Reborn

I've got a claw to 
practice scratching on
my cave wall here.
It just grew in last year.

Let me tell you the story
of the shoeless man just
out of prison who asked me
for some light.

Better yet, let me tell you
about my den, where I
hide from the crash
of business sounds, leading
my secret little poet life.

Can't put a poem on a memo.
They would send you packing,
but still I find home
in a few sentences strung 
together in a Word document.

I can't change or stop
the world, but I might at
least create a shelter
with some sound.

Alan Inman
New York, NY 
US

Hinky

It's the feeling of a look
that lasts too long,
the sensation of realizing
the kiss will stick around,
the walk should not have
been taken.
Of reading the words aloud
knowing they came out 
wrong, of a tearful ride
down the highway you can't
forget, feeling a painful
change in the atmosphere.
Knowing reconciliation must
be made, but refusing for
years to make it.



Camille Clark 
Atlanta, Georgia
US 

Sister

done with the ugly
ways treated
resolving
to let you go

I remember
dim flickers
now imagining
the ways
your face contorted

manipulator be gone
from not
only my presence
but inside me
as well

this is the moment
where I shake dirt
free from my shoes

all the dirt
of worry, politics,
blame

saying goodbye
to the polite
way life used
to be so I can
now live.



Tempest Brew,
Indianapolis, IL 
United States

Lamentations of Judas

I loved you

though silver and gold caressed
my senses, eve of blood casting
forth a sweet lust for night.

I loved you

though avaricious pride scorched
my loyalty, my adoration, all the 
while screeching for humiliation.

I loved you

though I willingly gave you to the
butchers, satisfying their demons and
my own, innocence within corruption.

I loved you

though I led them to you within the
shadows, and kissed your cheek, a
promise of deceitful love and praise.

I loved you.

I know I loved you

because of the damnation I cursed myself to,
of the cries distorting my grandeur as I
saw your body, lifeless and slain, gazing at 
me with emotionless eyes, gothic sighs 
escaping your frozen heart.

Even now, I still love you
as I count the seconds
while hanging from the noose.


Robin Goodfellow,
Denton, USA.

Robin Goodfellow has had poems published in the online magazine Nature Writing, as well as the Healing Poetry and the Haiku Journal. She enjoys listening to Owl City and rewriting classic fairytales.

A St. Patrick’s Day Memory

Some folks have a problem with authority,
legitimate and otherwise, and I have spent
a lifetime festering in that group.

An event in youth convinced me that 
big people are no different than little people
despite their titles and the homage paid them.

The event that changed me was in third grade
when a nun asked me if I was cousin to a cardinal 
in the Catholic Church. She had heard my father,

an immigrant blue collar worker, was first cousin
to Cardinal Stritch. Little as I was I had no idea but 
I said I’d ask my father and I did that night at supper.

He kept eating his cabbage and potatoes
then finally said we were cousins to the cardinal
whose people also took a boat from Ireland to America.

So I blinked and said to him, “Pa, Sister wants to know
why don’t we call Cardinal Stritch and tell him we’re here.”
Looking up from his cabbage and potatoes,

my father took a sip of tea, shot a laser in my eye,
sniffed a bit and said, “Ask the good sister 
why the good cardinal doesn’t call us.”


Donal Mahoney
donalmahoney@charter.net 

Donal Mahoney lives in St. Louis, US and has had poems published in Ancient Heart Magazine and other publications in the United States, Europe, Asia and Africa. 

Things

Things they add meaning
to this menagerie
answers to what lies in the abyss
forget cheap talk about the rain
and exit/entry strategies
what does it matter?
when Im surrounded by these things

Time ceases
to have meaning
Bright lights and sweet spots
forget cheap talk about hunger
and black dogs
I can out run them all
when Im surrounded by all these 
wondrous things

Contact is overrated
Art is for people lost in a void
Heroes in sweatpants
living the dream
forget about shelter and love
fairytales are the new agenda
as I'm surrounded by these things.


Ashley
Leamington Spa, UK
ashleygriffiths@hotmail.com

Abandonment

Upon hearing the once
eminent author had 
abandoned all hope
of finishing his novel

I felt sympathy for the poor
volume, half-done, limping
to a nearby shelf to find
the climb too stressful

Gone the simple words
that do not try to impress,
unknown the future
of the much-loved main
character.



JD DeHart 
Tennessee,
US 

A Matter of Preference

Fred prefers a mouse
connected by a wire
to his keyboard.
Walt prefers a mouse

that’s portable, able 
to roam over the desk
in Walt’s big hand.
For Walt the danger is

the mouse may slip
and fall off the desk,
hit the floor and break.
That's happened twice.

Fred prefers a wife, one 
he’s had for 30 years.
Walt prefers a fiancé,
a new one every year.


Donal Mahoney
donalmahoney@charter.net 

Donal Mahoney lives in St. Louis, US and has had poems published in Ancient Heart Magazine and other publications in the United States, Europe, Asia and Africa.

Passage

Roots are deep
the trees stretch
toward the ether

and within the womb
of dark brown soil.

The sky changes
like time
and leaves shades

of purple and blue
amid a cacophony
of wasted foliage.



Sneha Subramanian Kanta
United Kingdom 

No Silence

Hell is the absence
of ink with twelve more
ideas rolling out,
soon to be forgotten

An absence of voice,
itch in the throat,
when a word must be
spoken for reason

Last bits of thought
unrecorded, unexpressed
on a sullen afternoon,
embracing silence

When a sentence would
heal, banishing tension.

JD DeHart 
Tennessee, US. 

A Winter Buffet

A bright winter day
and not a leaf left
on this skeleton 

tree teeming 
with sparrows
chirping and hopping

branch to branch 
waiting for the feeder
to be free of cardinals

juncos and jays 
bickering for seed
while on the ground

four doves
stroll in silence
feasting on spilled 

seed near the tree
where a fat squirrel 
sits with tail high 

in a question mark
ready to dive 
and scatter them all


Donal Mahoney
donalmahoney@charter.net 

Donal Mahoney lives in St. Louis, US and has had poems published in Ancient Heart Magazine and other publications in the United States, Europe, Asia and Africa 

The Garden of Thieves

A blissful story written upon pages,
where I carved your name in remorse.
I dreamt you singing in silver cages,
while resting my blame upon the chords.

Told me the poetry you wrote before
the lyrics still unhurried upon your lips,
while ashes and cries you sorrowfully mourn
your brief, nostalgic, evanescent kiss. 

Dancing along the edges of forever,
you sang a melody of what once was.
As the doves and ravens all cry, “Never”,
I know you’ll bury your innocent lust.

For life, for love, for whom I could tell.
I watch the greetings and the silent goodbyes. 
And shadows, the weeping, while the bell knells. 
You disappear gracefully, along the edges of twilight. 



Robin Goodfellow,
Denton, US.

Robin Goodfellow has had poems published in the online magazine Nature Writing, as well as the Healing Poetry and the Haiku Journal. She enjoys listening to Owl City and rewriting classic fairytales

Did You

Did you know
me as my younger form
when I lacked solidity
vacillating among faces

Did you know
my mildly contented
middle aged self
just starting life with
a small amount of sense

Or have you met
the older casket me,
the current one who
lacks much future
but can go on and on
about the past?



R Cope
Richmond, VA,
US 

Letter to an Estranged Middle-Aged Son

The older I get the more I realize
the importance of getting things done
before your mother announces another 

assignment to roust me from my hammock.
As you know I've never been much
around the house, my skills limited to 

raking leaves and shoveling snow, 
menial tasks I haven't missed in years.
Probably not since you lived here.

Your mother, of course, grew up on a farm 
and has always liked getting things done.
But she's getting older too. In fact,

she recently had a big operation 
and I've pitched in beyond my skill set 
despite new stents and a pacemaker.

But even though we just put away
the walker, cane and wheelchair,
all three are on alert so I believe 

it's best to let you know that
one of these days the one who's left 
will ring you up and let you know.


Donal Mahoney
donalmahoney@charter.net 

Donal Mahoney lives in St. Louis, US and has had poems published in Ancient Heart Magazine and other publications in the United States, Europe, Asia and Africa 

Just Me

Hello again, her tired
voice tried.
It's just me again.
Lonely me, forgotten me,
the me that loved you
first of all.

I listened and thought
about the other me.
Decorated me, disillusioned 
me, just dull me.
I refused to hang up
listening a while.



Nate Maye
Dallas, 
US 

Confession

I burned my
soul on a hot
iron

Not sure I
will ever get it
back

I took too
much, gained
too little

Walked heavily
on the edge
of night

Mangled my
chances
for what?


Angelica Fuse,
Los Angeles

Do They Know

I'm going to ignore
the jokes about my weight
I am a blank sketch
with larges spots missing
even to the ones I love.
Even to so-called
family members.
They deny me like Judas.
Does it matter who knows
me and what I rhyme with,
do these words even 
make sense?
I'm going to ignore empty
looks, furtive scanning,
ignorant leaps. 
Reciting my life over again,
what else can I do but
move forward along the twist
of lemon metaphor,
take another step
above the drink on the rocks?



Kaitlyn Park
Salem, Oregon,
US 

Dead Man's Dirge

I am a dead man's
heart coming to a sputter
old rusty engine 

I am the late summer
turning locust back crisp
ready to fall from a tree

I am time running out
on a scratched tuneless
record about to skip.



J. Ash Gamble
Ft Myers, 
Florida, US 

Gravel

Pound the road
blooming with roses
to where you are from

Remember when
this road seemed long
but now it's shorter
so much sweeter

Memory of mother
knitting or shelling beans
is at odds with recent
flashes of cell phone plans

Mass construction where
you live now
has toppled the afternoon
quiet and morning lull
you grew up drinking coffee in

The gravel leads to pavements
and pavements lead to cities
where people don't know
how quiet lives anymore.


Camille Clark
Atlanta, Georgia,
US

dd