An Online Literary Journal for Poetry and Flash
Poetry by Corinne Walsh-Williams
my age feels like a vapor
sinking into my skin
seeping inward
to the warm
watery places where
my dreams are swimming
in the lukewarm juices
of my soul –
and everything
all that is left at least
is simmering to a broth
Corinne Walsh-Williams currently resides in Providence, Rhode Island where she earned her Master’s degree in Creative Writing. Covid gave her the poetry bug and she considers herself an emerging poet.
Poetry by Nicole Farmer
the cold the waiting
the airport the anticipation the anxiety
the arrival the introductions the hugs
the car the road the talking
the home the familiar the suitcases
the shopping the cooking the eating
the mess the cleaning the dishes
the board games the laughter the competition
the fire the warmth the stories
the traditions the movies the quoted lines
the photos the misunderstandings the confrontations
the alcohol the overeating the teasing
the gifts the hugs the texting
the sore throats the tea the tissues
the cold the grey the wind
the accusations the whispers the hurt feelings
the love the irritation the exhaustion
the suitcases the packing the loading
the car the road the silence
the airport the departure the hugs
the cold the relief
Nicole Farmer is a reading tutor living in Asheville, NC. Her poems have been published in many magazines. Her chapbook entitled Wet Underbelly Wind was published in 2022. Her book Honest Sonnets: memories from an unorthodox upbringing in verse will be published by Kelsay Books in 2023. Read more at NicoleFarmerpoetry.com
Poetry by Stacie Eirich
Focus the flow, let the gentle waves glide and roll,
rippling across the velvet smooth surface
of sand. Feel the wind settle gently into twilight— golden, shimmering.
Find gentle respite in the cool relief of night,
welcome the peace of nature’s sounds, night’s embrace
of sleepful solace. Listen to the nightingale’s melody— golden, shimmering.
Follow the dawn into tomorrow, unloading grief and sorrow,
stress and struggle, letting happiness in, breaking open the boundaries
for joy. See it waiting in wings of light— golden, shimmering.
Stacie Eirich is a poet, singer & mother of two. Her poems have recently appeared in Last Leaves, The Journey (Paddler Press), Synkroniciti Magazine and Valiant Scribe Literary Journal, among others. Her home is near New Orleans, La; her heart is wherever a song can be found. www.stacieeirich.com
Poetry by Nancy Byrne Iannucci
My dad always thought I looked like Lisa Marie Presley.
He was obsessed with Elvis, an Italian immigrant,
who could never quite pronounce “Presley”
without it sounding like “Pretzel.”
I was five years old when Elvis died.
my parents mourned and mourned,
I thought he was my uncle.
I screamed whenever my father put on an Elvis record.
I thought if I listened to Elvis I would die, too,
or my parents would die, or my brother,
picked off like guitar strings
if they were in earshot of Heartbreak Hotel.
When I became a teenager,
I fell in love with a dead man, James Dean.
I went on a Manhattan walking tour
when I was sixteen.
The guide took us to all of James Dean’s haunts:
night clubs, restaurants, and his abandoned apartment,
where I ripped off a piece of wallpaper
and put it in my pocket.
A woman on the tour said,
“My friend and I think
you look like Lisa Marie Presley.”
She had a tattoo of Elvis on her arm.
That night in Penn Station,
waiting for a train to take me home,
a drunk man fell on the third rail,
it shook him like a possession.
Heartbreak Hotel was playing
on the 6 o’clock news this morning.
Lisa Marie Presley died,
and now you’re ready to go.
Your backpack strapped to your back,
I watch you walk onto the platform,
blowing kisses
at my childhood triggers.
Nancy Byrne Iannucci is a widely published poet from Long Island, New York who currently lives in Troy, NY with her two cats: Nash and Emily Dickinson. She has been published in 34 Orchard, Defenestration, Hobo Camp Review, Bending Genres, The Mantle, Typehouse Literary Magazine, and Glass: a Poetry Journal. www.nancybyrneiannucci.com Instagram: @nancybyrneiannucci
Poetry by Jennifer Campbell
After being unseen
for so long
a whiteout weekend
color drew us
outdoors away
from anything but
a good lens
to document
the summer hues
layering the sky
two days after
a blizzard
blood orange poet’s sky
spread across suburbs
and hard hit city center
cummings’ pied piper
guiding walks
through soft swaths of pink
carnation coral watermelon
to tangerine persimmon flame
so many colors to consume
under a slim December moon
Jennifer Campbell is an English professor in Buffalo, NY, and a co-editor of Earth’s Daughters. She has two full-length poetry collections, and her chapbook What Came First was published by Dancing Girl Press in 2021. Jennifer’s work has recently appeared in Caesura, Flare, and Indefinite Space.
Poetry by Susan Miller
She graced many stages
in her 29-year-old life.
Clumsy, giggly ones
with slick patent leather,
pigtails, snug pink tights.
Sweaty, clingy ones
bent and twisted
under cruel disco lights.
Floating, chiffon ones
with crimson-lined lips,
pointed toes, height.
But in that icy, antiseptic
room with its swabs,
ceiling stickers, scopes
and gauze-filled jars,
the man with joyless eyes
rolled over in his squeaky
chair. And the words sliced
into the air like a scalpel,
shredding her satin heart.
Susan Miller is an editor/reporter for USA TODAY who enjoys writing poetry as a hobby.
Poetry by Lauren Oertel
I grew up near the redwoods.
Cinnamon-barked queens towered over us,
each containing their own majestic ecosystem.
They provided oxygen, a fresh earthy scent,
relief from the heat and noise of the city.
They whispered the soil’s secrets into my ear.
A few had been hollowed by fire,
or reduced to a stump.
Rings chronicled their long lives,
the history of what they had witnessed.
When I die, cut me in half
right across the middle.
See my rings.
Joys and terrors over the years
each reduced to a simple circle
that captures and carries it all.
They will honor the tears shed,
wounds healed.
The fine grain, nicks, and bumps,
all smoothed over with time,
turned into natural beauty.
When my body becomes a stump,
the rings will prove I was here.
Some of them will show when I stood tall,
lush with sprays of needle leaves,
umbrella-scaled cones.
My crown stretched toward the sun,
piercing the sky.
In those times I hope I gave you shelter
from the weight of daily survival.
That’s how I’d like you to remember me.
Lauren Oertel is a community organizer for Texas and New Mexico. Her work has been published in The Ravens Perch, Evening Street Review, and The Sun Magazine. She lives in Austin, Texas, with her partner Orlando and their tuxedo cat Apollonia.
Poetry by Francis Conlon
Sometimes the jacket stands alone,
A book cover with title embossed,
The text itself seems a weighty tome,
Whose message long ago was tossed.
Yet, I love a place with books,
Of course, there’s a fine library,
With small study spots in the nooks,
And, study of old thoughts contrary.
Is there a place—a writer’s cemetery?
Old thoughts and books gather about,
Ideas antiquated little scary,
In grumbling whispers but no shout?
So dusty is the old collection,
Stacks with volumes musty,
Nothing overdue in this section,
Just old spirits and grammar fusty.
Francis Conlon is a retired teacher living in Salt Lake City, Utah.
Poetry by Corey Bryan
I’d walk again through icy rain
to eat a chicken salad sandwich on
the world’s driest bread with you
just one more time.
I’d pretend to like seafood and say all
the right things like, “shrimp are the blue collar
workers of the ocean and it feels bad to eat them
but this cocktail sauce is way too good”
and stuff my face.
I’d support everything you
say no questions asked even if you do get a
tiny bit conspiratorial after the third glass
of the house red.
I’d tear down those reality tv show posters
they hung up on Boulevard
which cover your favorite piece of graffiti.
I’d cook you dinner
and buy all your favorite ingredients like
watermelon radishes and dinosaur kale and all the
other vegetables that sound crazy like that.
I’d watch all those shark
documentaries you love and
the more I think about it the more I think I’d
punch a shark in the nose, saddle him up
and take off for Lisbon where you are
now and say to you
“I hate shrimp and watermelon radish
and red wine and graffiti and I especially
hate dry bread
but I love you and I think
that’s enough.”
Corey Bryan is a fourth year student at Georgia State University majoring in Rhetoric and Composition. He is currently writing daily poetry prompts, along with some original poems, with a friend of his at poetryispretentious.com. He has one poem forthcoming at Sage Cigarettes Magazine titled “her kind of love”.
Poetry by Marianne Brems
Hikers before me have left feathers
stuck in the cracks of a wooden trail marker
at a junction.
Small feathers with downy barbs
flutter in the fall breeze
where delicate shafts may not hold.
Large feathers with curled edges
and sturdier shafts sit deep and solid.
As memes they stand
to carry the import of one road taken,
not another,
on this day, not that.
This small family of Kilroy was Here
gather in good company
to speak to a public not yet come,
inviting them to leave their own mark
across a waiting space.
Marianne Brems is the author of three poetry chapbooks from Finishing Line Press. The most recent, In Its Own Time, is forthcoming in 2023. Her poems have also appeared in literary journals including Nightingale & Sparrow, The Sunlight Press, The Lake, and Green Ink Poetry. Website: www.mariannebrems.com.
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