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 Jonah Meyer
i have flown from my home
up into that carolina blue embrace which is the sky
past houses i have flown
past families in yards, past
automobiles quick on the way to somewhere else
past the factories, the outdoor picnics, the baseball games
heavy in extra innings
here i have grown, have spread two yellow wings
out over o.henry’s town, that tiny
dragon-tongue below,
over the births and the deaths and the
songs being sung inside radios
i climb, i climb, the hot thick clouds
are silk-white blankets, rugs by
my fox-trotting feet,
and still i soar into
a universe dream-eyed and naked …
O! that the night is a staircase rising,
pure piano-forte,
and i — thrown by harsh desire — i am
all-too-happy to hear such symphonic
orchestration first-hand
bending, climbing, stretching long pale arms
through such sky-dew, even the birds now
believe me
insane
Jonah Meyer is a poet, writer, and editor in North Carolina. His poetry and creative nonfiction has been published widely. Jonah plays guitar and piano, shoots photography, and studies neuroscience and Buddhist philosophy. He serves as Poetry Editor of Mud Season Review and Assistant Poetry Editor with Random Sample Review.
Poetry by Michael Shepley
it was only just
an early morning dream
but for a time
I was an eagle
sharp hunter eye high
in a soft sunny sky
targeting a strange
shape shifting prey
running over the dun
furze of rounded hills
fast flitting slip of
snipped night sliding
quick as the wind
hugging ground like skin
when I woke knowing
it was only the hunt
for my own damn shadow
Michael Shepley is a writer who lives and works in Sacramento. His poetry has appeared in Vallum, CQ, Common Ground, The Kerf, Jonah, Blue Unicorn, Salt and a few others.
Poetry by Sharon Whitehill
Laughter involves a “victorious tilting of uncontrol against control.”
Mary Douglas
You were there in my dream
for the first time last night,
its power derived from my laughter
at something so comic
I couldn’t find breath to explain it to you,
though you waited, expectant.
Twice I attempted to speak,
twice grew so tickled all over again
I couldn’t move air to make words.
You stood close, leaning in but bemused
as I tried, and failed, to get through.
What remains of the dream is the bliss
of those spasms of mirth:
how they left me as helpless, in my delight,
as a Laughing Buddha.
What remains with me still
is that visceral tickle
that left me still smiling when I awoke.
As if to pay tribute to laughter itself.
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.
Nonfiction by Haley Grace
As a kid, bedtime was so exciting. Right before my eyes closed I would imagine flying dragons and dancing princesses. I drifted away to thoughts of bursting colors and beautiful designs.
As a teenager, the fairytales disappeared but my imagination still soared! Only instead of castles, it was faded blue locker covered hallways that smelled of old books and musky cologne. There were no flying dragons but bright yellow school buses with torn off lettering lined up outside. I would drift away to the false reality of an 80’s movie, where butterflies flooded my belly when my crush kissed me before the credits rolled.
Now I am an adult, or at least in the eyes of society. There are no fairytales in my dreams. My brunette, blue eyed, 80’s curly headed crush is facing the other direction; avoiding a conversation we’ve had a million times. That place between sleep and awake is now where tears flood my eyes. It’s where ideas of doubt, fear, and anxiousness dance in my head. Imagination is now taken over by the fuzzy sounds of the TV I’m not really listening to. The only thing I’m dreaming of is a cigarette because nicotine cures a clouded mind.
No one tells you there is no imagination before adult bedtime. You slowly learn about stiff tension between you and your partner from a fight you swore you would never have. And a racing mind of questions. And lists impossible to complete.
Maybe this is all inevitable.
But if you can: Fight for the dragons. Dance with the princesses. And let the kaleidoscope of butterflies take over as you kiss that curly headed kid.
Haley Grace is an Appalachian raised LGBT+ emerging voice just getting her start in writing. She graduated from West Virginia Wesleyan College with a degree in Communication and Literature. She is working on her Masters in School Counseling and enjoys writing about her adventures, heartbreaks, and observations of life.
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