after this everything becomes a grease stain in a field of tired hands caught in the rain where the paradise of youth just boxes you in until you can’t breathe you lick memories from your fingers to fill your stomach in the late afternoon until the blood from a day’s work tastes like honey until flowers that should be sweet just seem flawed & that’s exactly what you like about them.
About the Author: John Dorsey is the former poet laureate of Belle, Missouri and the author of Pocatello Wildflower. He may be reached at archerevans@yahoo.com.
Exhausted on the Way Down Front to the Altar: How We Loved Dr. Mike
His ginger hair an acceptable mess, spectacles on one of those pendant/chains, long enough to reach into a pant pocket, too short to reach Saturn’s rings.
I love the mystery in his tone, the way he pauses at the end of most sentences, cliffhangers, inviting climbers to peer
around each wall for some sort of clue. Sermons, religious outcrops, invitations to come to the front, receive the cup
& take a sip, hold it next to one’s heart, swish, spit or swallow, residual specks & morsels lingering long after the lecture
has put itself to bed.
About the Author: John Dorroh may have taught high school science for a few decades. Whether he did is still being discussed. Four of his poems were nominated for Best of the Net. Others have been published in over 100 journals, including Feral, El Portal, North Dakota Quarterly, and River Heron. He had two chapbooks published in 2022.
Image Credit:Antonin Procházka “Still Life with Cup and Book” (1915) Public domain image courtesy of Artvee
Near Earth's horizon the moon looms large, threatening to break loose from its place in the sky and plunge to earth.
With its wan and pockmarked face it dwarfs my world. I can see but little else, my eyes filled to overflowing by its presence.
Your death filled my life to overflowing. For years I measured all events against its shadow. But the heavens revolve,
the earth persists in its ellipse, and my loss diminished proportional to the orbit of my years. And as the night spins slowly by,
the moon floats on high, a thin, worn silver dime on the dealer's dusty velvet, worth whatever price the collector is willing to pay.
About the Author: Ruth Bavetta’s poems have appeared in North American Review, Nimrod, Rattle, Slant, American Journal of Poetry, Atlanta Review, Tar River Poetry and many other journals and anthologies. Her fifth book, What’s Left Over, won the FutureCycle Poetry Book Prize for 2022.
If she were a songbird I wonder which one I’d compare her to—
Dolores, the elderly widow from a few doors down, starts to sing as I get dressed for another workday—
maybe a mourning dove or a mockingbird a house sparrow or even a starling
regardless I don’t think any of them can top a tune to her when she performs with her record player.
Last week it was Billie Holiday and some Frankie Valli yesterday a little Tina Turner and some Jackson 5
but today it’s something fierce something that means business for a Monday morning
so I leave a few records by her front door— some Misfits, Clash and Ramones— just in case.
About the Author: Cord Moreski is a poet from the Jersey Shore. Moreski is the author of Apartment Poems (Between Shadows Press, 2022), Confined Spaces (Two Key Customs, 2022), The News Around Town (Maverick Duck Press, 2020), and Shaking Hands with Time (Indigent Press, 2018). When he is not writing, Cord waits tables for a living and teaches middle school children that poetry is awesome. You can follow Cord here: www.cordmoreski.com
Image Credit: “A man holds up a vinyl recording disc from a box of discs at the Library of Congress, Washington, D.C” (1949) Public domain image courtesy of The Library of Congress
This is not the final picture of me, the Greek chorus that was my family, gazing down, hissing—
adulteress, lousy mother, heretic.
False poses, opaque makeup, stiff hands coaxed loose by the mortician, pink rosary beads strung in mute prayer through pale wax fingers.
Florid lilies and heaps of hydrangeas stand watch, alongside cheerful tulips.
I am visited, prayed over. My head propped on a satin pillow, the double chins more prominent, the red lips stitched shut.
This is what everyone wanted. I am finally mute.
Son, I tell you this while I still breathe--
Place the rough grey gravel shards of me into a hummingbird-adorned urn, into the damp warm earth, alongside my mother.
About the Author: Susan Cossette lives and writes in Minneapolis, Minnesota. The Author of Peggy Sue Messed Up, she is a recipient of the University of Connecticut’s Wallace Stevens Poetry Prize. A two-time Pushcart Prize nominee, her work has appeared or is forthcoming in Rust and Moth, The New York Quarterly, ONE ART, As it Ought to Be, Anti-Heroin Chic, Crow & Cross Keys, The Eunoia Review, and in the anthologies Fast Fallen Women (Woodhall Press) and Tuesdays at Curley’s (Yuganta Press).
Image Credit: John Rubens Smith “Two ornamental urns” Public domain image courtesy of the Library of Congress
Frank Bidart once commented in an interview that an emphasis on voice isn’t fashionable in contemporary poetry. That idea might go a long way towards explaining the lack of appreciation for Tim Peeler’s work since Peeler’s poetry is emphatically about southern voices and southern characters. Peeler is more original than fashionable. He is of the DIY, autodidact, mountain bred, and baseball referencing, fried bologna school of American poetry. He is also the only member.
Some books don’t fit into categories. And some poets don’t. For a number of years now, Tim Peeler has been creating unique, character driven poetry sequences about folks who are neither proud nor ashamed of their poverty. Peeler doesn’t make a fetish of the blue collar. Poverty and wealth are just reference points. Economics is part of what defines his characters, but it is not the whole definition.
The emphasis on character is why Peeler is so hard to categorize. Though he is as southern as moonshine, pine trees, and molasses, his character-driven writing is closer to Chekhov than Dickey. He begins and ends with a person in a specific situation. There may not be a problem to solve, but there is definitely an incident to examine.
There is a texture to Peeler’s poetry which comes from his deep knowledge and appreciation of vernacular. He can use words like “whatnot” and “fixin” and make them an integral part of the poem without drawing attention. He is not a flashy poet, but a subtle one. He draws the reader in and pulls rabbits out of every hat he comes across. He does this while making the reader care for characters who are often either left out of poetry or reduced to stereotypes. There are no “types” in Peeler’s poetry. There are only people.
Many poets are addicted to the idea of the blazing line. They are in love with anthology pieces. Tim Peeler is not that type of poet. In his work, poetry happens as part of the everyday. It seems to be dictated from characters at a diner, rather than created by a solitary individual. This is not to say that the accessibility of Peeler’s sleight-of-hand poetics is easy. He simply makes it look that way. His poems are as clear as mountain air and just as easy to take in.
About the Author: Mike James makes his home outside Nashville, Tennessee. He has published in numerous magazines, large and small, throughout the country. His poetry collections include: Leftover Distances (Luchador), Parades (Alien Buddha), Jumping Drawbridges in Technicolor (Blue Horse), and Crows in the Jukebox (Bottom Dog.) In April, Red Hawk published his 20th collection, Portable Light: Poems 1991-2021.
Image Credit: “Craggy mountains and Dome from Rich Mountain, North Carolina, U. S. A.” (1905) public domain image courtesy of the Library of Congress
On Ownership
My hair has always been mine
and my clothes were always
equal parts mine and my sister’s;
my glasses are mine, even though
I don’t wear them often these days.
They are mine nonetheless.
But when you ask me,
‘to whom does your body belong?’
I can only recite the names
of a handful of people
whom I cannot look in the eye:
a trusted adult, a classmate
from a few years back,
the guy at the bar who didn’t
bother to ask my name, or
really any questions before
placing his hands on my
body-that-isn’t-quite-mine
and I laughed it off to my
friends because that’s just
what you do when a weird guy
does weird shit: you laugh
it off and then you go home.
Home, to me, is an apartment
with a lock that still hasn’t been
fixed and walls I can’t paint
because, even though I pay
my rent on time, it’s not really
mine. Is anything really mine
if my own flesh isn’t mine?
The first man I ever loved
and allowed access to this
body-that-isn’t-quite-mine
did not return my call when
I told him about a pregnancy
test that I had to take in the
Freudenberger Residence Hall
communal bathroom, alone.
In that moment, this trembling
body-that-isn’t-quite-mine
was a thing that he no longer
wanted to claim, as if it now
belonged to someone else
with a heartbeat just like the
pounding one in my chest, which
didn’t feel like my own. That was
four years ago, back when
I at least had the option to make a
difficult choice regarding this
body-that-isn’t-quite-mine,
and I still do not know how to reclaim
the bodily autonomy that
has been stolen from me
time and time again since I
was a little girl on the playground,
a frightened teenager in a dorm,
a tired adult watching the news.
Now, when you ask me,
‘to whom does your body belong?’
I will recite the names
of nine Supreme Court Justices.
About the Author: Madeira Miller is a writer and poet seeking a creative writing degree at Missouri State University. Her work appears in ‘Dreamstones of Summer’ by WinglessDreamer, ‘Praised by December’ by WinglessDreamer, Every Day Fiction Online Magazine, F3LL Digital Magazine, The Gateway Review Literary Magazine, ‘My Cityline by WinglessDreamer,’ The Bookends Review Creative Arts Journal, ‘Sea or Seashore’ by WinglessDreamer, Bridge Eight Press, In Parentheses Literary Magazine, Dipity Literary Magazine, Abstract Literary Magazine, Academy of the Heart and Mind Literary Magazine, and New Note Poetry Magazine.
Wednesday Morning
all the construction workers running about trying
to wrap it all up & i’m in my black car stopped
sitting smackdab in a construction zone next to
summer beaten cornfields showing their rust
yellow browning tassels silks & stalks to my
left a solid baker’s dozen of volunteer sun-
flowers creamy to bright gold circling mahogany &
flowing seamlessly into green & at the ground
below them are twice as many pale-blue bronze
rose deep-purple irises in a roadside ditch
sudden rain causing
distortion— imagine
a van gogh
About the Author: Victor Clevenger spends his days in a Madhouse and his nights writing. Selected pieces of his work have appeared in print magazines and journals around the world. He is the author of several collections of poetry including A Finger in the Hornets’ Nest (Red Flag Poetry, 2018), Corned Beef Hash By Candlelight (Luchador Press, 2019), A Wildflower In Blood (Roaring Junior Press, 2020), Scratching to Get By (Between Shadows Press, 2021), and 47 Poems (Crisis Chronicles Press, 2022). Together with American poet John Dorsey, they run River Dog.
What to Do After You Don’t Die on the Table
get up
write a few things down
shake
thinking
they missed something.
About the Author: John Dorsey is the former poet laureate of Belle, Missouri and the author of Pocatello Wildflower. He may be reached at archerevans@yahoo.com.
Image Credit: “Operating room – eye institute” Public domain image courtesy of the Library of Congress
Homage to Jim Harrison
The grackle with its blue head
dunks violently his beak
in the bird bath while chickadees
and starlings battle the squirrels
for sustenance. Cars power by here
in the city and squirrels rush the street
for lack of places to run. On the porch
with my one-eyed dog,
I run my weathered hand on his
head and search fruitlessly for
the Zen moment like Jim Harrison's
dogs betray their owner's point of view.
I keep his grizzled nose pointed at
the source and breathe in his wisdom.
About the Author: Rusty Barnes lives with his family and a horde of cats in Revere MA. His work appears widely, and his most recent chapbook is DEAR SO & SO.
Image Credit: John James Audubon “Purple Grackle” Public domain image courtesy of Artvee
As It Ought To Be 