Tag Archives: Free verse

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.

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.

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.

A Question and an Answer

By S. T. Brant

How do you write? How can you think? How can you be free? There is no way…

You’re looking for no place. You have come about in an age where angels are dead,

all stars dying. 

Dwindling instead of burning, 

meaning without Meaning.

Bonaventura didn’t claim the self was god,

though I wish he did.

He said the self can become- can join god. 

The self can never be lost,

it can always be augmented. 

All things lead back to center; 

all can be absorbed, 

all leads up.

There is no distinction between lost and found; 

The self is always journeying,

so if it’s lost it’s on its way;

if it’s sure of itself, it should keep the path.

The journey never wavers from the soul’s circumference. 


S. T. Brant is a teacher from Las Vegas. Pubs in/coming from EcoTheo, Timber, Door is a Jar, Santa Clara Review, Rain Taxi, New South, Green Mountains Review, Another Chicago Magazine, Ekstasis, 8 Poems, a few others. You can find him on Twitter or Instagram

Defense of Wonder

By S. T. Brant

What is there worth Wondering if all’s inclined against it;
If all’s determined to destroy the wonder and amazement
Innate in us: If the world to wonder at defies our wondering,
Is our natural sense of wonder not an antagonist to Nature
And to god that we are stubborn devils in the pit wasting
Mystic powers pouting, O earthly interpreter of heaven? 
O align with Bonaventure, with our grandest saints-

the path to what’s worth terming god
is through the world that hopes we discover 
in it the wonder that reaches for it; 

it is our worldly robes that obstructs
our heart’s wonder from touching
the wonder in the lowly stones.

Wonder wants to wander and wants wonder.


S. T. Brant is a teacher from Las Vegas. Pubs in/coming from EcoTheo, Timber, Door is a Jar, Santa Clara Review, Rain Taxi, New South, Green Mountains Review, Another Chicago Magazine, Ekstasis, 8 Poems, a few others. You can find him on Twitter or Instagram

Love as Job

By S.T. Brant

Love never rests. It moves, in Death, you to and fro

over glades, dells, the moor,

Deserts, what land there is to trespass; loves do so

hand in hand. Death

Is the wind that chills the living’s skin, but lovers

are not disquieted,

They amble in the weather as though all is sunshine

always and nosegays

Lined created. They may. For those that stroll the earth

contented in eternity;

Sleepless through the legion sorrows fought off

in life; to ramble

With amorous, undefeated spirits in rumored darkness,

though their spirits’ armor,

Its dents and scars and cavities from life’s swords show:

Love moves them all

The more on and on and on past the power their gravestones.


S. T. Brant is a teacher from Las Vegas. Pubs in/coming from EcoTheo, Timber, Door is a Jar, Santa Clara Review, Rain Taxi, New South, Green Mountains Review, Another Chicago Magazine, Ekstasis, 8 Poems, a few others. You can find him on Twitter or Instagram

Eros in Eden

By S.T. Brant

So Dante hears Francesca 
Say the hurricane is worth
The hell for Paolo.
Dante says that any hell 
Is worth Francesca,
There is no sin in love, 
God’s in error. So he fainted
On the bluff before the storm,
Blacked out with the doubt
That in wretched coterie
Could seat him there.

So I’ve stumbled on the Tree of Love,
Its leaves drop the lessons of our literature.


S. T. Brant is a teacher from Las Vegas. Pubs in/coming from EcoTheo, Timber, Door is a Jar, Santa Clara Review, Rain Taxi, New South, Green Mountains Review, Another Chicago Magazine, Ekstasis, 8 Poems, a few others. You can find him on Twitter or Instagram.

midwest america part two

By Emma Geller

next morning 
they found our bodies
by the lake.

we were turned 
away from each other, 
backs staring at the shore. 

you wanted to 
break my heart
& i refused

by the water.

we ended up 
just like we started. 

the final scene,
in the film of our life,
it wasn’t heartbreaking, 
but not a happy ending either.


Emma Geller is a poet, singer, and actress from Boston, MA. Her poetry has been featured in various publications, including Quillkeeper’s Press, Honeyfire Literary Magazine and Calliope’s Eyelash. You can find out more about Emma on Instagram at em_me_line.

OPENING MY WINDOW

By Lorraine Caputo

From my pocket with a hole
(that hole through which tarnished coins fall),
I pull a soiled tattered rag.
With wide strokes on the glass, I begin 
swiping away grime that built up since your death,
grime that had built up over the years of abuse …
I want, I need to scrub away that muck, 
wipe away that negativity that obscures my view.
I need clarity, brightness to see …
… I need to scrape away that dirt, 
flake away those too many lies that
bind this window stuck …
… throw this window open
to my future …


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.