                                                    At some point, maybe it will be enough.
                                    All I know is that I don’t wanna stand still
                                            But I don’t really wanna keep walking
                                                   There’s just no other option, that’s what I say.
                                            I’m not sure what I want
                          If I know the boundaries
               Do I really have a say of what I can do with my life?
Often, my mind wonders that. 


Author Bio:
Daniel Hernandez is an immigrant student, residing in Chicago, IL. He is passionate about songwriting, activism, and writing.

They went after millions in Vietnam, I remained silent
Millions in Guatemala and Colombia, I remained silent 
Millions disappeared in Argentina, I remained silent
But at the end of Holocaust, I did promise “Never again”.

Millions perished in Rwanda, I remained silent
Millions more in Balkans, I remained silent
Millions now in Myanmar, I remain silent.
But at the end of Holocaust, I did promise “Never again”.

“Never again,” eternally perpetuated and never practiced
I remain silent, I never protest.


Author Bio:
Sankar Chatterjee possesses the passion for traveling worldwide to immerse in new cultures and customs to discover the forgotten history of the societies while attempting to find the common thread that connects the humanity as a whole for its continuity. His most recent creative works appeared in Parentheses, Boston Accent, Foliate Oak, Wilderness House Literary Review, Door is a Jar and Pamplemousse (in press) among others.

I wanted to tell you so many things
before the sun crawled through the window,
magnified perfectly on stained glass. 

No fear and no warning. 
We were always better at night or at the very least we used to be. 

I wanted to remind you that we are both showing signs of age,
under the eyes and around the mouth. 
Me more than you though I try to be good to myself, 
it’s much harder without your shadow to remind me. 

When night falls into my lap and becomes a monster 
who shares eyes with you, 
I have to make sure to catch every breath you ever took in my own hands. 

I wanted to tell you about my plan to paint my memory in purples and reds 
so that I wouldn’t ever forget the field, 
the dew collecting itself into neat mouthfuls,
cooper climbing up the bridge of the smallest, purest parts of my skin. 

But I have a gapping fear of losing things. 
Maybe this is the aftermath. 

The only possible explanation to you loving less and taking more. 

The way I do the numbers in my head, 
matching values to the scenes of you that keep things from coming apart. 
My eyes watching the seams twist and shed

but softly. 
The same way that a slight change in the pace of the wind 
invites the sky shift. 

The rising and falling of branches
a chest or a heartbeat. 

That’s the only place you leave me. 

With gaping holes in my tongue. 
A strong, flat stone placed right against the soft part of my throat. 
Heavy enough that I can feel my weaker lung collapse. 
Now, the only time I don’t think of you is when I am in full motion. 

I have been teaching myself how to breathe again,
The real reason I am turning around and running. 

I am slowly taking inventory of myself. 
A staged bone, 
A limp limb, 
An upturned palm,
cloth eyes focused on prayer, 
when I am thinking of something better to say than your name. 

There was so much more to tell you. 
I am only making myself forget it now. 


Author Bio:
Josie Griffith is a poet, writer and designer. She graduated with a degree in English and Creative writing from Northern Arizona University. She frequently writes for sites like Unwritten and The Thought Catalogue. She has been published in collections from Z Publishing House and NAUs literary magazine The Tunnels. She lives in Baltimore, Maryland. 

The cats beep,
Wife shrieks
During her
Bedded stretch,
Birds bathe
In dew
As morning falls
Into view
 
She’s coming.
The flickering
Drag queens
In her phone
Blistering
Her face
Two inches away
Can’t fabulous
Forever.
Soon, their
Selfie stories
Will wane shade
And she’ll sashay
Into the living room--
My coffee quaking
Ala Jurassic Park--
And death drop
Onto the couch
With a
Walloping yas.
 

Author Bio:
Rich Glinnen is a market researcher by day and a writer by night. He enjoys bowling, and eating gruyere with his cats at his home in Bayside, NY. He was nominated for the 2017 Best of the Net Anthology.

Glinnen's work can be read in Kenneth Warren’s Lakewood House Organ, at foliateoak.com, petrichormag.com, underwoodpress.com/ruescribe and richglinnen.tumblr.com. His wife calls him Taco.

The long black cloak on my little boy
Kept slipping along, but he never was coy
Determined to scare the wits of the rest
On Halloween’s day he was dressed his best

My red lipstick, he used for a bloody blotch
My eyeliner for a darkened eye patch
I stared in awe at the scary sight
And wondered at my cute boy’s daring might

My little Jack Sparrow, he joins his gang
The raunchy party knocking houses with a bang
Thoroughly enjoying the trick or treat
Gathering all goodies from houses that greet

The flickering lanterns and pumpkins carved
The host and guest in thematic garbs
The grey dark sky adding punch to the season
It’s time to party without rhyme or reason

The party’s over, gunny bags filled
With assorted goodies he’s back home thrilled
Drop’s asleep in the wink of an eye
The dare devil boy, my darling I sigh

Night chores ended, I stretch myself
A sweet craving, my sweet tooth jiggles
I ransack the shelves and search hither thither
For the gunny bag with lip smacking candies

Well Hidden under the long pirates garb
I locate his sugary treasure bag
Mischievously I grab some candies
And pull out a note, scrawled by my dandy

“Mom you are smart and may find this bag
Remember, I love you heart and soul 
Watch out dear mommy, I know you crave
But, no eating goodies, your diet I care”


Author Bio:
Miriam was christened as Miriam George and the name stuck on forever. She loves to pen down her thoughts in article form and sometimes let the words flow in poetic form when her creativity is triggered. She is currently settled in Brampton, Canada, working in the corporate sector. Miriam has has worked in the academic sector, and is pursuing her passion with words.

​Brown here, Brown there, Brown everywhere.
The sand so warm and free, it seems to be 
during the day, for the sun is up above.

Her skin, so rough and fair,
She embraces the green plant that fights
for that sunlight with those grey shrubs.

The sun wanes down and the light ends,
She hopes for that sun to come again
But bring a friend who cures with rain.


Author Bio:
Ashley Franklin is from a small reservation town in Arizona called Cameron. She attends college now and is learning to use her voice to be a positive influence for her Navajo culture. Her writing is influenced from her memories of the landscape and enjoys it very much. She grew up most of her life there and loves the desert beauty. 

You need to know the truth you are about to hear:
There will be days you think you can’t go on,
days filled with tears, unable to endear
yourself to falsehood, the pain foregone.

There will be nights where all you do is live.
Warm blankets will be you cocoon in bed.
Your brain and heart will fight, being combative.
Your brain will scream, “You’re better off dead.”

But you must know your brain is very very wrong.
It is enough to do the least in fact.
You can and will remain stalwart and strong.
You must live long enough to see your impact

The truth is simply, one day you will not survive,
You, my friend, will one day do more and thrive. 


Author Bio:
Lea Fitzpatrick is a fiction writer and poet. She's been writing since she could read. Her work has been featured in A Certain Slant. She lives in a small New England town with her hilarious husband, two wild and sweet kids, an orange cat and a lazy beagle.

We always started social studies class with a short discussion of current events—sports
score updates, President Clinton’s impeachment woes, NATO finally striking back
against Milosevic… In my mind, it was stuff that happened to other people who lived in
other towns. I usually spent the period writing novels about perfect games and World
Series glory, and Wednesday was no exception.

the crack of a bat--
a classmate’s perched chair
tips too far

Wednesday was no exception. Again, something horrible happened in another town to
other people we didn’t know, and the boy in front of me tipped his chair precariously one
more time. But ten minutes of discussion quickly morphed into twenty and then into the
whole period. Before the bell, our teacher lets it slip that someone in our school might
do the same to us: my best friend.

ripples spreading 
across the flooded practice field--
his words echoing through time


Author Bio:
Colleen M. Farrelly is a freelance writer whose works have recently appeared in Haibun Today, Frogpond, Contemporary Haibun Online, Cattails, and #Femku, among others. She is a mathematician and data scientist by day, and she is working on a lay textbook covering geometry in data science and machine learning (release date in early 2020). This poem looks back on her teenage years and the moment that current events became relevant to her.