Category Archives: Poetry

Goodbye

By Yuu Ikeda

‘Goodbye’
Summer echoes.

Although my hands
are never able to
give up the heat,
summer is about to
shrink back from my sight.

Dawn cries for summer,
I write for summer,
and
fallen leaves ring a bell
of separation
for summer.

‘Goodbye’
Summer echoes.
I whisper.


Yuu Ikeda is a Japan-based poet.
She loves writing, drawing,
and reading mystery novels.
She writes poetry on her website.
Her published poems can be found
in <Nymphs>,
<Selcouth Station Press>,
<Goat’s Milk Magazine>,
<Sad Girl Review>,
and more.
Her Twitter and Instagram.

The Garden of Poetry

By Yuu Ikeda

In front of me,
many flowers of words
are swaying,
emitting seasonal fragrances.

Every morning,
I breathe in these sweet
sometimes bitter scent,
every evening,
I fill my notebook
waiting for
silhouettes of words,
then,
every night,
I fall asleep
with memories of
the garden of poetry.


Yuu Ikeda is a Japan-based poet.
She loves writing, drawing,
and reading mystery novels.
She writes poetry on her website.
Her published poems can be found
in <Nymphs>,
<Selcouth Station Press>,
<Goat’s Milk Magazine>,
<Sad Girl Review>,
and more.
Her Twitter and Instagram.

MOONLIGHT SERENADE

By Lorraine Caputo

In the late-hour hours
I am awakened
by the song
of the full moon shimmering
upon the rising tide

A golden halo surrounds her
in that cloud-hazed sky
bright pewter-blue like
the sea lapping against
the shell & rock-splinter shore


Lorraine Caputo is a documentary poet, translator and travel writer. Her works appear in over 250 journals on six continents; and 19 collections of poetry – including On Galápagos Shores (dancing girl press, 2019) and Escape to the Sea (Origami Poems Project, 2021). She also authors travel narratives, articles and guidebooks. Her writing has been honoured by the Parliamentary Poet Laureate of Canada (2011) and nominated for the Best of the Net. Caputo has done literary readings from Alaska to the Patagonia. She journeys through Latin America, listening to the voices of the pueblos and Earth. Follow her travels on Facebook or through her website.

Abyss Bloom

By M. Wedlock

We are not other people, you and I, we are more skeleton than breath, and in the same inhale, more breath than — a dream I would die for; I am in the kitchen, with a pint of beer (one I was promised in my dreams) and the cat I do not recognize, but its scent, a memory stain. A father sitting in some coffee shop and a newspaper contains an article about a murder(mine); in a moment of insight I realize I’d been talking aloud the whole time(the words palaver- you order pastrami on rye). I think of a place that seems unimportant to the two(a former professor and pastor). I have been the person(on this timeline) who could have taken a dog but never a cat, the one who puts up with the noise of people and the smell of urine on my pillow, the one who would have made it through university only to return to it indentured. I have always been the person in my head who was able to get a room with a window and a view — We sleep. The dogs walk, the cats stay up until the sun sets & the birds, the squirrels, & the rats all die, but it is midday. Then, at the end of the workday, we wake up, as our minds work, and our bodies become numb, shaken polyurethane airheads after dollar cocktails, our minds unable to tell time; this can happen at any moment, in any situation, to anyone that is caught in a maddening haze of addiction, I know, I have it in me. The only voice I hear is the silence of the sky, the only breath on ally hands say something like: “I feel like a tree, the only tree that grows in the darkening.” — It is dark, I keep my eyes open, because the light in my mind never stops, a graveyard reverse(womb?) it can be the last thing from yesterday making movement in faint transmissions until I fall asleep on the pavement by some waterhole. My hands and feet soaked, as if I have a good wet dream every night; some people move into my in-laws home, share a bed with my partner and I, a smell like freshly squeezed sweat in horizon-less. One of the inmates left a note in my godfather’s jail cell(the one who lived after the other perished; both circles of vehicular salt rubbed in) saying: “thE BIRD-FACED BEAR’S EYES, and the spastic claws of the dying peacock/THE BROWN BEAR’S MOUTH/ the spastic claws of the dying peacock.”


M. Wedlock is a journeyman letterpress printer, hedgewitch, son of no man, father to Shae & partner of Kristen. The space where midnight extends is a favourite refuge.

Pieces of Her

By Susan Miller

She hasn’t had sex since June.
Her tangled hair winds into
a stretched-out green scrunchy,
smashed peas streak worn Levis,
breasts still leak liquid pearls.
She can’t seem to remember where
the lip gloss is, what it feels like
to floss, wax, buff or polish. 
She stares dizzily down
the bathroom drain, looking for
those shiny pieces of herself.
Fighting through a fog of 
strung-out nights and
bone-weary days. Desperate
for one slippery millisecond 
where she was a she again,
not yet anyone’s new mom.


Susan Miller is an editor/reporter for USA TODAY newspaper who enjoys creative writing as a hobby. Her poetry has appeared in several publications, including Whimsical Poet, The Dillydoun Review, Gemini Magazine, Common Ground Review, Months to Years, Under the Bridges of America, Sandy Paws and the Arlington Anthology. She had a short story published in Beach Life.

Iris

By Susan Miller

It all started with
the lines. One pale,
one rock solid,
staring from a 
tiny pool of pink.

Clanking glasses of 
cheap Korbel, soggy
pita, day-old tahini.
Their after-midnight, 
quick-fridge feast.

Painting Pooh by
peek-a-boo bunnies
on lemon walls.
Plush quilts that 
lined pastel dreams.

It all ended with 
the blood. Splattered
terrycloth, choked womb.
Fists pounding the 
cold linoleum floor.

They all say there
will be others. One
pale, one rock solid.

She says she would 
have called her Iris.


Susan Miller is an editor/reporter for USA TODAY newspaper who enjoys creative writing as a hobby. Her poetry has appeared in several publications, including Whimsical Poet, The Dillydoun Review, Gemini Magazine, Common Ground Review, Months to Years, Under the Bridges of America, Sandy Paws and the Arlington Anthology. She had a short story published in Beach Life.

The Little Things

By Susan Miller

These were the things he missed,
the ones that were suppose
to stay silent, shoved down deep.
What with all the carnage spilling
all over his morning paper for
weeks, then months, a year.
The little things. The ones that
filled empty spaces, connected
his dots, fueled his day.

The gurgle of his grandson,
a sniff of her lavender shampoo.
Beer with his poker buddies,
sticky doughnuts after Mass.
The kind library lady, the 
sidewalk smiles of strangers.
Her crimson lips, the way
she asked him to dance.

Her touch. Any touch.


Susan Miller is an editor/reporter for USA TODAY newspaper who enjoys creative writing as a hobby. Her poetry has appeared in several publications, including Whimsical Poet, The Dillydoun Review, Gemini Magazine, Common Ground Review, Months to Years, Under the Bridges of America, Sandy Paws and the Arlington Anthology. She had a short story published in Beach Life.

Ugliest girl in the Room

By Susan Miller

She always felt
like the ugliest girl 
in the room. At
6, 16 or 60. Skin that 
was pale, picked at.
Clammy hands,
desperate eyes. 
A hopeless, nagging 
chorus cracked
mirrors in her head.  
Not magazine pretty,
cheerleader lovely.
A low-wire flop.
Until one day it hit
her: In a pine box,
she thought,
there she could be
simply exquisite,
utterly worthy.


Susan Miller is an editor/reporter for USA TODAY newspaper who enjoys creative writing as a hobby. Her poetry has appeared in several publications, including Whimsical Poet, The Dillydoun Review, Gemini Magazine, Common Ground Review, Months to Years, Under the Bridges of America, Sandy Paws and the Arlington Anthology. She had a short story published in Beach Life.

DESERT RAINS

By Lorraine Caputo

I.

During day’s predawn
darkness, the desert night mist
is heavier, a
thin rain gliding off these parched
tin roofs & sear dreams

II.

In the midnight hour
a distant patter upon
the eaves disrupted
my meditation

Out to the terrace
I walked, to bathe in the light
rain falling upon
this desert city

III.

3:30 a.m.
a rain begins to splatter
this other night … then

its rhythm rises
into a constant clatter
on the roof as I

begin to lay my
anger in blood ink upon
leaf after sear leaf


Lorraine Caputo is a documentary poet, translator and travel writer. Her works appear in over 250 journals on six continents; and 19 collections of poetry – including On Galápagos Shores (dancing girl press, 2019) and Escape to the Sea (Origami Poems Project, 2021). She also authors travel narratives, articles and guidebooks. Her writing has been honoured by the Parliamentary Poet Laureate of Canada (2011) and nominated for the Best of the Net. Caputo has done literary readings from Alaska to the Patagonia. She journeys through Latin America, listening to the voices of the pueblos and Earth. Follow her travels on Facebook or through her website.

MOONLESS NIGHT

By Lorraine Caputo

This moonless night is
bathed by the orange glow of
street lamps. Clouds lie low
on the mountains, then tendril
through the folds of this valley.

Rain begins again,
at first a whisper, its voice
growing stronger , a

monotonous murmur …


Lorraine Caputo is a documentary poet, translator and travel writer. Her works appear in over 250 journals on six continents; and 19 collections of poetry – including On Galápagos Shores (dancing girl press, 2019) and Escape to the Sea (Origami Poems Project, 2021). She also authors travel narratives, articles and guidebooks. Her writing has been honoured by the Parliamentary Poet Laureate of Canada (2011) and nominated for the Best of the Net. Caputo has done literary readings from Alaska to the Patagonia. She journeys through Latin America, listening to the voices of the pueblos and Earth. Follow her travels on Facebook or through her website.