Tag Archives: Speculative poetry


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.

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.

A Book of Malevolent Devices

By Wim

Athirst, raise the whirlpool of landlord’s rooves
We sleep beneath, moments full of nothing, 
After the curbs have been drained. 

The minutes pilfer, nibble, and crumble,
There are 13 months in his year, give him
Gratis a glide off the smaller straining

Spirit he applauds, a side of yourself to carry
in dry words from the woods, with frightful hands,

Only I didn’t think I’d lose my thumb,
Which costs him nothing, flutters of flesh
Can rest in place, the hands of hours heaving.

At the sound of the tone, you’re suddenly
Uncalled for. The briefly constant boom and
Bust, it flakes off, not to dust, but trash.

all that is
is scheme’s milk,
a gas, a glass,
an engine.

this gift unveils itself 
a violent interruption 
away from awareness

where I awhile
here and now
give my all for then

what will have been
a has been,

always apart, only some of us are

Wim is a dual citizen from Seattle living in Victoria, BC. You may have met him in a moss-filled basement suite in Vancouver, a dust storm in northern Alberta, or perched atop a spinning curling rock in sweaty, sweaty Gatineau. He’s had poems in Pages Penned in Pandemic, Peaches and Bats, and Slightly West. For private opinions made inadvisably public, see him on Twitter.

If Silence Could Speak

By Anna Elin Kristiansen

Remembering every insult, every humiliation, each tiny wrongdoing
she twists.
Turns her pillow over, fighting a wee-hour battle with her worthy opponent:

How squeezed she would feel, how terribly frightened
fearful, black thoughts sucking life right out of her
dumping it in the city sewers.

Flattened, shattered, gasping for a drop of life
she lay
still, as death.

But such forces as the one we know intimately
yields to no shadow master.

Sweeps in – no, that’s not its style,
It’s subtle, gentle, caring and kind.
It mends, heals, caresses, all in due course.

Reminds, ushers, helps and supports.
shows the splendor, the greenery, the unapologising
inherent force of life.

It works not in bursts, nor in spectacular shows.
It hums, breezes, vibrates and leads the way.
Step by step, breath by breath
until the force – life – fills every pore

Uncontainable, unstoppable, pulsating
it soars
roaring – if silence could speak –
if I pay for my aliveness with death
let it come.

Anna Elin Kristiansen is a reader, writer, mother and the universe masquerading as a human being. She makes sense of the world – and creates her own – through her own writing. In the evenings, she writes literary fiction, and when inspiration strikes, she writes poems about the experience of being alive. You can find her words at On Mama’s Mind and her Twitter.

The Underburbs

By Sharon Whitehill

Networks of tunnels and rooms 
carved out of natural caves
or straight into the rock,
multileveled and labyrinthine.
Drilled for subways and sewers,
or dug out as places of refuge.

Pillared halls, arched chambers 
for granaries, wineries, theaters, 
temples, and grottoes.
A former salt mine  
now a commodious complex 
of frescoes, carvings, and statues. 
An underground village in France
with bakeries and chapels.
How many square miles
in the fallout shelter under Beijing?
With hospitals, schoolrooms,
cinemas, arsenals, skating rink.

Cities invisible under our feet,
in spite of our natural hunger
for greenery, ocean, and sky. 
Hewn out of nature itself, 
parallel to the tunnels and rooms 
of the psyche. 
Caves hung with shadows. 
Mine shafts of the mind
that have swallowed the light. 

Sharon Whitehill is a retired English professor from West Michigan now living in Port Charlotte, Florida. In addition to poems published in various literary magazines, her publications include two biographies, two memoirs, two poetry chapbooks, and a full collection of poems.

Nature unchained

By Emma Geller


the cat wanders by—
finds the end of her nine lives, 
in sticky sidewalks long empty.


the coyote howls
in the pale desert sand,
the wise man does too.


the moon wails to the sea,
a pearled old longing,
in their hug, they form the tide. 


she walks alone, away—
splitting the highway,
the deer lay.


cherry blossoms rain
on her grave, springtime’s 
veil turning—into garlands. 

Emma Geller  is a young poet from Boston, MA. She is endlessly inspired by the natural world and is thrilled that her haiku collection has found a new home online.


By Cat Dixon

It was deemed necessary 
to evacuate the submarine—
oxygen levels low and water
flowed through the vents.

Legends of ghost ships with ghost mates
circulated—men who hunkered in the head, 
munching tangerines as they flipped through
ream after ream of blank saturated
pages as if reading magazines. 

Our motley crew caught without a ship,
from a distance, looked like
little dots keen for water—fish
fighting the net, the hook, the land. 

What we sought in the waves had
rusted and sunk. What we found 
inside of each was rot. I wished 
for a massive yacht—sails that touch 
the sky—eighty meters long with 
an inflated lifeboat like a tumor at its side.

Cat Dixon (she/her) is the author of Eva and Too Heavy to Carry (Stephen F. Austin University Press, 2016, 2014) and the chapbook, Table for Two (Poet’s Haven, 2019). Recent poems have appeared in LandLocked, Anti-Heroin Chic, and Abyss & Apex. She is a poetry editor at The Good Life Review.

Home Resurrection

By Allison DeDecker

I am a house with bees in the walls.
Beneath these sun-bleached boards, 
inside the jagged, gaping holes 
hums life.

Sweetness drips,
spills out of splintering wood.
The once silent halls 
buzz with a chorus of thousands.

I was naked bones unburied
abandoned to decay.
I’ve become a house of royalty.
A waxen kingdom gilt in honey.

Allison DeDecker is currently based in Yuma, AZ. She draws inspiration from day to day life, current events, and the natural world. Her work has been published in the Colorado Crossing Literary Journal and is forthcoming in Pile Press. She can be found on Instagram.

The Visit

By Claire Marsden

The unhurried weight of your embrace, 


at first touch. 

Your tongue, gentled 

with sunshine, 

circles upon circles. 

And our curiosity 

swept clean. 


Like the skies above. 

Holy, empty, and filled 

with knowing. 

An unholy homecoming? 


Yet, even the angels smile.

Claire Marsden enjoys writing poetry, CNF and flash fiction, and is thrilled many of her pieces have found wonderful homes, both in print and online. When she isn’t tramping through the West Yorkshire woods, she can usually be found squirrelled away writing or on Twitter.

Cadmus gazes at Thebes in ruins

By Penel Alden

Horror held me in place 
Held my arms at my ribs 
Wide thirsty nostrils clutching for the air 
Throat and soul gaping and parched 
As the ash rises and falls like dark feathers 

My daughter, in the palace of her son, 
The shadows on her face falling terror, all wrong 
Her eyes shaded glass gazing towards heaven

Already the great city had begun to burn 
Not even Thebes can grow bones strong enough 
To wage war against fate 
And the ivory structures of our grandsons 
Are now mere offerings to flame and carrion bird 

Behind me the cool breeze from the forest 
Is the last of the breath of the Maenads 
Their hymns offered to a void I cannot see 
Their torn flesh the body of the trees

Now the smoke is punctuated by crows 
And in their frenzied piercing prayers 
Is the song of the gods in their violent ecstasy 
Gloating over the vanity of man

Penel Alden is a mediocre and degenerate academic living on California’s central coast. Her recent poetry has appeared in Sierra Nevada Review, California Quarterly, Haight Ashbury Literary Journal, and in her forthcoming collection, California (Kelsay Books, 2021).