• In the Bellows by Mariesa Bus

    Foggy-breathed and hand in hand with you, I am aware that as we watch over our sleepy city like a set of mossy gargoyles the trains below are not bustling, but laboring in the slow and judicious way of sheep through the slaughter chute, old women in museums, the trauma in our bloodlines. You are silent and near me, a hermit returned from the mountain whose thoughts I savor like honey at the bottom of a tea cup. Your deep voice is a beginning: the pinball sprung and rolling, and it is an end: drunken ghosts in an old saloon, shot down, reliving their quarrels unceasingly. In the middle, we…

  • Two Skinny Poems by Tyrean Martinson

    Shift After eight attempts, the poem begins toShiftWeight.WordsConsideredShiftPlaces,Refract,Distort.ShiftTo the poem begins after eight attempts.   Apertures of Thought Refraction bends light and thought asitpassesthroughanglesitrevealscolorspectrumitbends refraction and light as thought. * * * * * * * * Learn more about the “skinny poetry” form in The Skinny Poetry Journal* * * * * * * * Tyrean Martinson is a word hunter. She forages for words both sweet and tart in the South Sound, usually in the outskirts of Gig Harbor. Normally, she writes in the weird worlds of fantasy and science fiction, but she likes trying new poetry forms for fun and frustration. An old-school blogger, she can be…

  • The Banquet of the Holy Spirit by Seattle Poet (anonymous)

    The stars have sputtered into dust –Frail points of light,In droves devouredBy a swirling mass of black.Orion’s arrows flit no more,And the darkness strips the bear of his hide –The hand of God has swept the skies of all their light,And by his hand, the Sun and constellations die. Yet the blood moon shines in all its garish red –Though no sun remains to be eclipsed.The night has disemboweled the light of day,And its ravenous visage be drenched crimsonIn the viscera of its slaughter –Gaze you now upon the gore-stained face of God,Peering down with a penetrating stare,Upon frozen earth and flaming seas,From a blackened, stellar veilOf damned, digested souls.…

  • Polar Route by Kael Moffat

      Beneath silvered scraps of cloud, the sprinkled towns of north Quebec and Newfoundland huddle like embers of a banked fire whose clicks and pops are swallowed by distance and the whine of brawny engines.   I press my fingers against the inner pane and feel the ghost of sub-zero air just inches away and wonder about prayers rising into the night, evaporating from shards of glass and eviction notices or springing like flowers from permafrost. I close my eyes as if I could hear them all.     Vladimír, who sits to my right, told me as we cruised above the Arctic that he speaks Czech, Hungarian, English, German,…

  • 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.