roof tiles gray and thin falling away in the sun like ash ‘round my feet
windows cloud and warp with the long passing of one too many hothouse summers
the paint outside cracks and flakes – bare patch betrayals ebbing pulse lull
the kitchen screen door sticks—hinges in need of grease— in its ever-shrinking frame
floorboards ‘round the stove creak and sink underfoot, it’ll need a cleaning soon
pictures on the wall faded, some slipped from the hook, crash down in silent thuds
dust storms in dark corners, settles ‘round pillows and teacups I write “Wash me, please”
but
the studs are solid, foundation holding strong. Ghosts seem to know their place
and
the morning cock still crows in the yard, pecking at its lil yellow stones
David Estringel is a Xicanx writer, Professor of English, and EIC with words at The Opiate, Cephalopress, Dreich, Beir Bua Journal, Literary Heist, The Blue Nib, The Milk House, and Poetry NI. David has published seven poetry/hybrid collections, six poetry chapbooks, and one co-authored novel Escaping Emily through Thirty West Publishing House. Connect with David on X @The_Booky_Man and his website www.davidestringel.com.
On December 4, 2024, 27-year-old engineer Luigi Mangione assassinated Brian Thompson, CEO of UnitedHealthcare—who had made millions denying claims— outside New York’s Midtown Hilton.
Baby Lulu, as they call him, has many TikTok wives. One in Beijing
cooks puttanesca with penne. My husband, which is Luigi Mangione,
she says, stirring red pepper in her sauce, needs comfort food from his culture.
Others cut wedding cake with their hero, whose black lashes & threaded brows,
so tender & misunderstood, accentuate the necessary beauty of his deed.
Does his anachronistic name kindle some ancient hope, conjure a revolution
fought on Garibaldi’s side against a crooked pope? Lesson Learned,
The Wall Street Journal intones, Tighter Security Priority for CEOs.
I find comfort in stillness when blades kiss my skin and thundered tongues hail down my name. In the grey, I close my eyes—
and let the rain mourn me.
Latoya Wilkinson is 20 years old. She is currently a rising Senior at the University At Albany, studying Journalism and English. She doesn’t have any intentions of being a poet, but she took two poetry classes and realized that she would much rather write than breathe—and that says a lot.
I passed it unawares, others fallen, rotting with perfume pervasive as the gnats forming my halo and feasting delicately on the membranes of my ears and eyes.
I knew the yew had metaphorical heft, but failed to remember the sources. Nowadays memory fails faster than legs which also begin to falter halfway.
Nothing prepares you for death— isn’t quite true. We know in our bones that shadow from the hill will only lengthen as the day wears on.
Yew, I never knew you in your glory, having never walked these woods. But is it a crime to feel no sadness for a tree that perished naturally?
I walk toward a clearing, heavy in my heart and heavier-legged as I seek something more than communion with a natural death.
Salvatore Difalco is a Sicilian Canadian poet and storyteller. His work appears in a number of print and online journals.
I have stolen the dandelions scattered their seeds across
fields of tulips and tamarind I have felt desire crack
my lips apart under the weight of its slippery skin
What fresh figs, what sunny flowers What breaking hearts
rot beneath the hills beneath sticky sidewalk pavements
We grow older but not duller hovering translucent over
calendar time
Sara Whittemore is a poet living in Houston, Texas. She holds an MFA in Creative Writing from the Jack Kerouac School at Naropa. Her work has recently appeared in Interim Magazine, Juniper Press and Tiny Spoon, and others. In addition to being a poet she is an artist, alien and cat person. You can find her on instagram @sarafromsaturn.
brutalized attacked and slandered beaten throughout centuries wandering through a mist of sorrow through world wars through a cemetery the size of the Sea of Reeds
then blessed by God and nations and given back their homeland holy land returned to Zion oh Israel oh holy land oh El Elohe Yisrael oh The Mighty One God of Israel
how terrifying you’ve become how brutal your power how punishing your vengeance how bloody your hands
you’ve let loose the leash of the angels of the apocalypse upon your neighbors and upon their land God’s hell has risen
now the broken people now the occupied the scattered descendants of the conquered bombed to dust their hospitals their places of worship their schools their people their children their lineage their line of hope obliterated in the constant barrage of revenge
only the law of God matters El Elohe Yisrael only the law of Israel above the laws of men of war of nations above the internationals from above comes the law from above the blessing of violations of wanton cruelty from above the blessings of starvation the blessings of suffering the blessings of obliteration of the grave of the dark
terror begets terror begets terror begets the horror show begets infinite suffering a sea of tears a grand canyon of corpses
for your neighbors not mercy but broken bones not compassion but severed bodies for your neighbors there is no salt no bread no wine but disease starvation and poisoned water
oh Palestine the world watches and not much is done and what is done seems as spit into the wind as spit on to the face of Palestine
Palestine no mother’s day Palestine no fourth of July Palestine no apple pie no answers from Salat no call from God no response from the deepening chorus of mourning echoing out toward Mecca and bouncing off the Kaaba
Ted Vaca is a Denver area based poet and performer. He began writing steadily in the late 1980’s in his home state of California. He has been published in numerous publications and has self-published two chapbooks. He is a member of the 1995 Asheville National Slam Poetry Championship team. He is a founding member of The Mercury Cafe Poetry Slam, (Denver, CO.) established in 2000, and ongoing since then. He is the coach of the 2006 Mercury Cafe Slam Championship team. He has hosted countless poetry readings and slams and special events throughout his 35-plus years in catering toward poetic pursuits.
Ted is an award winner of Colorado’s Lulu award for accomplishments in poetry and The James Ryan Morris Tombstone award.
Ted has worked for Art from Ashes, a Colorado based not for profit that encourages and teaches healing through art therapy, catering to youth in illness and at risk.
Fished a moth presumably Miller out the coffee pot presumably dead.
Again, no talent for judging life.
Everything learning to walk is Bambi except for people.
I hate moths and hate them more when they’re dying in front of me. So stunting. So honestly dying. The gall.
drank the coffee of course i drank the coffee boringly. To myself. I wouldn’t write the poem if I didn’t drink The Mothra Jus Wouldn’t submit the poem if I didn’t drink The Mothra Jus And there’s flavor in being misunderstood Pollinators. So, yes, down.
Burned my feet on the fire escape Where it dried out in a bad way something awful uncomfortably.
Then life again more than caffeinated only so poisoned
drowning those on the surface underneath it’s downpour
you are very much as the spring this year
we can only pray hope is real practice deep breaths plan in positive accord
as in what may grow
closer
perhaps the squirrels will not eat the strawberries but better to put a barrier between them and the fruit
I’m sure the weeds and wild grass will stay a few weeks more green before the summer sizzle
maybe we may take advantage of both the growing tumble and the withering
to pull from the rain and the land the best we can
to add to the home we share within us
set the table prepare the meal and may neither one of us be cut
the cosmic within and without
BY TED VACA
YOU MIGHT WANT
to think deeply
about where you
come from
To Think Deeply About Where You Come From
TO
THINK DEEPLY
ABOUT WHERE
YOU COME
FROM
to think
deeply
about
to open the eternal
gold-fringe lined
burgundy curtain
on the stage manager's signal
let the show begin
step upon the stage
stomach in turmoil
mind electric
your eyes
wide wild
and excited
to accept what is
within
is without
to accept what is
without is within
the universe s
s p
l i
a r
out and in
unfolds engulfs
consistently for a manufactured
lineage of time
the universe
doesn’t care about
TIME
time manmade time the cursor
from birth to death and how much
can you accomplish
time the accomplishment
measure of worth and meaning
time the killer the waste of
the sought after for proof of
deeds and diplomas
the microscopic
is C O S M I C
the cosmic is
microscopic
the embryo in their sack
utero evolving galaxies
spinning and star beings
born in a chemical-chance
at becoming only to be seen
in awe by the dark matter
that surrounds
Incomprehensible!
our eternal selfs
witnessed
mirrored not above
not below
but all around
breaking the novelty of direction
the compass explodes and the earthly mind
is set free of dimensions then intuned with the way
then again becoming unknown
as a dream
separated
from the expansion
we’ve not far to go
to reach & realize
Ted Vaca, Denver poet father lover crime fighter / semi holy somewhat sweet can be bitter / published here and there / Founder of The Mercury Cafe poetry slam / Coach of the 2006 Championship Denver Slam Team / Member of 1995 Championship slam team from Asheville NC / Intergalactic Provocateur
Incantation to my Wisdom Teeth
I imagine you being lifted up and out
easily
not by the touch
of an object or an instrument
or a hand
but by way
of your own command.
I see you floating out
as if you simply
wanted to leave–
no force, no ache, no blood.
After,
you are not gone from me
but returned
to the Earth, to the Air.
You are less bone
than soil
less soil than sky.
You are four moons
in the soft night
so there is no part of me
that needs to be healed
only these glowing orbs
that I have known.
And now, they have
relinquished me.
Ode to the Barn Swallow
I love a beautiful bird
that cracks open the daybreak
and re-configures the setting
of the sun. I take her into me.
Everything I know of touch
has been learned from the gloss
of her feathers
and the swallow
down her orange throat.
When I am to finally live,
it will be with the arrival
of hope. The hope
that she will surrender
the whole sky
that was once under
her wings so that she
might return to me.
On Prince Edward Island
a corridor opens
along a path of red pines
long necks
reaching toward a starless
November, dirt like burnt sugar
litters the path I ache
to taste it
but pine needles lace
in and out, at once sharp,
and when the night settles, soft
I am searching for pieces of broken
promises, but when I tire
I will turn myself in
Jessica Bagwell is primarily a poet, but also dabbles in creative nonfiction. Her work appears in Needle Poetry, Sorin Oak Review, and New Literati. In her poems, she pays homage to the lyric and explores formal experimentalism. When she is not writing, she enjoys practicing & teaching yoga, taking long walks, and sampling local breweries with her partner.
Our ship cuts a quiet wake across the Río de la Plata The harbor of Buenos Aires slow motions away from us The muddy haze of pollution hangs within the labyrinths of canyon streets, thick o’er the poor south barrios
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~
The fringed skyline further behind us now The sun silverplates the water, dead fish bobbing Ships far asea coming in or leaving this port & to our east the dark risen shore of Uruguay
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~
Wind strong up on the deck, slicing the bright sun That once-far bank & isles nearing, heavy with thick-leafed trees
Lorraine Caputo is a wandering troubadour whose poetry appears in over 400 journals on six continents, and 20 collections of poetry – including On Galápagos Shores (dancing girl press, 2019), Caribbean Interludes (Origami Poems Project, 2022) and the upcoming In the Jaguar Valley (dancing girl press, 2023). She also authors travel narratives, articles and guidebooks. Her writing has been honored by the Parliamentary Poet Laureate of Canada (2011) and thrice nominated for the Best of the Net. Caputo has done literary readings from Alaska to the Patagonia. She journeys through Latin America with her faithful knapsack Rocinante, listening to the voices of the pueblos and Earth. Follow her adventures at www.facebook.com/lorrainecaputo.wanderer or https://latinamericawanderer.wordpress.com.
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