the ancient theater of Epidaurus

proscenium & stage stand sheathed in red
like hymen or the bud beneath the foreskin
atoms from the centuries still shimmer
deep beneath Aegean & Ionian
waves // cold Alfa beer hot sun in Athens
bellydancers at the nightclub chorus
for a rite & after midnight ouzo
on the roof Acropolis moonlit
// the limestone seat already warm as blood
the summer morning broiling like god-hated
heroes’ rage the broken families’ grief
// i find the famous poet-sandalmaker’s
son & we trade chapbooks his bilingual
mine of iambs thumping like a heart

Thomas Zimmerman (he/him/his) teaches English and directs the Writing Center at Washtenaw Community College, in Ann Arbor, Michigan, USA. His poems have appeared recently in Ephemeral Elegies, Jagged Edge, and Yellow Mama. His latest poetry book is Free Range Angels (Cyberwit, 2025).

Autobiographical Figment

My mom was 12 when she went to work cutting lace for bridal gowns in a sweatshop
after school. “We were poor but didn’t know it,” she would often say as if political
immaturity were a cause for boasting. She and my dad grew up just blocks apart on the
Lower Eastside, children of Yiddish-speaking immigrants. Across the ocean, their aunts
and uncles and grandparents were hunted by wolves. Death has many names. Once a
month I receive an injection of a tumor necrosis factor blocker. To see myself as I am is
to remember myself as I was, a wildly energetic boy his parents crumpled up and his
teachers threw away.

Howie Good’s latest poetry collection, True Crime, was published by Sacred Parasite in Berlin this year.

TO THE SISTER WHO NEVER FLEW

Sometimes, I think about how much time
I’ve spent up in the air.
And then I remember that you
were never once in an airplane.

I’ve crossed oceans,
traveled through countless countries
but the farthest you ever went
was on a train to some outback town
when your policeman husband-to-be
was stationed there.

I’ve peered down on the Earth so often.
But you could only look up,
maybe spy a jet zipping overhead
and say over and over to yourself, “Never.”

You only ever took a train that once.
After that, married with children,
your journeys were no more than where
a car could take you in an hour or two.

Was it fear? Or did you so love
the familiar, the predictable,
that you lacked desire to be anyplace else?

I ended up ten thousand miles
from the place I grew up in.
You merely moved to the other side of the river.
I’m in the process of planning my next trip.
You’re buried not far from where you lived.

My restlessness
versus your contentment –

Don’t worry.
I’m not keeping score.

John Grey is an Australian poet, US resident, recently published in Midnight Mind, Willow Review and the Pennsylvania Literary Journal. Latest books, “Bittersweet”, “Subject Matters” and “Between Two Fires” are available through Amazon. Work upcoming in the MacGuffin, Touchstone and Willow Review.

survival

woven angst strangle
intervene thought relieving

grasp dragging suffocate
abnormal squirm wallow

tread beat relentless
nil flicker revival

exist sharp pain wrapping
clamp usual becoming

breathe in healing question
is flee black obtainable

light darkness twin opposite
rationale spelling possible

rally slow rising
take step glimpsing courage

recovery game muster
slide hopeful true stronger

walk lone swim coastline
reflect silent gift union

nurture preen calm trust
survival can will be me

Stephen House has won many awards as a poet, playwright, and actor. He’s received international literature residencies from The Australia Council and Asialink. He has had many plays published by APT and two chapbooks published by ICOE Press. He performs his acclaimed monologues widely.

Schizopolis Awakening

What is a wind chime hurtling towards death
It is the familiar end of a dream

Honey it’s 8 o’clock, honey (??)
Why are you sleeping, the film is only over
And you’re nearing so many edges

Time is always now here forever gone

Recycling tomato puree entries
Captured as an image the concept of telling you
That jolts look like this from the outside
Not the burnt end of a film roll

What labours of love
What bothers distorted attentions
Distracted affections

What warmth extends structural integrity

The dust in her hair, the dust in his wounds
Oh god, awake

Elly Henkes is a writer and artist, currently studying journalism. Her creative work includes poetry, photography and music, shared with the world under the alias Unterwerk. It navigates emotion which should be lost in translation, but persists even when deconstructed.

Where The Darkness Gapes

He came
from the white shadows,
streetlamp-shine
through bus stop windows.

He shuttled forwards,
like a rising star—
pursuing us—
an eighties cabaret wet-dream.
I saw an arcane wisdom
in the combing of his gelled hair
and blasé demeanour.

He uttered gossip
from moisturised lips, but
hiving in the air
was some subliminal
unsaid message.
The drunken bums
and young feigned loves
trickled in through the
aqueducts of the streets.

He breached,
each articulation pre-meditated,
I studied him, in awe.
Said he was from Taunton
and asked if I knew it.
I said, I’ve never been but dated a local.
‘And judging by your face, he wasn’t a good person.’

Nova Glyn is a young feminist writer. Her recent poetry collection, Dark Columbine (2025), was published by Gometra Press. Nova’s poetry has appeared in The AUB International Poetry Prize 2023Anthology, Bad Apple Magazine, and Luna Luna Magazine. Last year she read at The Bridport Literary Festival.

Midnight Oil

burning the midnight oil on weekends tasting
like mezcal where the worm has already rotted away,
fighting against the page and against the urge to return to
old habits that can never be abandoned, only temporarily set aside.
afternoons going by excruciatingly slowly, nights dissipating into
the intoxication mist. memories and dreams collide, siring
nightmarish amalgamations meant to haunt the days of the shakes.
it’s during lonely weekends more despicable than warm Bacardi rum that
life makes the most sense as thoughts, dreams, and fears combine into
a puzzle never meant to be completed.

George Gad Economou has a Master’s degree in Philosophy of Science, currently works as a freelance writer, and has published three novels and three poetry collections. His latest book is Smoking Rot Gut Drinking Junk (Anxiety Press). His work has appeared in various publications, including Spillwords Press, Ariel Chart, Cajun Mutt Press, Fixator Press, Horror Sleaze Trash, Outcast Press, The Piker Press, The Beatnik Cowboy, The Rye Whiskey Review, and Modern Drunkard Magazine.

LOSING MY MIND ON A SUNDAY AFTERNOON

Sunday afternoon and whilst outside
Town loses its collective mind in a
Show of pride from which no one will
Emerge with anything except damaged
Minds and damaged bodies i sit here
Deranging my mind, all in a bid to forget.

There is so much right now which
Begs to be set free from the recesses
Of my mind; a nemesis back in town
But only until tomorrow and, so far,
No word from them.  A drink in my
Local but this weekend that just
Repulses me with the idea of 6 pound
Pints served in plastic cups and then,
The thought of work, and how they
Phoned me earlier, asking if i could
Go in tonight to which i simply said
No way, not today, need more rest.

I crave a return to normality as here
More than anywhere else i can just
About handle that, provided the joints
Keep coming and the bar at the end
Of the road has a stool waiting for me.

Bradford Middleton lives in Brighton on England’s south coast. His debut poetry collection ‘Given Half a Chance Anything Goes Around Here’ is now available from the Alien Buddha Press. Recent poems have appeared in the Paper & Ink Zine, Mad Swirl, A Thin Slice of Anxiety and Beatnik Cowboy.

Street trees of Birmingham

I like to stop and look at the candle tips of
the white beam trees in the street
occasionally an oak 
more often a lime 
on Edgbaston Park Road there is a plane
solid reaching mass of green 
by the church swirling chestnut trees
and the coach station 
imported olives in giant planters 
made of composite stone 
along the River Rea 
pollarded willows 
alders and ash whipped banks 
in the sun
seared 
I like to rest beneath the canopy 
of the cherry trees on Cartland Road 
in the shade 
and watch shadows lace the long grass 
the council stopped cutting 
at the end of the world 
your flat feet
they sound like a reproach on the concrete paved floor
I’ve been here for so long 
I felt you recoil from me in the dark 
and come back again
in the sylvan scape 
every wrought and twisted branch 
drenched in electric light

Daniel Cartwright-Chaouki is a gardener and writer from Birmingham, England. He writes about trees and plants (mostly) and people (sometimes) and other unimportant things. His work has featured both in print and online including Pulp Poets Press, Lunar Sea Literary, Fixator Press, Password, The Lake, Sextet, Alocasia and 100subtexts magazine.

Psychobabble

I toss words around in my mind
which make no real sense. I mold them
into psychobabble and spit them 
out into a world where no one

is ready and willing to try 
to understand how painful it
is to form them. Like a riddle 
of gibberish, I create them.

None of these words have a name. I 
toss them against shadows. I see
them trembling in the darkest parts.

I cast the words into the void.
They are something from a dream I
would never welcome as I sleep.

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.