Shadowland

Below this world, and now and then indistinguishable from it, is another, no place anyone would
choose to go if they had a choice, where objects of longing recede ever further and memories
blow apart like smoke, where timelines have been indefinitely suspended, where God has our
own face but super magnified and children are strange puppets with painted eyes and wobbly
heads, where basic truths are conveyed, when conveyed at all, in conspiratorial whispers, where
even at the height of summer or the burning point of tinder, the shadows under the trees never
melt.

Howie Good is a poet and collage artist on Cape Cod.

A Stranger to These Lands

Know that this is no simple archetype
if a stranger should come to town,
break bread with those calloused traveller hands,
a persistent cough that could be construed as something deadly
in the wrong light; the warmth of shelter and company 
extended in kindness, curious children with their many questions
that go unanswered, whispered giggles of new opportunities –
seasoned walking stick on the lean in darkened corner,
impenetrable woven layers as befit the season;
a distrait cat licking itself by the door like a prized
and convincing waterfall.

Ryan Quinn Flanagan is a Canadian-born author residing in Elliot Lake, Ontario, Canada with his wife and many mounds of snow.  His work can be found both in print and online in such places as: Evergreen Review, The New York Quarterly, Fixator Press, Lothlorien Poetry Journal, Red Fez, and The Oklahoma Review.

Long Train to TomorrowLand

Escape ticket
past city traps
oversized cracks and dumps

slump sitting
one-way getaway
counting the clap of miles

train full of the swaying
beat and lost
stumped and staring out the windows

heavy eyed
heart choked
remembering the pick of yesterdays

nothing the same
blood drops curdled
popped and swallowed

sound waves from miles away
piercing screams
past and future dyings

old men numb
old women sobbing
both in a slow death bob

young people wired
robot mauled
squeezed by invisible claws

sky trails of smoke
everything vibrating
rust dust continually sprinkling

paper money near worthless
rolls of copper pennies near priceless
robbery schemes considered

sleep dreams spotlighted
giving wacky meanings
mostly unintelligible

hope
an ancient mystery
giving the moon a slit smile

and the train keeps moving
down the line leaning
to one side then the other.

Stephen Jarrell Williams often starts a poem with his fist, and slowly opens it to the sky.  He is on (X) Twitter @papapoet.

Yearning 

Our article of faith
was first betrayed
when we chose
to cold-shoulder it.
There was no written document,
only inhalations
of its essence.
 
To the eyes, we have 
dressed the damages.
The cuts are cauterized.
Sores are sterilized.
In the archives of our minds,
the unwritten
text is a remembrancer.

Sanjeev Sethi has authored seven books of poetry. He has been published in over thirty countries. He is the
joint winner of the Full Fat Collection Competition-Deux, organized by Hedgehog Poetry Press, UK. He was
recently conferred the 2023 Setu Award for Excellence. He lives in Mumbai, India.

After Reverdy

Into the void
of nowhere land
I cultivate absent thoughts
from everywhere I have gone.
I give sleep walking a chance
without dreaming,
without keeping time.
I am the abyss.
I am the mayor of nowhere land.

Luis was born in Mexico, lives in California, and works in the mental health field in Los Angeles. His latest chapbook, Make the Light Mine, was published by Kendra Steiner Editions. His poems have appeared in Blue Collar Review, Mad Swirl, Unlikely Stories, and Yellow Mama Magazine. 

The Lesser Of

I was put on hold
which became a pattern
a holding pattern
like above the landing strip at the airport
in inclement weather
aloft
and circling
in theory
it could go on forever, or at least until the plane
runs out of fuel
which means
being on hold
quickly becomes subject to
plummet
the receiving end of which I'd rather not
be on
at all

Jay Passer’s poetry first appeared in 1988 alongside the work of William Burroughs and Wanda Coleman in Caliban magazine. He’s been included in print anthologies and online publications worldwide and is the author of 14 collections. A lifetime plebeian, Passer has labored as dishwasher, barista, soda jerk, pizza cook, housepainter, courier, warehouseman, bookseller and mortician’s apprentice. Originally native of San Francisco, Passer currently resides in Venice, California.

My Catalog of Obsolete Lonely Sounds

First, the old-fashioned dial tone,
zenith of nothingness.
Who invented that?

The almost-silent radio
after Country Carl’s
   sign-off prayer

Jazz singer fading to needle hiss
as the victrola winds down
In an empty room

I will leave off the train whistle,
though it inspired
many a fine old song

At the tone, the time will be
three a.m.
exactly.

Trish Saunders writes poetry and short fiction from Seattle. Her work’s been published in many
places, including The Rye Whiskey Review, The American Journal of Poetry, Eunoia Poetry
Review, the late lamented Fat Girls Review, and other places. She appreciates them all.

Depleted Empathy… And Snap Decisions

I function much better
without the Burden
of Explaining
every slick Manoeuvre
over-shoulder
to the… slipstream.
Tight as 12 whiskies,
yet, as Clear as Pain
… there’s
purposeful ambiguity
in the cards on Show,
the one’s chest-close
are Covert, Loaded,
and as Sharp
as Diamond Needles.
It’s Dot-To-Dot time,
in reverse…
unpicking the stitching
of previous conversations
… pushes the Future
further… away…
until ‘Rut-Stuck’
within a recycling Hour.
I’ll wager your Gamble
comes back with Teeth.

Paul Tristram is a widely published Welsh writer who deals in the Lowlife, Outsider, and Outlaw genres.  He wrote his first poem as a teenager following his release from the (Infamous) Borstal ‘HMP Portland’, and he has been creating Literary Terrorism ever since. His novel ‘Crazy Like Emotion’ is out by Close To The Bone Publishing.