“Wait”

He was
sitting there
alone, by the fire

draped in a
faded woolen rug,
smoking…

I put my backpack down,
joined him

the train was late
by 2 hours

We sat
by the fire

and waited…

Kanchan Chatterjee is a 44 year old male executive, working in the ministry of finance, government of India. Although he does not have any literary background, he loves poetry and writes as and when he feels the urge. Some of his works have been
published in various online and print journals e.g. Mad House, Decanto, Mad Swirl, Eclectic eel, Jellyfish whisperer, Bare Hands Poetry etc. He is one of the nominees of this year’s Pushcart Award.

The House in Straight Jacket

Some yellow tapes fence our houses.
You can perceive the same thing as a tragedy
or as a treasure.

Again the knives flew in the air today.
Agreed,
in future we should use words only on the vegetables.

Now I hold a compass on my salty palm.
The softness of four directions
baffle its pointer.

And I walk round and round the house,
stumble on the stones and dead squirrels.
How do you enter inside a building wearing a straight jacket?

A native of Kolkata, India, Kushal Poddar writes poetry, fiction and scripts for television mini-series and is published worldwide. He is the author of All Our Fictional Dreams and has been published in Poor Poet’s Pantry: Collaborative Poems. His forthcoming books are Surviving Cyber Life and Five Rivers.

Chorus After Chorus

There’s a reunion of the flesh, a handshake,
re-entry, a comfortable extension of eye contact
between two stations, both tuned into the same beat,
broadcasting solely to each other. Blindfold off,
headphones on; surrounded by sound,
marooned together in an old fashion, happy to repeat.

We don’t want this song to end, adding codas,
sitting down to craft new verses to a melody
easily hummed; taking a pact to forever
bell out the choruses. May every chorus surge
and resurge the blood as our calling
to revel in the days we own together.
for we can never own time, but we can possess
the echoes of energy spent passing time in union.

Colin Dardis resides in Northern Ireland, where he currently edits the poetry journal FourXFour, and is the host of Purely Poetry, a monthly open mic poetry night in the Crescent Arts Centre, Belfast. He is also a member of the performance group,Voica Versa. 

Previously, Colin has been a co-ordinator of open mic night Make Yourself Heard, editor of Speech Therapy zine, and has worked as a Poet In Motion for the New Belfast Community Arts Initiative. His poetry has been published extensively in
journals, anthologies and website throughout the UK, Ireland and the US. Check out Colin’s website at: http://lowlightsforlowlifes.weebly.com

On Self Medicating

It is Friday and Dylan is standing in front of the rows of caffeine pills displayed in the gray CVS down the busy street from his apartment, thinking of Sareh’s long, lithe legs, her smooth, throaty voice and dark, bobbed hair, which smells of juniper and almond shampoo – all of which are an hour and a half away at the university where her paintings got her into a master’s program, in the same little town where he lived with her for eight months, jobless, before moving here. Those eight unproductive months seemed the most miserable of his life – but, he tells himself, they were the best, because he will never again have a chance to do nothing but dote on Sareh all day, or cook her favorite foods for no particular reason, or pose ’til dawn so she can finish a painting for class – the most miserable months, that is, until he moved here, when he couldn’t sleep on the very first night without her breath and those sleepy, blinking eyes on the soft pillow beside his.

As he hears the automatic doors whirr open behind him, he realizes all his mind’s images of Sareh’s exotic hazel eyes are tied to thoughts of his insomnia – how he never sleeps on weeknights anymore except for the half-hours when he nods into a doze between six and seven in the morning, always just before his alarm goes off – and how Sareh hates it every Friday, as soon as Dylan sees her, when his shoulders relax – that almost painful stretch of muscle – and he gets drowsy, slipping off to sleep as soon as they sit down for a movie or a meal, or tumble into bed for some “I’ve been waiting all week” sex.

He is so tired now that his eyes are sore and trailing images of everything he sees; his arms have never felt so heavy, like lead is pumping through them rather than blood, weighing down on his back and pulling at the sides of his neck; and his knees go to jelly every five minutes or so, making him flex his calves and thighs to catch himself before the ugly, coarse blue carpet jumps up to cradle his cheek. But he knows he wouldn’t be able to sleep even if he did fall to the floor, despite his aching tiredness. Tonight, he tells himself, this weekend, I must stay awake. He must, he knows, or she will soon not want him around anymore, which will not allow him to sleep – he fears – at all, or maybe ever again.

Dylan looks over the small, neatly-placed boxes before him as an employee, a man about thirty-five with a scraggly rat-tail hanging down over his collar, shuffles behind him, dragging the smell of damp, dirty storerooms down the aisle. Dylan swallows back the flame of bile in his throat and reaches out for one of the boxes, the one with the brightest colors, the one his eyes refuse to ignore, despite the extreme side-effects and warnings posted on the front label. But when he looks down at his hand hovering by the NoDoze, it is trembling terribly and he can feel the strained effort his body is putting out just to send blood through his wavering veins, so he turns to the row of cash registers by the door before his fingers can clasp the thin, waxed cardboard. His foot refuses to move for a moment and Dylan stumbles before straightening back up, Sareh’s smile echoing in his mind, his shoulders beginning to loosen before he can even get out to the parking lot.

Austin Eichelberger  completed his MA in Fiction at Longwood University in May 2009. Since then, he has taught various English and writing writing courses at a university level. While these stories have yet to be published, he has been invited to read at several conferences, including the Southern Humanities Council Conference and the Robert and Susan H. May Conference, and his work has appeared in numerous online and print literary journals and anthologies, including the University of Chester’s Flash Magazine, Diverse Voices Quarterly, and Eclectic Flash, among others.

Moon and Sea

At end of
day I make my way

To the calm
and quiet shore

I stand and
stare at the moon so fair

Like a
thousand times before

All around
her light shines down
Bathing me
in silver tears

She and the
sea speak to me

Conspiring
to take my years

Her light
reflects those silver specks

I hear her
Siren’s call

And step
into the midnight blue

This will be
my final fall

Now the
stars can see my scars

As the water
rises higher

I still
stare at the moon so fair

Full of pure
love and desire

This black
of night will hold me tight

Nevermore to
welcome the sun

My fate is
sealed, my life will yield

To the
beauty that loved Endymion

The moon
told the sea where to lead me

The sea is
now my grave

Mourned by
mist and finally kissed

By the sweet
embrace of a wave

Originally from southern California, Jessica Fitzpatrick now lives and writes in Olympia, Washington. A lifelong lover of literature, she has drawn inspiration from many of the masters but also managed to discover her own voice. Jessica has
been writing for almost 20 years, and while she explores various themes, her pen tends to favor the dark, the mysterious, the imaginative.

The Voice of America

A voice comes from somewhere behind me, thin and wispy, calling me by the wrong name. When I turn around, the leaves are quivering with conflicting emotions. Anyone I tell says I need to get a better attitude – or go die. But who doesn’t have qualms when they stick a key in the door? It’s not true that there’s no penalty for trying. Sometimes I have to be rescued. Other times I remove the rope from around my neck myself.

Howie Good, a journalism professor at SUNY New Paltz, is the author of fivepoetry collections, most recently Cryptic Endearments from Knives Forks & Spoons Press. He has had numerous chapbooks, including Elephant Gun from
Dog on a Chain Press, Strange Roads from Puddles of Sky Press, and Death of Me from Pig Ear Press. His poetry has been nominated multiple times for the Pushcart Prize and Best of the Net anthology. He blogs at
http://apocalypsemambo.blogspot.com.

Tapping a Song Out with His Foot

He lives in a trailer
on a gravel road
with a number
for a name;
he drives a semi-,
hauls things city folks
simply take for granted

He don’t think much,
just knows things others don’t
know they need to know;
he slides hairy legs
into faded jeans; his woman
does loads of laundry
every Saturday

His top two buttons
are unbuttoned
before he comes home;
he sits in a Lazy Boy, drinks
American beer; he’s versatile;
he’d like to have his own theme
song, but life just won’t let him
so he just taps out a song
with his foot

Tim J. Brennan writes from southern MN. His poems can be found in Whispering Shade, Talking Stick, The Green Blade, and many other nice places. Brennan’s short plays have been produced widely, including performances in NYC, San Diego, and Bloomington, IL.

My Valediction

“We are NOT at the crossroads of life…”

So, in truth, my valediction began.

Not quite the speech the Administration had planned.

In fact, I should- would- have been expelled days ago,

For putting my drunken fist through the bathroom stall,

Except that the stoned-in-class president was already gone.

Which is how I came to stand for the best

This small country had to offer. My last words were,

“Farewell. I hope I never see most of you again.”

Thus I took my leave, severed ties, declared independence.

“A speech they will not forget.” I thought. But they did.

That fist mark though, remains to this very day.

I know it is so, because we reunited years later.

Bald chums all made jolly with, “hullo, how have you been?”

And, “What did you become? A leader of men, I bet.”

“Oh, no,” I incline my head with acquired humility,

“Upon sober reflection, I thought it best, in truth

To drink, clench my fists, and punch holes in bathroom stalls.”

Phillip Larrea is a syndicated columnist and wealth adviser in Sacramento,CA. In 2012, Phillip’s poems were published in 30 journals and anthologies including Outburst Magazine, The Poetry Bus Magazine and thefirstcut #7 (U.K.), as well as Nazar Look (Romania). In the U.S., Phillip has been published in The Decade Review, Rusty Nail, and the Brooklyn Voice, to name a few. He has two books scheduled for release in 2013; Our Patch (Writing Knights Press) published January 05, and We, the People (Cold River Press) in the spring.

The Fountain Thief

When no one is looking,
I gather their wishes,
spend them as my own
on the burn of amber –
the color of dawn
that once rose over a man
who cared to meet it.

Pushcart Prize and Kentucky Poet Laureate nominee,Sheri L. Wright is the author of six books of poetry, including the most recent, The Feast of Erasure. Wright’s visual work has appeared in numerous journals, including Blood Orange Review, The Single Hound , THIS Literary Magazine, Prick of the Spindle, Blood Lotus Journal and Subliminal Interiors. In 2012, Ms. Wright was a contributer to the the Sister Cities Project Lvlds: Creatively Linking Leeds and Louisville.

Carmelized

Layers

Window Guard

Broken Hearts Still Shine

The Tree of Crows by Caspar David Friedrich

Animus

If I did as I long to do, and kept
my eyes only ever directed upwards
to watch the lavender birds in their flight,
Perhaps I’d stumble. You might then end up
crushed beneath my feckless foot. Oh, ha, and
who would sob, upon seeing the helix
of your petty ego mashed into paste
like a stepped-on snail, and a noisy
gull swooping in to make a snack of you.
I would not sob then; but for now I shall
try to forgive your mean unkindnesses
for I have seen the gulls of Bonaparte
winging through the cat-pelt yellow dawn fog,
have heard their cries, and know you never will.

Zachary Bos and his fiance are principals in a literary nonprofit, the Boston Poetry Union, and they supervise the projects and staff of its imprint, the Pen & Anvil Press. Bos splits his attention between literary work and secular activism. He has had work published in The Christian Science Monitor, Clarion, Bellevue Literary Review, and Psychic Meatloaf, among others. As an editor, he has worked for Fulcrum, News from the Republic of Letters, Little Star, and a good number of other publications. He did his MFA workshops with Robert Pinsky and Louise Gluck, and studied translation with Rosanna Warren. His father was born in the Netherlands, so when he reads “Van Gogh” he hears it in his mind’s ear in the Dutch manner, to rhyme with “Fine Cough.”