& I’ve got
real friends

& he’s got
no thumbs

but in the eyes 
of the world

we’re the same.

Stephen Ground is a writer and filmmaker based in Treaty One Territory (Winnipeg, Manitoba). His poetry has been featured in a variety of journals, including Maudlin House, HASH Journal, and Rejection Letters.

​carrying a dead bumblebee
without complaint.
The strength
the envy
the beauty 
doing its job
like so many
unheralded.

R James Sennett Jr
Nipping at the heels like a pup way too attentive, poetry has pursued this word student all his life. The muse has a funny way of showing up when it wants to make its presence known. He can do no other but to follow.

She gave me her two cents worth
and I fingered the words of her
advice to see if the metal of her
wisdom was worth more than
the metal in the metaphor. 

“Give it time.”

Well, how much time is
enough time?

“Let things unfold.”

How do you know if things
are unfolding or in 
permanent stasis?

It seems her two cents worth
required me to mine for patience
in dark inner caverns.

Perhaps I’ll ask someone else for
their two cents worth and
if I don’t value their two cents worth,
I’ll ask another friend, and another,
until things unfold and I will 
have given it time.

Lydia Lewis is an award-winning educator for nationally published lesson plans and classroom skills. Her career included public and private schools, management of national teacher leadership programs and content editing for National Geographic. Her love of poetry was a constant thread throughout her work with children and continues in retirement.

Even as the crows return
to their evening roost
and the cows head to the barn
this twilight has a different glow
that creates deep shadows
but is so temporary that the sun
appears to set beyond the dark trees
as it rises on the opposite horizon.
 
It is a sudden moonless darkness
that absorbs the sky and pauses
for too short a time
as it brings a stillness and a peace
to unite a broken earth
ahead of the new light.

Jacqueline Davey, originally from Rhode Island, lives in Oakton, Virginia. Following a career in book publishing and marketing, she now enjoys community volunteer activities and, in addition to writing, devotes her time to travel, outdoor sports and classical piano. She was a winner in the Fairfax County Library's 2023 Poetry Contest and has been   published in the Northern Virginia Bards 2023 Poetry Anthology.

Each day we walk out towards the mountains
We turn back at the top of the hill
I hold your hand and if I let go you hold mine 
On the way out you tell me about your day
On the way back I tell you all of my complaints

Dr. Rachel Turney is an educator and teacher trainer in Colorado. Her poetry and narratives can be seen in The Font Journal, Five Fleas, Through Lines Magazine, Teach Write Journal, and Inside Higher Ed. Blog: turneytalks.wordpress.com

my favorite shrimp shumai  虾烧麦
finely minced ginger | massaged with love
nestling within tender springy textures
transparent wrappers | each bite a gentle kiss 
effortless embrace | recipe for the soul 
passed from each generation | gastronomic legacy
bustling from street stalls | infused with culture

my only one wish: less pressure please

E Kraft is a poetry editor who enjoys creating origami art and coding for a non-profit organization. Her poems have been published by The Inlandia Institute, The Hanging Loose Press, The National Poetry Quarterly, and others. She is grateful for everyone who has read her poems or attended her readings.

drifting off like a drowsy bee, 
still humming from my exertions
the insult of the surgeon’s knife
the misery of too much painkiller

the bright mother of all
hovers over my hospital bed
wings spread wide like ancient sails
glowing like a firefly

She offers to carry me off 
to the summer land, sweet 
release in her tender embrace
a soft end to my labors

So tempting, but I whisper, 
not yet, let me struggle here
just a little longer, one more 
resurrection stirs within me

Her smile spreads like wildfire 
as I close my eyes, I feel the 
soft breeze made by the beating 
of her wings and take another breath

Susan Bennett (she/her) is a poet, activist and ritualist, leading women's spirit circles in Northern Virginia for two decades. Her poems have been published in Ekphrastic Review, Amethyst Review, Gargoyle Magazine, Rise Up Review,Artemis Journal, Cauldron Anthology, Eternal Haunted Summer, Mslexia and the Menopause Anthology, published by Arachne Press.

i’m usually not allowed out this late, slipping under the garage door past two a.m. i am happy, and i am buzzing, all with an undertone of guilt. my reasoning is all over the place. the cicadas know better than i do. 
​
the water’s lukewarm, and it occasionally drizzles. we have joint custody of four beers, various types. he reaches for more on his own – modelo, coors, yuenglings. he takes me to the freezer to pick them out, i say it doesn’t matter, since they’ll all taste pretty shit anyhow.

he’s got an entire pack of marlboro greens, and just might go through them all. he lights one. he offers; i say i don’t smoke with addicts; he swears he’s not addicted. “quit.” i dare. he tells us all his grandparents died of lung cancer; do i look him dead in the eyes and ask if he wants to fulfill that prophecy?; he’s quiet; that was an overstep, it’s always an overstep, backbackbackbackbackback b ackbegentlertotheoffering 
                        [[ I take a DRAG Myself ]]

he says the words “too smart for your own good,” followed by my saying i don’t think “too smart” exists. he tells me he has more important things to worry about than picking up a book. his lips are pursed, i play with mine. he passes me the beer. everything’s a little humid. my stomach aches. i softly nod. i feel comforted by the fact the beer’s not mine alone; by the warm space that hangs in the air between our bodies. PLEASE!!!!!!?touch me but
​
                                                god fuck, stay the Fuck away, i 
                     Where did the cigarettes go? No i was kidding about what i said i get it yeah, we don’t                      Know how long we’ll 
Be here yeah, everything is 
                                                                             fleeting i don’t really want to kiss right now but i think i 
                                                                                                                      right now 

i’m tired, and i pull away. he’s tired, and i offer up my shoulder. 

“it’s bony,” he says, and shifts closer. i sit up semi-stiff; i fight a smile. 

i watch closely, i take the next cigarette out of his mouth, i let it get watery, i break it in half.

Ariana Eftimiu is a student at Barnard College, Columbia University, in New York City. When not writing, she is making a several-hour-long playlist on Spotify or on a long walk accompanied by a coffee and her loved ones. She has published work in the National Poetry Quarterly, Aerie International, and the Columbia Daily Spectator, among other places. Follow her co-run online music and arts magazine at pottedpurple.com or catch up with her @arianadrinkingcoffee.

the blue door
of the

morning where
clouds

will grow lie
faces

in which shine
the empty

thoughts of a small
child

Predominantly a dreamer, McKenna Mogan attends Western Washington University where she imagines herself as an explorer collecting tales from afar in between the keys of your grandmother’s upright piano or the core of a neutron star. While not writing, she enjoys spending time with her husband and two cats.