Posts from the ‘Featured’ category

Featured: Waking Up

Seth Jani

Listen to the poem below:


It’s where the border breaks
Into a mirage of daffodils.

Where the water shines
Like stretched metal.

Where a blue finch’s whims
Leads you on a summer’s day.

It emerges from the fog-addled eye
Of the deep circumference,

A jolt in the brain’s machinery,
A passing through.

From the dark, collective waters,
The memory-voiding sea,

It gradually appears:
Green motes, neural tinge of light,

The beautiful vehicle of the body’s motion.
We move through the familiar space

Piecing together the painted fragments:
Trees, cities, your brother’s rusted car.

The entire …

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Featured: Home After Three Weeks Away

Tim DeJong

On a muggy August night
soundtracked by cicada choruses
we speak in nods and murmurs
as the children cling,
sleep-warmed weights against our shoulders.
The sprinkler system stutters its hello.

Later with drinks on the patio
we say little, if only because so
little needs saying after such
a long journey. It’s as though
these shapes in their familiarity
crowd out the need for words:
the porch lights, the gas grill, the patio stones.
Here where we left them
are the trappings of our lives,
and if whatever’s buried
under still-gleaming covers and screens
is trying to proclaim

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Featured: $20 Taxi Ride

Olivia Vande Woude

Listen to the poem below:


Wears a Nike hat

Scar on his left wrist

3 centimeters long.

Inserts the key

of a chain with a yellow pig dangling

among other
5 carefully serrated pieces of gold.

We are a lot of people in this country,


I am from the Northern part.

Likes the quiet

of Alexandria

says it’s good for old people.

Told him I do too.

That’s good, that’s a great feature.

Yellow wool lined teeth
Sweater vest

Camel colored shirt, striped
Coffee and cigarette breath

Receipts lie


on the floor.

Clock …

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Featured: Last Train to St. Pancras

John Stocks


The last train is waiting at the station

With all tension, all motion stilled

On this night of grey- ice, hoar frost,

Know this

Sometimes it is enough just to exist.

On the longer journeys time stops

Is as fixed as every station clock

Under starlight, when nothing stirs.

Perhaps you were the green eyed girl

Who sighed,

As if weary of life’s travails

As if weary of all your lives?

Briefly we shared

Our parallel lines.

Perhaps on some other track

We know each other?

Have shared our dreams

And sit together

Watching the snow flurries …

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Featured: A Horse Like an Old Zippered Suitcase

Ariane Mass


I said you were like a horse who was an old zippered suitcase & when you asked why, I said it was because when I was massaging the musculature under your skin, imagining how those parts must have once performed astounding feats & carouseled from caravan to caravan, I thought about what must have happened out there under the billow’s blow because I could feel your muscles flexing for the suspense of a suspended fall in the shroud of a shadow of a circus whisper,

& your nerves —those bundles of fiber— told my prying fingers of …

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Featured: Sorrows

Elizabeth Kirkpatrick Vrenios


Who would believe they could swim
in warm waters with us

brushing against our legs?
Who would believe

that they are so winged and fierce,

to peck at our bones?
They crack us open to the light

to burn away fat satisfaction.
They are the water-wings,

the darning needles, the measuring stick,
the constant tick of the clock at midnight.

They are the broken dolls, the extinguished candles.
the suitcase packed,

the train dragging its long syllable over the hill.

They live in our palms and behind our knees,
at the bottom of our prayers.…

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Featured: Newlyweds, First Night

W. Vandoren Wheeler

Read the poem below:

My first time
on a motorcycle,
just after I found
the heft and swoop

of its balance, a wasp
struck, clung to,
then crawled inside
my sunglasses.

As I wobbled the machine
onto the narrow
shoulder, the insect straddled

my left eyeball. Its legs inter-
laced with my lashes.

I can still see, but
every other thin thing
looks half wasp.

My new wife, mid-sentence,
walked out—our first night
apart. I can’t sleep.

I tangle our sheets imagining
her swerving, bleary-eyed,
through our neighborhood,
through a guardrail…

Insect feet prick
my eyelids …

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Featured: Why Sampson Loved Delilah

Blake Lynch


Why did she promise to
sit in my hospital room
until I fell asleep
and run her hand
across my head
to feel where
the hair was gone
when she was only
going to leave early
and drive home
by the Allegheny
along row houses
where people lived
in things called families
and were never hurt
or at least not for very long?

Maybe because I would
only know she left early
when I woke up alone
the next morning
which was more than I wanted
listening to my blood
singing into a machine
which sat by …

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Featured: The Three Drinks on My Writing

Michael Cooper

Listen to the poem below.

His palms leave sweat next to the three drinks on my writing table.
One, once ice water, no longer with any ice, two, the coffee once hot,
without creamer, 2 pink sweet and low packets and 2 heaping
teaspoons of Ovaltine, now cold.

Pickup the old windup desk clock, force the gears backward to the
lean hours of January 2nd.
This takes a lot of wrist, makes sure the turn-screw cross-threads,
gets the gears temporarily stuck.

I put my finger in the spiral muzzle of the revolver.
Just before it kisses …

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Featured: The New Rule of Real Estate: Sustainability

Marilyn Waite

Published in Issue 1

It was the middle of winter as I sat on a chartered bus along Heidelberg Street. It started to drizzle.

Detroit has great potential, I thought. It doesn’t matter if the automobile industry comes back with a vengeance or not. “There is something great here,” I said to Sara, an acquaintance traveling with me. “What, like the weather?” joked Sara. We were experiencing below-freezing temperatures.

As Sara pondered my thoughts, I looked out of the window at the dilapidated infrastructure and modern artwork. We were stationed in front of the Heidelberg Project, a creative …

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