Poetry

Two Poems by Daniel Galef

Dec 20th, 2016 | By

I remember
the hour we lost.
It was April,
and the hundred-year-old trees were being born for the first time again.
I felt,
so briefly,
like I had control over time,
although of course I was only doing what I was told, like everyone else.



“enroachment,” by Grace Marshan

Aug 20th, 2016 | By

i once told a boy
that i searched for my own castle,
where the skies were sewn
from only the warmest of fabrics.



“A Game of Thrones Senryu,” by Anton Rose

Aug 20th, 2016 | By

gritty grey morality



“Salad Days,” Charles Edward Wright

Aug 20th, 2016 | By

These ribbons
of carrots?



Two Poems by Bryan Thao Worra

Aug 20th, 2016 | By

One morning
Walking into my backyard,
A thin strand of spider silk tangles my legs
With a quiet snap,

Its frustrated author glares
From a high corner nearby.



“My Fairy Garden,” by Susan Chertkow

Aug 20th, 2016 | By

In late June, when my stone birdbath developed a
deep crack, I recycled it into a fairy garden.



“To a Distant Lover,” by Thomas Cavazos

Aug 20th, 2016 | By

These winter nights know not your gentle touch,
Your fingers running wild against your skin.
My darling, this I ask (think it not much:)
To be your partner, privy to your sin.



Two Poems by Matt Dennison

Apr 20th, 2016 | By

Onion Never buy a single onion if you live alone. For unless you are greatly skilled in the art of onion management, at some point you will end up with less than half an onion on a little plate on the middle shelf of a nearly-empty fridge, it’s pitiful, withered, stem looking like the sliced-off

[continue reading…]



“Yours in undead desperation (a zombie soliloquy),” by Anna Della Zazzera

Apr 20th, 2016 | By

I’ve started to keep a Food and Feelings Journal,
but it just ends up sounding like the lamest brand of forced narrative.
Like Chicken Soup for the Mystically Reanimated Soul,
or that recurring dream I have where I’m the host of
a low-budget, zombie-themed daytime talk show,



“Food Policy,” by Bob Schildgen

Apr 20th, 2016 | By

The cigar is chewed to nothing,
there’s earwigs on the brie,
but the dumpster’s flowin’ over
and there’s plenty here for free.