Tag Archives: Light poetry

Morning Coffee

By Yuu Ikeda

Morning coffee
emits fragrance of new dawn

My skin
mixes with the fragrance,
and
plays a mellow and
sugary day

This warmth is only mine
This calmness is only mine

To feel the beginning of a day,
my skin wants morning coffee,
my skin wants fragrance of new dawn


Yuu Ikeda is a Japan based poet.
She loves writing, drawing,
and reading mystery novels.
She writes poetry on her website.
Her published poems are
“On the Bed” in <Nymphs>,
“Pressure” in <Selcouth Station Press>,
“The Mirror That I Broke” in <vulnerary magazine>,
and more.
Her Twitter and Instagram.

Mountain Laurel in Mason

By William Doreski

Nothing personal in splays
of mountain laurel enriching
the simple hardwood forest.

Driving through Mason, we gaze
at the surf of white blossoms
flaunting without a critique.

June days as thick as this one
require such floral displays
to endorse their other products.

Gnats, mosquitoes, and deer flies
gnaw and sip the acres of flesh
they claim as their heritage.

Have you noted the evil abroad?
Like and unlike the laurel it flaunts
ornamental but vicious motives.

Like and unlike the insect world
it subscribes to plain survival
without those stony excuses

we’re tired of refereeing.
To you the sky is always green.
To me the hills look yellow.

Fauves in our palates, cubist
in crudely grasping dimension,
we perk along the back roads

with all our senses tingling.
Parked by a marshful of lilies,
the far shore spackled with laurel,

we muse on the water level—
the lowered shoreline exposing
bullsheads rooted in the mud.

We can’t parse the entire world,
but mouthfuls catch our attention
and we speak in familiar tongues

of familiar textures and forms.
The evil putters about, wiping
its hands on its apron. Masons

wear aprons, and the town
of Mason sports an oversized
Masonic hall to make a point.

But laurel, not stone, dominates,
softening lines and easing the eye
away from the evil we spread

wherever we install our works—
the marsh only a naked spot
ripening in naked glare.


William Doreski lives in Peterborough, New Hampshire. He has taught at several colleges and universities. His most recent book of poetry is Mist in Their Eyes (2021). He has published three critical studies, including Robert Lowell’s Shifting Colors. His essays, poetry, fiction, and reviews have appeared in various journals.

Storm Town

By Lili Bird

A town west 
off the highway 
hot and staled 
with a name like 
sticky breakfast cereal 

I hang from the window 
of my 2 star motel

and swallow 
throat-fulls of thunder 
on the air

and watch the rain 
clouds billow 
like blue hounds hunting 
meat off the mountains.


Lili Bird is a writer and visual artist from the Blue Mountains, Australia. Having spent a long time in the wilds of Canada, Iceland, Scotland, and her own rugged bushland home, Lili draws inspiration from her love of travel, road trips, and remote wilderness exploration. Central to her work are themes of duality, vulnerability, beauty, fear, and love, encapsulating her experiences as a young woman. Her writing has been published in Woman Cave Collective, and she recently had her first solo art show in Sydney.  

Red giant

By Dylan Gibson

I know but not by choice a big ruddy man who’s
made himself into a special kind of machine
the mighty productive power of which lies in its ability
to erase itself from recent memory.

His colleagues and detractors alike know him to be
ever-present yet perennially useless like a Godhead, a ravenous
gaping chasm where the elders threw the undesirables,
where the suicides teetered and gawped,

a pockmarked red giant on the verge
of implosion under its own gravity.
Glowing red yet ever dimmer in the twilight of his 30s,
doggedly stumbling on well after last call,

scouring the recesses of 3am
for some last trace of 25.


Dylan Gibson is an American writer living and working in Taipei. His work has previously been published in the Blue River Review.