Because it rained blood that Tuesday
And pigeons cascaded from their roosts
In Atlanta and a tsunami swept away
Two hundred people in Indonesia
As a woman drove over her husband
Because he told her how to vote
And lime trees languished in Key West
Because no snow fell in Philadelphia
And three girls bicycling in Seattle
Vanished because a foundation was dug
For a beach house in Malibu
And two pit bulls were adopted
By an interracial couple from
Atlantic City as a Russian orphan died
Of failure to thrive and a college reunion
Was held at a banquet hall in Indianapolis
Because a man and woman fell in love
In Seoul as another woman walked
By the sea weeping means you and I
Were meant to meet that hot day
With the sidewalks blistering our feet

As we kept on walking.

Joan Colby

Joan Colby's books are The Lonely Hearts Killers, Spoon River Poetry Press; The Atrocity Book, Lynx House Press; How The Sky Begins to Fall, Spoon River Poetry Press; The Boundary Waters, Damascus Road Press; Blue Woman Dancing in the Nerve, Alembic Press; Dream Tree, Jump River Press; and Beheading the Children, Ommation Press. She has published widely in journals including Poetry, Atlanta Review, GSU Review, Portland Review, South Dakota Review, The Spoon River Poetry Review, New York Quarterly, the new renaissance, Grand Street, Epoch, Mid-American Poetry Review, Prairie Schooner, Kansas Quarterly, The Hollins Critic, Minnesota Review, Western Humanities Review, College English, Another Chicago Magazine, and others. Her awards include the Illinois Arts Council Fellowship in Literature; Illinois Arts Council Literary Award, Stone County Award for Poetry, Rhino Poetry Award, the new renaissance Award for Poetry. She was a finalist in the 2007 GSU Poetry Contest, and an honorable mention in the 2008 and 2010 James Hearst Poetry Contest (North American Review), a finalist in 2009 Margie Editor’s Choice Contest, and a finalist in 2009 and 2012 Nimrod International Pablo Neruda Prize. She also received the Illinois Arts Council Literary Award 2007.  She has been the editor of Illinois Racing News for over 25 years, a monthly publication for the Illinois Thoroughbred Breeders and Owners Foundation, published by Midwest Outdoors LLC.  She lives with my husband and assorted animals on a small horse farm in Northern Illinois, and has three grown children and six grandchildren.     

The Anarchist Exiles At Geneva

Snow is falling again; it
drops out of the sky for no apparent reason,
the clouds dissolve, the snow
goes quietly about its business
and buries us. We never
hear it coming. It is too much
to understand, something to endure
in silence, our last bravery.

We have no martyrs now
no one to mourn for;
we melt beneath the stones
with the snow.

There are many debates.
We read too much, and smoke.
The old men reminisce and die,
their eyes fixed on the mountains.

Paul Bernstein

In previous lives, Paul Bernstein has been a history graduate student, library worker/aspiring poet/political activist/weekend hippie, professional left-wng journalist, medical editor, and managing editor of a medical journal. He has had work published in Poetry Quarterly, Main Street Rag, the new renaissance, River Poets Journal, Magic Lantern, U.S. 1 Worksheets, and elsewhere. He currently lives in Ann Arbor, Michigan.

For Closure

When I turn down the street
signs vex lawns, a bible of bad law. 
The roof of clouds that scuds 
through, turns the day cold 
crushes trees. Houses emptied
find rooms filled with forced light,
more powerful than the people
that lost everything, since 
this illuminated family will never
be evicted.  Now, shaded rain grabs
onto panes like small children
trying to get in among the silhouettes
cast by curtainless panes, join the
patterns shifting on the wooden floor.
On the road a bank receipt, grease-stained,
bleeds blurred figures onto cement.  
Black numbers run into blue, green, grow 
inchoate, their tidy sums drip away. 

Mark Burgh

Mark Burgh's writing has appeared in many journals, including
SlantJersey Devil Press, and Fiction Vortex


Tree Roots, My Friend
Outside the chateaux’s walled grounds,
somewhere under the wheat and sunflowers
that have dried and decayed the last twelve decades,
the borrowed revolver has finally changed colors,
its hard steel dissolved by oxidized hope, wilted
with the brown stems of a new century’s hypocrite mist.
Why have they not found the gun?
What has grown since the fall?
How long will the soil remain?
When will you come back?
Clouds fall and sever the hand, Vincent. 
You lie alone to rust in spinning fields---
roads never clear, the pull of family never pure,
the universe too infinite, the body mourned in thistle.
Through the stomach you have drawn a bucket 
of blood from the well.
You could not finish the ideal.
You could not crouch with peaceful farmhouses forever.
But perfection held hands in those pastures,
and its ghost still lies there, trapped---maybe,
even after you lifted it to canvas
from your last sinew, word, bone,
to shine on man from behind the sun. 
This was our best scarecrow.
Getting down into the twisted dirt,
planting and loving, sinking and losing,
equal the beauty and despair.

And either more than his eyes could bear.

Timothy B. Dodd

Timothy B. Dodd is from Mink Shoals, West Virginia. His writing has appeared in Yemassee, The Owen Wister Review, Main Street Rag, The William & Mary Review, The Mayo Review, and elsewhere.  He is currently an MFA candidate at the University of Texas El Paso . 

On Certain Sundays

On a Sunday morning we harbor nothing
But the assurance of a week’s worth.
No other agenda but the warm march of tea
Pouring its green fuel down our throats.
We combust in absolute silence
Over a newspaper as the rain causes
The glass to fill with light.
Our lives are pregnant. Our bodies
Lain back in a recline towards God.
And if the scheduled plight of the coming week
Bears down its stamp of obligation,
We can slip easily as whiskey
Into the warm and honeyed dark. 

Seth Jani

Seth Jani was raised in Western Maine. He is the founder and editor of Seven Circle Press (, and his own work has been published widely in such journals as Writers’ BlocThe Foundling ReviewHobo Camp Review, and Gutter Eloquence. He currently resides in Seattle, WA.

A Song of Sinners

Sinners hurt.
Moonlight cracks open
like a walnut, spreads soft light
across open sky.
Sinners hurt.
They dart to alleyways, bury themselves behind
their own trails shaking fists at the sky;
hiding their nasty nonsense in shame,
city buildings rattle their bricks,
mortar loose at their rib cage.
Where do sinners break out
from when their deeds are exposed?
All  men think they are sword
men daggers in darkness.
All women think they are entry points
spotted lean on sidewalks past midnight,
nothing but shadows, twitching of lips.
Women look for no good in their makeup kits;
no one cares about how men are tempted,
jackals and scavengers in night.
Thunder hammers at their ears,
rain urinates those streets corners,
mice crawl away to small places.
Footsteps cry in mud holds stuck
as sunlight starts to sprout.
Misdeeds have no names
as they trip into each other blind,
as they race off to their morning jobs-
sprinkles everywhere.
It’s early morning,
crows fly.
Sinners hurt;
staples in women’s lungs,
staples in men’s ribs.

Michael Lee Johnson

MICHAEL LEE JOHNSON lived ten years in Canada during the Vietnam era; is now known as the Illinois poet from Itasca, IL. Today he is a poet, freelance writer, and photographer who experiments with poetography (blending poetry with photography), and a small business owner in Itasca, Illinois. He has been published in more than 750 small press magazines in 27 countries, and is the editor of 8 poetry sites.  Michael is the author of The Lost American: From Exile to Freedom (136 page book), and several chapbooks of poetry, including From Which Place the Morning Rises, Challenge of Night and Day, and Chicago Poems.  He also has over 69 poetry videos on YouTube.
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Night Painting

Sometimes a deer bolting across the river 
slips on a rock and breaks a leg. It dies there 
or half-way up the bank, or conceals itself 

in a thicket, as if its death were shameful. 
What should we make of pain that figures 
in neither history nor biography, but just is?  

The chocolate lab, whose barking startled the deer, 
finds the femur one night and fetches it home. 
The man in the house cusses the dog and ties 

the leg up in a plastic bag and buries it, 
not without words. In the man’s bed sleeps 
the Boy, the mother is gone, in Boy’s room 

the man is painting the crosses that divide 
the window panes. Muntins not crosses 
is the right name for them. Dead, not gone.

Boy is dreaming: on suddenly long legs
walking is skating on wind; Mother has just 
licked off the afterbirth. Everything is wobbly, 

but soon he’ll be ready to leap. Then the dog 
barks and Boy’s legs telescope in. He cries out 
against the light and goes back to sleep. 

                           * * * *

The stones are shifting slightly in the river.  
It drives them seaward at the speed of lichen.  
The man walks here to escape the smell of paint. 

He is consoled by the lack of explanations. 
Who could explain yesterday’s groundhog 
on the shoulder of northbound 85? 

The man had been shifting down 
to enter the traffic, when he saw it—head 
propped on forelegs, eyes turned toward 

a line of trees, hindquarters twisted 
90 degrees awry. The man was glad 
it had reached the grass, a better place 

to die than asphalt, where the buzzards 
could safely get to it, out in the open 
where someone could see and give it a name.
                            * * * *

Such are his musings as he paints the ceiling--
though waking or dreaming who can tell?--
how we break like toys the gifts 

we are born to, how the groundhog
was broken by a driver who never saw it, 
how each child has an angel whispering, Grow.


Bird on the Tongue

i. What the Men See

At Benson’s Snake Pit and Reptile Farm
the grave girl with the orchid in her hair
is selling ice-cream. The men pay for their cones, 
stealing a glance at the girl. They push back their caps 
and look out over the wilderness of swamp 
and two-lanes that make their home. The holy 
is always present, but it can’t be labeled 
like the gaboon viper or the fer-de-lance 
pickled in brine and displayed in glass jars.

The air is heavy and wet. The afternoon clouds
heap up like scoops of butter pecan.
The men stay till the rain begins to patter, 
but don’t see what they’ve come to see—the bird 
that nonchalants into a gator’s mouth 
to pick its teeth. They leave, telling themselves 
they’re coming back, that maybe they’ll get lucky, 
maybe speak a piece that makes the girl smile.

ii. What the Girl Thinks

Sacred alligator, you can bellow so loud
you startle the crows 

a quarter mile out, 
you can outrun a man
and eat a snake--

you are my sister, 
flower of hunger, 
whiplash of anger. 

Nothing’s too big for you, 
not even the God
whose blood is the river, 

and nothing’s too small--
not even the bird
you hold in your mouth 

like a fledgling word.
Let it fly from your tongue 
and alight on mine.

iii. What the Gator Eats

In the beginning, God spit 
mud and water from His mouth, 
and sawgrass grew from the muck, 
and here and there He dropped
bayhead and hammock.

He called the wilderness good
and set the gator to rule
and gave her leave to eat
whatever she could—turtle carapace 
and flesh, pig-frog and snowy egret, 

fishing weights and floats and lures, 
rice rats and gar, mink
slippery and quick as a sinner, 
shotshells and soda bottles, 
and the left hand of Mr. Spenser

that stifled the screams of the ice-cream girl 
when he caught her alone. The men
discover his body and hunt the gator
in hole and den. The girl tosses 
her blood-red orchid on the water.

J.S. Absher

J.S. Absher has been an offset printer, missionary, bank teller, janitor, and consultant, sold mutual funds, surveyed scrub timberland, and taught a poetry class in Belize. He is a member of the Board of the North Carolina Poetry Society and co-hosts the monthly Second Thursday reading series at Flyleaf Books, an independent bookstore in Chapel Hill, NC. Absher’s poetry has been published in numerous journals and anthologies, including DialogueSunstone, The Dead Mule, AnderboConte, and Kakalak. His work has won various prizes, most recently from the Poetry Council of North Carolina and the North Carolina Poetry Society, and has been nominated for the Pushcart Prize. He has two collections, Night Weather (Cynosura Press, 2010), and The Burial of Anyce Shepherd (Main Street Rag, 2006).


She made a present of her body
to the loaf, moisture in the skin and spit

and tip of tongue, pressure in the palm,
heat from the bands of muscles in the arm
and vessels that open in the hands like leaves.

Her feet braced the ocean of the knead,
knees absorbed the tide, fatigue,
and locked the torso to its commitment:
heave the chest and shoulders where the blood
was doing its unthinking, impermanent

work—striking time steady as a leaking sink,
softer than a red-wing babbles its affairs.
That the body can crush from either end
towards its center without collapse is what
bread means, and is not considered a miracle.

Neither that yeast lives invisible in the air
or under fingernails. A quotidian affair,
like raking leaves or checking into a hospital.
It was enough without the thrill or fuss of a guarantee
of grace, even with the inevitable sacrifice

to sandwiches and mold.

Jasmine V. Bailey

Jasmine V. Bailey's first collection of poems, Alexandria, was published by Carnegie Mellon University press in February, 2014, and her chapbook, Sleep and What Precedes It, won the 2009 Longleaf Press Chapbook Prize. 

A Joyful Lamentation

Embossed on the bronze of Achilles' shield,
boys and girls on a harvest path
carry on poles baskets of grapes,
a gift from Dionysus, a joyful event. 
They move in accord to an ancient tune
that a boy plays on a lyre and sings
in a sweet, clear voice. But listen! Listen!
It is a linos, a song of lamentation,
the same they will soon sing in the wine-press
where their feet will dance, then crush
the life blood from the god himself,
dismembering him in a kind of thanksgiving,
thus bringing brittle death to his vineyard,
and leaving for the cold season long
but one reminder of the certainty of spring,
the evergreen ivy that entangles the vines.

Warren Meredith Harris

Warren Meredith Harris' poems have appeared in Mobius: The Journal of Social Change, The Main Street Rag, The Howl, Poem, The Anglican Theological Review, Pembroke Magazine, The Penwood Review, freefall, and a number of other publications.   A recipient of three fellowships from the National Endowment for the Humanities, he has been a college professor, a stage director, and the editor of a literary journal, and he has written several verse dramas and adaptations, one of which was performed on New York City public radio.  He is the author of The Night Ballerina:  A Poem Sequence in Seven Parts (BrickHouse Books, 2012).

My Parents’ New House, One Year After Hurricane Sandy
In the new house, my mother test-paints the walls
in the living room, dining room, and kitchen.
Paintbrush-width strips of six shades of beige
checker everywhere there is flat, white space.
In the living room, dining room, and kitchen,
my mother appraises the way sunlight plays on
the paintbrush-width strips of six shades of beige,
and she moves the new couch from place, to place, to place.
My mother appraises the way sunlight plays on
the many curtains, rugs, and pillows she’s bought.
She moves the new couch from place, to place, to place.
She returns the curtains she’s bought the very next day.
She buys more curtains, rugs, and pillows today.
If she likes these new ones better, she really couldn’t say,
so she returns all she’s bought the very next day,
but decides the couch is probably in the place it will stay.
If she likes one beige better, she really couldn’t say.
It’s been almost a year and still the checkers remain.
The couch is likely in the place it will stay.
But across the Toms River, her old home stands straight.
It’s been more than a year and still the checkers remain.
She labors and labors to make this a new place a home,
but across the Toms River, her real home stands straight.
If she likes the new house better, she really won’t say.
In the new house, my mother test-paints the walls--
paintbrush-width strips of six shades of beige.
She will return the curtains she’s bought the very next day.

But the couch is, at last, in the place it will stay.

Lauren Schmidt

Lauren Schmidt is the author of three collections of poetry: Two Black Eyes and a Patch of Hair Missing; The Voodoo Doll Parade, selected for the Main Street Rag Author’s Choice Chapbook Series; and Psalms of The Dining Room, a sequence of poems about her volunteer experience at a soup kitchen in Eugene, Oregon. Her work has appeared or is forthcoming in journals such as North American Review, Alaska Quarterly Review, Rattle, Nimrod, Fifth Wednesday Journal, New York Quarterly, Bellevue Literary Review, and The Progressive.  Her awards include the So to Speak Poetry Prize, the Neil Postman Prize for Metaphor, The Janet B. McCabe Prize for Poetry, and the Bellevue Literary Review’s Vilcek Prize for Poetry. Schmidt is an Instructor of Developmental English at Passaic County Community College. She also volunteer teaches creative writing at a transitional house for homeless mothers and is a Poet-in-the-Schools for Paterson Public Schools.