He's Still Here

by Lainie Belcastro

He’s here, even when he’s gone, he’s still here.

The scent of him lingers on my pillows, my sheets,

And places where our bodies meet.

Little impressions remain where he lay

And made a comfortable place that my fingers tenderly trace.

I still feel his touch as he followed the curves of my body.

I close my eyes and remember his catching mine

That told him now is the time to take me.

He’s here, even when he’s gone, he’s still here.

I hear his voice when we come together.

And it wakes the silence in my heart.

So even when we’re apart, he’s still here.

  

* * * * *

Lainie Belcastro is a published writer in many genres. Her poem, “Playmates” was 

recently published in the inspirational Writing In A Woman’s Voice. Her worldwide

children’s book, Harriet’s Heartbroken Heart, released by Guardian Angel Publishing,

co-authored by her daughter, Nika, and illustrated by Jack Foster, is a healing book for 

children experiencing grief. Another children’s book is contracted for a future release. 

Her uplifting stories can be found in many of the motivational Chicken Soup for the Soul

books. Lainie is co-creator of the trademarked Mrs. Terra Cotta Pots & Twig, and the 

Patching Hearts healing programs for children. As a guest speaker, she encourages 

her wide audiences to "see something beautiful every day!" She holds many titles in

the arts, but her most treasured title is mom! Visit her at www.lainiebelcastro.com.

Lying Between the Sheets

by Lainie Belcastro

Between the sheets they lie,

Exposing more than their naked bodies.

“I want you,” she whispers.

“I want you too,” he whispers back.

Their eyes close to finish their intimate act.

In her mind she calls a different name.

In his mind he does the same.

“Goodnight,” he says.

“Goodnight,” she sighs.

They turn their backs,

Then pull up the sheets that cover their lies.

* * * * *

Lainie Belcastro is a published writer in many genres. Her poem, “Playmates” was 

recently published in the inspirational Writing In A Woman’s Voice. Her worldwide

children’s book, Harriet’s Heartbroken Heart, released by Guardian Angel Publishing,

co-authored by her daughter, Nika, and illustrated by Jack Foster, is a healing book for 

children experiencing grief. Another children’s book is contracted for a future release. 

Her uplifting stories can be found in many of the motivational Chicken Soup for the Soul

books. Lainie is co-creator of the trademarked Mrs. Terra Cotta Pots & Twig, and the 

Patching Hearts healing programs for children. As a guest speaker, she encourages 

her wide audiences to "see something beautiful every day!" She holds many titles in

the arts, but her most treasured title is mom! Visit her at www.lainiebelcastro.com.

Beneath White Falls

Katherine L. Gordon

Even the surface is untranquil

the dark depths flowing fiercely fast

disturb in claws of wave, hint in ebony globes

the clutch of black abyss bottomless, unsurfeable,

return to brighter fusion barred.

And yet the cascade of white foam

infused with bright,

a separation of molecular mystery

we hunger for eternally.

The river leaps from her attempt to capture sun,

roars in fall over tearing rocks

into a descent none can prevent,

an almost grasp of that ephemeral light

beyond reach of even earth’s angels.

The lower journey flint-barren

will never take the traveler back

to that place where separation

from almost–knowledge

flung him away.

* * * * *

"Beneath White Falls" is from the author's new book Wing-Wishing: of Unicorns, Ravens and Wolves.

Katherine L. Gordon is a poet, publisher, essayist, judge and reviewer, whose works have been published internationally, translated into several languages. She is currently the overseas judge for the Reuben Rose International contest. Her latest book: Caution: Deep Water, HMS Press, named among the best reads of 2018 in The Southwest Festival of the Written Word in the U.S. Her tribute poem to Lawrence Ferlinghetti’s 100th celebration is published in Italian, a current e-book. She has many books, chapbooks, anthologies and collaborations with her talented peers who inspire her work. Publications with Craigleigh Press, Lummox Press, HMS Press, Cyclamens and Swords Press. She was awarded a certificate from The World Poetry Society this summer, 2019. Katherine believes poetry is a unifying force in the world today, with Canadian poetry making a powerful impact. A review of her work is in this summer issue of Canadian Stories. Her new book with Melinda Cochrane International Press is Wing-Wishing: of Unicorns, Ravens and Wolves.

Smell of the Hunter Moon

by Joan Leotta

Is there a word for the scent of the moon,

like petrichor for the scent of rain?

Astronauts record it as odor of cordite or ash

after a campfire’s extinguished.

Yesterday, I stepped onto porch

to admire Hunter’s Moon

in all her glory. Night’s air was redolent

with those same smells.

Perhaps hunting season opened?

Perhaps my neighbor doused his fireplace?

Perhaps…

Or is moon landscape peopled with

hunters, fire builders who hid when

Apollo Lunar Module Eagle

swooped down toward them?

Shy, they hid until men and Eagle headed home.

Are they now recounting tales

of that day, and of the smell of rocket fuel?

Perhaps…

After all, when moon is large and closer,

her light strong and full, odors

of ash and cordite slide down on moonbeams

as surely as dust motes ride on sunlight.

Now, sight and smell link moon and me.

I wait to learn her sounds, to let her grains

run through my hand and taste her essence.

I hope she tastes like cheddar.

* * * * *

Joan Leotta is a writer and story performer whose stories and poems have been widely enjoyed on page and stage. When she is not at the computer or performing, she can be found watching the moon or gathering seashells at the beach. Her first chapbook, Languid Lusciousness with Lemon, is out from Finishing Line Press.

A Goddess in Purple Rain

by Cynthia Atkins

Behind glass, a lady is lit-up inside the laundromat.

She’s folding sheets, pink curlers of baroque

in her hair, singing and creasing

a t-shirt with sequins. Her arms and hips stretch out

to a body of air—the room filling with sound.

And I am humming inside her—inside her body,

burning for shelter from the abyss

                          of my alone. Rounding a corner

in a car, I am passing by, hearing “Purple Rain”

on the radio—I can almost taste

the sweat on the brow of the boy I danced with

so many years ago—It tasted like dry toast

                          or the brunt of hurting. 

Listen to the sky imploring, Come as you are—

Alone to the last concert, to light matches

in a spell-bound crowd—Remorse of loving

a rock star we can never own.  And now the lady

in the laundromat is swaying, and I am swaying

with her from my car—Maybe she is dancing with her son,

going off to boot camp, or the ends of the earth.  

                        I’m thinking of my son at three,

standing on the kitchen table in a wet diaper,

banging music from a wooden spoon.

This is that concert, where you lit a match

to your own bag of wounds.  You felt like

                        you belonged, a citizen.

Alive as a hackle of girls at the May prom. 

Look at the moon, hanging like a shoe

to throw its heel of light

                on the page or an empty field.

We are all in the body of this night, cogent as a judge

who loves the law.  The lady in the laundromat

carries the load to her car, unpins her hair.

I don’t want to be alone tonight.  The stars allow

me to follow her— we are passing the town,

rooftops are hunkering down to sing

lullabies to the young, and the night

is a stranger touching my sleeve. 

* * * * *

"A Goddess in Purple Rain" was first published in Hermeneutic Chaos.

Cynthia Atkins is the author of Psyche’s Weathers and In the Event of Full Disclosure, and the forthcoming collection “Still-Life With God.” Her poems have appeared in numerous journals, including, Alaska Quarterly Review, Apogee, BOMB, Cleaver Magazine, Cultural Weekly, Denver Quarterly, Diode, Florida Review, Flock Lit, Green Mountains Review, Le Zaporogue, Los Angeles Review, North American Review, Rust + Moth, Sweet: A Literary Confection, SWWIM, Tampa Review, and Verse Daily, and have been nominated for Pushcart and Best of The Net. Formerly, Atkins worked as the assistant director of the Poetry Society of America. She has received fellowships from Bread Loaf and the VCCA. Atkins teaches creative writing at Blue Ridge Community College and lives on the Maury River of Rockbridge County VA with her family. More on @catkinspoet www.cynthiaatkins.com, https://www.facebook.com/Cynthia-Atkins-190490067665164/- 

Mirror, Mirror                       

by Cynthia Atkins

                         “I am a collection of dismantled almosts”--Anne Sexton

There is a parcel of land where everything is true

in reverse. Ribbon-cutting ceremony into the Mayor’s

grave plot, where Nana Ida is a shopper putting on her lipstick,

shade 53, Maui in the Moonlight—Setting sail after the war

of ideas. We’re all headed for nasty weather, or its opposite

like breakfast for dinner. I found a lone diner just off

the grid. In a plate, I saw myself, I saw my mother back home,

tweezing her eye-brows—Nylons behind her drying

into leaves, or grief itself. My cracked lips homesick for a smile

and a familiar meal. The waitress has a run in her stockings,

like confidence in reverse, as when Gus the bartender

at the Ramada Inn held my arms behind my back

and touched my 16 yr. old breasts. I felt my pimples stir

into a hurricane in the town square—that Mayor selling

raffle tickets to the thinnest skin of dignity. The tip jar

wrestled to the floor. With two birds perched, my mom

pulled the tiniest stubborn hairs, as if twigs exhumed from

her brow—Hard triumphs of pain held under the light.

I hear Nana Ida’s worry lines in my ears. I am my mother pulling

out branches, the whole family tree. My face is the universe breaking

off the smallest possibilities—with each shard of self.

* * * * *

"Mirror, Mirror" was first published in Hermeneutic Chaos.

Cynthia Atkins is the author of Psyche’s Weathers and In the Event of Full Disclosure, and the forthcoming collection “Still-Life With God.” Her poems have appeared in numerous journals, including, Alaska Quarterly Review, Apogee, BOMB, Cleaver Magazine, Cultural Weekly, Denver Quarterly, Diode, Florida Review, Flock Lit, Green Mountains Review, Le Zaporogue, Los Angeles Review, North American Review, Rust + Moth, Sweet: A Literary Confection, SWWIM, Tampa Review, and Verse Daily, and have been nominated for Pushcart and Best of The Net. Formerly, Atkins worked as the assistant director of the Poetry Society of America. She has received fellowships from Bread Loaf and the VCCA. Atkins teaches creative writing at Blue Ridge Community College and lives on the Maury River of Rockbridge County VA with her family. More on @catkinspoet www.cynthiaatkins.com, https://www.facebook.com/Cynthia-Atkins-190490067665164/- 

AND I THINK ABOUT ALL THAT I HAVE EATEN

by Virginia McIntyre

Nutmeg the puppy romps through

the forest tail kited high, ears flapping

like oversized mittens on a small child

in the abundance of spring with tissuey

green leaves on trees, wildflowers of purple

thistle, prickly poppy, Indian paint brush.

                        The cicadas counting time.

Black fringed lips reveal teeth

finely honed on found bones

of deer, elk and the occasional shoe.

Up from the brush a towhee takes flight

half-rising, falling, feigning a broken wing

as puppy and bird bound

by the chase, weave a numinous gauze

of earth and sky as they pass out of sight.

The puppy returns without bird

her tongue a dripping pink petal

her eyes rimmed with miniscule insects

feeding, her nose dusted with forest

bits. She swerves into the nest.

A blind slick hatchling opens its soft beak

in soundless protest as it slips down her throat.

Motherhood at Starbucks

by Sandy Rochelle

A little boy of about three discusses his day's activities

With his pretty-young-blond mother.

While neatly eating a black and white cookie.

In a celebratory moment of unbridled grace

He offers his mom a small bite of his temporary treasure.

His award for being good that day.

His prize for perfection.

His symbol of love and acceptance.

His prized cookie.

She accepts with ceremony and flair as if it were a

Peace prize.

Knowing that this may not come again.

It has become both history and tradition

In the same moment.

They converse.

Discussing the plans that are meaningful

Only to them.

I am amazed at the fluidity of their grace.

Their complete and utter understanding of one another.

I wonder what our lives (yours and mine) would be like

If we were so blessed.

To be able to discuss little treasures with such ease.

To erase all obscurity and see face to face.

Without excuses-apologies and impatience.

Except on special days.

When the sun shined directly on us

And angels guide us home.

When the rain warms us in an unsuspecting way

On a night that calls our name and the Gods

Remind us of who we are and why we are here.

We are clothed in costumes.

Unrecognizable to most.

We walk home.

Guided.

Happy.

Blessed.

In love.

With the way we agree on this

Most holy night.

* * * * *

                           

Sandy Rochelle is a poet-actress and filmmaker. She is the recipient of the Autism Society of America's Literary Achievement Award, The World Peace Prayer Society Poetry Prize, and New York State's Mother of the Year award.

Many of Sandy Rochelle's poems are influenced by her son, David, who is autistic and deaf.  

Sandy is featured in the film Bohemia: 'The life of a New York City Poet. Publications include:

Ekphrastic Review, Amethyst Review, Visions International, and others. http://sandyrochelle.com

Didn’t you just hate

by Oonah V Joslin

that chunky-wool

royal blue

plain and purl

raglan sleeved

huge pearly buttoned

v-necked

home-knitted cardigan?

I loved mine. 

* * * * *

Oonah V Joslin is poetry editor at The Linnet’s Wings. She has won prizes for both poetry and micro-fiction. Her book Three Pounds of Cells ISBN: 13: 978-1535486491 is available online from Linnet’s Wings Press and you can see and hear Oonah read in this National Trust video. The first part of her novella A Genie in a Jam is serialised at Bewildering Stories, along with a large body of her work (see Bibliography). You can follow Oonah on Facebook or at Parallel Oonahverse https://oovj.wordpress.com/.

For Anya

by Nancy Gerber

Her name, Anya Krugovoy Silver, lined

in black in the Times obituary.

And I was jealous.

Not of her death but being so loved, the runes

of a life freed from time in the eternal

archive of history, where the past is forever fused

to the present.

She died young, Anya

age 49, her battle with breast cancer

irradiating her flesh.

She wrote through the sickness

clinging to hope and beauty,

her poems a raft in the depths of despair.

Her physical form now gone but the poems

remain, lines like veins blooming with blue life --

Dance until your body forgets

what it wants . . .

From darkening days, the light will surge and flee.

Like ghosts the words of her longing burn

inside my eyes.

* * * * *

Nancy Gerber writes fiction, poetry, and essays. Her most recent book, A Way Out of Nowhere (Big Table Publishing), is a collection of short stories featuring female protagonists negotiating the complexities of relationships, and is available on Amazon.

Letter to Mr. Darwin

by Anita S. Pulier

Dear Sir:

I wish to complain.

Every morning

his sheets are uncreased

as if he slid between them

lay down and slept without moving

until morning crept up and nudged him

politely out of bed and into the bathroom.

On my side things are more complex,

sheets are wound into knots,

blankets in heaps,

as though an animal had

burrowed through a pasture looking for

that level of dark moist soil where

the outer world is blocked.

It seems a bit unfair, Mr. Darwin,

having bled through years of honorable cycles

only to lose the formula that led me

here, to this insatiable craving.

Now, despite endless new age potions

and nasty pharmaceuticals,

I sleep barely long enough

to foster memories of long purple nights,

sweaty passion, screaming babies.

I ask you, Sir,

Is this the survival you spoke of?

Am I off course or on?

Please note my complaint,

and weary gratitude.

* * * * *

"Letter to Mr. Darwin" is from Anita S. Pulier's chapbook Perfect Diet (Finishing Line Press)

After retiring from her law practice, Anita S. Pulier served as a U. S. representative for the Women's International League for Peace and Freedom at the United Nations.

Her chapbooks Perfect Diet, The Lovely Mundane and Sounds Of Morning as well as her book The Butchers Diamond were published by Finishing Line Press. Anita’s poems have appeared both online and in print in many journals and several anthologies. Recently she has been the featured poet on The Writers Almanac.