• It’s the Journey by Elizabeth Beck

    FOCUS On the blur of leaves crunched and curling, the way the autumn sun wavers the road, transforming each highway rise into flooded streams. FOCUS On the music cutting in and out as the signal boosts between the summits and drains to static or settle on an old time religion gospel preaching something like Christianity, with a bitter twist. Better not. FOCUS On the waysides and rest stops with bright shouting tastes available for just a little more than what clinks between the fingers in your pocket. Settle for the dribble past the chemical build up on the water fountain. Touch your tongue to the crumbling steel. To continue reading…

  • Two Poems from “The Things That Gathers” by Lucas Smiraldo

    Featured are the poems Johnny Damon and For People Who Have Considered Suicide When Resurrection is Enough Johnny Damon Johnny Damon was dead. Nine times, nine games his hair was moving his feet were flying but everyone in Boston would whisper, Dead man swinging and they knew Johnny Damon was dead– To continue reading selections from “The Things That Gather,” click here.  

  • Infertility Goddess by Heather Pilder Olson

    I am an infertility goddess. You can’t wear me around your neck like a totem. You can’t rub my belly for good luck. I spent 10 years of my life trying to have a baby. It didn’t work. I didn’t get the happy ending you expect. I never read What to Expect When You’re Expecting. I was never expecting. But I want to tell you my story: I want you to hear me. We often stay silent. It’s time to get loud. To continue reading Infertility Goddess, click here.

  • A Town Called Home by Morf Morford

    There might be places I’d prefer to be anchored, But I find myself here, As if I had no other place to call home Among the many places I’ve seen. To continue reading A Town Called Home, click here.

  • Trash Day by Michael Haeflinger

    Rainfall, a broken piece of floor, linoleum, recycling to the rim with beer cans, two neighbor girls off to school, someplace behind the pull of sky, a line of buildings dark all day. To continue reading Trash Day, click here.

  • A Touch of Shade by Lorna McGinnis

    Clouds cast shadows like hawk’s wings, Breathing down my neck when the wind turns cold. The gloom elongates, stretching up the brick walls, Dimming them so their flushed redness fades to gray. To continue reading A Touch of Shade, click here.

  • May 18th 1980 by Carl “Papa” Palmer

    near to a year remains in my tour before the date to rotate back to the states my family with me serving the U.S. Army in eastern Hessen West Germany before the fall of the Berlin Wall witness white ash fallen on our blue BMW blown across the Atlantic Ocean from Mt St Helens blowing her top in western Washington USA over 8000 km away where we have orders for Ft Lewis Washington wondering how far this military base is from the base of that erupting volcano covering stubborn Harry Truman of Spirit Lake Lodge like Pompeii from Mount Vesuvius along with other hazards we heard that had occurred in…

  • No Kind of Rain by Morf Morford

    No kind of rain Falls in the distance No wind to carry fortunes Or even weary wings home There are dark birds That emerge From far corners There is little steady kindness From the turning of the earth The seasons chafe As if the earth itself Was running dry To continue reading No Kind of Rain, click here.

  • Another Equinox by Ellen Miffitt

    set the timepiece for 10:29pm… on the dot its autumn. half-light – half dark, a balanced outlook of sorts… 12 hours daylight – 12 hours night the celebration – mother nature is sending her first big fall storm. subtle shift charges the air… mare’s tails are enhanced in the setting sun. I collected oak leaves to dry. already they’ve turned a burnished bronze. Maple trees have leaves with red edges. Aspen leaves are golden… evergreens are loaded with pine cones. To continue reading Another Equinox, click here.

  • The Valley of Nowhere by Lorna McGinnis

    The wide white wall Of clouds blurring together, Like ordinary days. The long gray road Smeared with tire streaks— The transient traces Of those racing through, In search of off ramps. Cars hurtling towards the mountains, Sketched against the coming hours. To continue reading The Vally of Nowhere click here.