I was 28 By Alan Catlin

and living the good
like working the hot-
spot-of-the-moment
supper club

Was basking in
the glory of being
everyone’s favorite
barman

Even the cops liked me

Smokies hung there
then and once word
somehow got around
I’d published a little
some of them wanted
to tell me stuff

Attica stuff:

Stories about all
those mutilated on the yard
bodies, gang rapes
and torture chambers
that used to be cells
and the equally as awful
retribution exacted later on

Stuff they wanted
ghost written in blood
Stuff that was so outside
my skill set I didn’t want
to think about any of it
I had to stop listening,

Had to turn them down

Sometimes I wonder if
they ever found someone
who would listen

if they ever
slept at night

--

Alan Catlin has published in journals from the days of the mimeo revolution, in small press venues, to larger, more mainstream presses, to the internet poetry journal scene. He has three full length collections coming out in 2023 from Kelsay Books, Impspired and Roadside Press.

The Inhumers By Shamik Banerjee

Two men condole, doffing their hats,
Affixed-eyed, to the mound of soil,
Beneath which are entombed, four cats;

Has gone the monthlong cyst and toil,
Which chewed their knees till bones were seen-
They sleep here now with no turmoil;

Since our housing, cats have been,
The sole custodian from woe,
Fate has left us three from thirteen;

To my parents, eldern and slow,
Cats semble like daughters and boys-
I'm employ-bound and barely show;

In their pouncing, parents rejoice,
Who form a frolicsome brigade,
Of nails and screeches, leaps and noise;

'Now is childhood', cats persuade,
Expunge the thought- there comes decay
And like them, we will one day fade;

And since I am so far away,
Caring for cats, Maa cares for me,
In serving fish, passes her day;

Once thirteen were, now there are three,
Each hearsed by father and a kin,
This home has lost activity.

--

Shamik Banerjee is a poet and poetry reviewer from the North-Eastern belt of India. He loves taking long strolls and spending time with his family. His deep affection with Solitude and Poetry provides him happiness.

Diagnosis By Keith Pearson

there is a black hole

where my palm should be

the portal to a field of stars

a place where i will never travel.

--

Keith Pearson lives in southern New Hampshire and works in the math department at a local high school.

Storm Clouds By James Lilliefors

The smudges on the glass
resemble storm clouds
this morning.

But no one asks,
‘Which side?’
anymore.
We just assume

the storm forming
there cannot be erased
from here.

Each side calls
for emergency
measures.

‘In case of emergency,
break glass,’
say the politicians.

No one considers
the smudges
are on both sides.
No one sees

that maybe all the world
really needs
is a good cleaning.

--

James Lilliefors is a poet, journalist and novelist, whose writing has appeared in Ploughshares, The Washington Post, Door Is A Jar, Snake Nation Review, CandleLit magazine, The Miami Herald and elsewhere. He is a former writing fellow at the University of Virginia.

I Want to Write a Poem By Allan Lake

I want to write a poem that’s a meal for
the hungry while constricting throats of
those who grab more than they can use.

I want to write a sharp-toothed poem that
can’t be muzzled, a poem that’s a balm
to the powerless, a bomb to warmongers.

I want to write a poem that frees dazed
slaves as it relegates troublesome gods
to knickknack shelves to gather dust.

I want to write a poem persistent as
dandelion that likewise has medicinal
properties and brightens earth.

I want to write a poem that leaves home
empty-handed but can make its way
wherever it happens to land.

I want to write a poem that’s solar-
powered as it swiftly slithers through
leaves of grass.

I want to write a poem that feels at home
in virgin forest and allows the ancient
ones to share their forbearance.

I want to write a poem without ambition
that falls from the tree because it is ripe,
in tune with Ma Nature’s agenda.

I want to write a spry poem that can hop
an electric fence to get where it needs to
go on a frosty morning.

I want to write a poem that, once born,
is neither complacent nor afraid
to take a side.

I want to write a secret poem that,
carefully folded, fits inside the secret
pocket of your favourite bag.

I want to write a poem that loves
what is, does not fear death but
may have more to say hereafter.

I want to write a poem without any
packaging that requires disposal in
some distant or non-existent state.

I want to write a poem welcome
in your bed, touching you just how
you’ve needed to be touched.

I want to write a poem with a sweet
aftertaste. Let’s say rosewater
Turkish delight.

I want to write a poem that finally
floods and carries the leaf of your life
to the forgotten island of Renewal.

—

Allan Lake, originally of Saskatoon, Canada, has lived in Vancouver, Cape Breton Island, Ibiza, Tasmania and Melbourne. Lake has won Lost Tower Publications (UK) Comp, Melbourne Spoken Word Poetry Festival & ELwood Poetry Comp. Latest poetry chapbook (Ginninderra Press) ‘My Photos of Sicily’.

A Broken System by Taylor Dibbert

When she showed him
The text messages
And the emails
And talked about
The guy’s behavior,
He knew that
They were dealing with
A top-tier narcissist,
But he knew nothing
About the problems
Of family law,
Turns out there are
Some big ones.

—

Taylor Dibbert is a writer, journalist, and poet in Washington, DC. He's author of the Peace Corps memoir "Fiesta of Sunset," and his debut poetry collection is due out later this year.

Under Backwards By Curtis Blazemore

Six days before my 13th birthday

I got my first kiss—

I was a cloud of pixie stick dust

and he was skateboard.

He’s even cooler now at 36

living from summer to summer

with his newest lover.

His is under-backwards happiness.

I drove them to Santa Monica

from Oklahoma—

I heard him say to her in Arizona

A thousand miles on one kiss.

Yesterday we talked on the phone

and he said giddily

they might make rent this month

or they might drink it up.

We didn’t say a word about how

I know he’s lost—

sadness is a kind of judgement

and we know better.

Last thing he said was, To find

your dolphin name, lick

your fingertips and rub a balloon.

Like I was still a pixie.

--

Curtis Blazemore has been on the planet far too long, publishing various works in between having bad luck and making people rethink their faith in humanity. No matter. He sees sentences in the exhaled smoke and scribbles furiously. He hopes someday to be able to afford a Greyhound bus ticket to Graceland.