That Was Many A Moon Ago by John Patrick Robbins

That Was Many A Moon Ago

Sometimes the chill of the season matches the distance from me and my soul.
All the old faces are but photographs captured within my mind.

There’s magic in youth that if I knew the destination, I cannot say if I would have endured the

Sometimes holding onto a ghost, beats holding onto nothing at all.

I remember the reflections of what I once considered love captured within another’s eyes.
We always linger upon the verge and dance upon the brink.

Cold winds and a gentle embrace, I never wanted anything beyond a moment’s escape
entwined with you.

You’ve officially reached your destination.
The season is now as empty as my reflection.

Here’s a toast to the loves that we shall never know again.

John Patrick Robbins, is the editor in chief of the Rye Whiskey Review and Black Shamrock Magazine.He is also the author of Death, Rattle & Roll from Whiskey City Press.
His work has been published here Fixator Press, Lothlorien Poetry Journal,  Fearless Poetry Zine, Medusas Kitchen, Piker Press and The Dope Fiend Daily.
His work is always unfiltered.



We can see as one,
from many boats,
the beauty –
from the ferry to Staten Island,
from a kayak in the sound,
of souls, white steamers,
like diamonds resurrected
from lumps of coal,
in the clock face –
that’s us, young together,
magicians headed for a shore
that confounds so many
but is the perfect landing place for us.

Our intellect
is like feet on wet soil,
visioned on the rivers of the world,
like a verb, that immaculate engine,
both of us, making tracks up the dock
and laughing – now I lead, now you lead –
swift and slow, slow and swift,
smell of smoke, some city buildings,
leafless lots and emerald flame
from the bloodshot sunset,
feel like I’ve cashed a big check
though my pockets are empty,
burrow deep in the rushes
in the wake of our getting here.

This time we’ll buy up
the parks and the houses,
with a broken bottle
you just about step on,
where a condom half-buried
backs up to the bus terminal,
and the small hand of a child –
where’s the poolhall?
where’s the jazz club?
where’s the jail?
where’s the doors throw open?
but there’s shelter in stupor,
there’s wine in abandonment,
there’s hallowing in the dark to come.

standard ritual by Tom Pescatore

standard ritual
for lost friends

rattle of your pills
severed by thin partition walls

into a shaking hand
like you once held a pencil

once upon a time
a cigarette

an echo against the box

she would think of you
like a caged memory

in your stomach
where hope is kept

an alchemical reaction

a toast
to better days

Tom Pescatore can sometimes be seen wandering along the Walt Whitman Bridge or down the sidewalks of Philadelphia’s old skid row. He might have left a poem or two behind to mark his trail. He has published several poetry collections and a novel, the Boxcar Bop (2018) from Runamok Books. He writes the All-New Union for Junction City Comics and his mixed-media graphic novel, Junction Jones and the Corduroy Conspiracy is forthcoming from Scout Comics. 

Omaha Song #3 by John Dorsey


Omaha Song #3
for jay kreimer

one man’s swamp
is a field filled with music
an old tire swing
a lonely swimming pool
with grass turned brown
where every girl
is a metaphor
for a firefly
drowning in an
beer bottle.



John Dorsey lived for several years in Toledo, Ohio. He is the author of several collections of poetry, including, Which Way to the River: Selected Poems 2016-2020 (OAC Books, 2020), and Afterlife Karaoke (Crisis Chronicles, 2021). He was the winner of the 2019 Terri Award given out at the Poetry Rendezvous. He may be reached at