Category Archives: Poetry


By Sarah Wood

Heart in my lungs, 

The anatomy of a 

Spineless woman.

No one ever told me that

Relying on oxygen

From another person, was

No way to breathe.

Canary in the coal mine, 


The girl without a spine, 


No worries, all good. 

Of course, I’m happy to. 

That’s okay, I don’t mind.

An honest child, I cried

Wailing, wanting.

At what age, did I become agreeable?

Weeping willow woman.

Only asking for what is 




Folding in on myself, 

This nonexistent ribcage is no home for a 

Songbird soul.

No oxygen to feed, the

Spark of yellow.

Reaching for another person

To breathe, love into me,

So I might breathe myself.

But now I’m cracking open,

A wishbone. 

Straightening up, 

Take up space.

Only now am I growing a spine.

Sarah Wood is a writer, TEDx speaker and mindfulness facilitator from Michigan, currently living in New York City. She is the founder of Joy Soldier™, a community and toolkit to help people lead more joyful lives. She loves finding new books, hummus, and good questions. Sarah has previously been published in the Huffington Post and Thrive Global.

Dad’s home videos

By Felicia Zuniga

Coloured fountains sparkled

at the Stampede that year to

commemorate some event or

another. You peered up from behind

the trickle of pink green water

to tip your cowboy hat before

retreating into the blur of broken

rainbow sunshine.

In the swimming scenes you

tugged your bottoms so up high that

your belly button was lost inside.

Skinny arms gripped your body when

you ran from the edge to the

board and pretended you knew how

to dive. I see how the story of you

falling and smacking your hard

head upon the deck came about.

Ripples of cousins, neighbors

and friends, singing through birthdays

at your cramped duplex and laughing as your

brother pinched your ears or that

one little girl with flipped-out pigtails

blinked her lashes for the camera.

The film is fuzzy in some spots around the

edges and shaky too. Lots of sleek old cars, 

well-groomed houses and scenery shots when Tata 

must have gotten bored of filming all of you 

standing around, hands in

high pants pockets.

The dancing scenes at the annual Italian picnic

are my favorite though. The camera weaving in and out of

mismatched couples with beehive hairdos,

tight white pants, thick glasses and bowling shoes.

It’s how people met back then

sharing runny watermelon and

offbeat moves with future spouses.

Everything seemed simpler then,
viewed from vintage lenses.

Felicia Zuniga is a writer and communications specialist who lives in Calgary, Alberta with her husband and two young sons. She has been writing poetry for over a decade and has been published in a variety of journals including Contemporary Verse 2 – The Canadian Journal of Poetry and Critical Writing, The Antigonish Review, Montreal Writes, Existere – Journal of Arts & Literature and FreeFall Magazine. She has a Master of Journalism degree from Carleton University and a Bachelor of Arts degree in English Honours with a Creative Writing Concentration from the University of Calgary. Learn more at

Song of Mammon

By Matthew J. Andrews

When he shows up at my door – 

face smeared into a devilish grin,

one hand gripping a wine bottle,

the other hand pushing his way inside – 

his spirit fills the room like incense

and I take him into my nostrils.

When it gets dark, he puts his hands

around my neck and kisses me

until I shrivel on his acidic lips.

He takes me down into the bed,

where his restless hands melt 

and reshape me like a skilled potter,

and where he advances inside me

like a tumor until I whisper his name

into the empty corners of the room.

Matthew J. Andrews is a private investigator and writer whose poetry has appeared or is forthcoming in Orange Blossom Review, Funicular Magazine, and EcoTheo Review. His debut chapbook, I Close My Eyes, and I Almost Remember, is forthcoming from Finishing Line Press. He can be contacted at

these dreaming monsters

By John Sweet

faded blue november sky with

contrails and silence 

up on burnt hill road and

what if god is nothing more than the

ability to tell the truth and what if truth

is nothing more than the road to beauty?

will you offer 

your churches to the homeless or

give your wealth to the starving or

will you continue to preach 

the gospel of ignorance and hatred?

will you stop raping the children?

there is no end to the ways we can

disguise our lies as luminous truths

John Sweet sends greetings from the rural wastelands of upstate NY. He is a firm believer in writing as catharsis and in the continuous search for an unattainable and constantly evolving absolute truth. His latest poetry collections include A FLAG ON FIRE IS A SONG OF HOPE (2019 Scars Publications) and A DEAD MAN, EITHER WAY (2020 Kung Fu Treachery Press).

Silver Pillows

By John Maurer

Painters paint the paintings that they should paint 

Because they are the paintings that they do paint

The worth of the doing is found in the doing

Transcendence is shovel-gripped, cerebral labor

My bones sharpen through the cloth of my bleeding visage

If you are a vault, you must also be the key

What is sagacious gifted bullion without 

Its scriptural prodigious tailwind 

Eating words with an open mouth

The crumbs of preciously bled stones fall to my lap

This is what I sing to you and you don’t hear

This is what you want me to sing, and I am too shy to

British scholars would say we don’t share the table

Cloudy guru would say you sit at his table

Pull out your chair when you approach plated lawn trimmings

The lawn being your responsibility to water

Do not shun the thornier blades

Growing an apology is not pleasant horticulture

Her smile this is a rooting of veins

Drink it in and the ice cubes of her with it

My bones are certainly metallic with their screws

But I keep chewing on all more expanded than I

John Maurer is a 26-year-old writer from Pittsburgh that writes fiction, poetry, and everything in-between, but his work always strives to portray that what is true is beautiful. He has been previously published in Claudius Speaks, The Bitchin’ Kitsch, Thought Catalog, and more than fifty others. @JohnPMaurer (