A BOSTONIAN

by Lorri Ventura


His home is a rag-filled refrigerator box
Propped crookedly on broken sidewalk
Alongside the Boston Common

When I ask his name
He says, “Just call me
‘Least of Your Brothers,’”
Then winks conspiratorially

He tugs off mismatched gloves
To jab his raw fingers
Into his tepid cup of Dunkin’
Before gulping its dregs
Coffee trickles through his beard
As he offers a sip to a passerby
Who squawks in protest
Before bolting to the other side of Tremont Street

The gold-gilded State House dome
Shines down on him
As his gnarled fingers weave gently
Through the yarn hair
Of the grimy, one-eyed Raggedy Ann
Propped in his lap
Every so often
He leans forward and kisses the top of the doll’s head
With a sweetness that brings tears to my eyes

Seeing people turn their faces away
As they rush past him
Pretending they don’t see them
He waves
And grins lopsidedly
Pushing his tongue through three wobbly teeth and chortling,
“Smile! I won’t hurt you! Have a good day!”

I squint through the sunlight
As I watch him from the nearest corner
And I think I see
A halo encircling his head

* * * * *

Lorri Ventura is a retired special education administrator living in Massachusetts. She is new to poetry-writing. Her poems have been featured in several anthologies, in Red Eft Journal, and in Quabbin Quills.

HEART OF HAITI

by Lorri Ventura


His machete bobs lazily against his hip
As the old man shuffles up the mission house driveway
Hugging the armful of ungainly sticks he extends
As an offering to the woman who squats on the ground
By the fire
Dreamily stirring a pot brimming with rice and crushed peanuts
Drenched in tabasco sauce

The man’s dusty pants are held up by a belt
Made from yellowed banana leaves
On his feet he wears tire treads duct-taped to mismatched socks
He bows as he accepts a bowl of food
In exchange for the spindly firewood

We offer him a bedroll, a steaming mug of Re-Bo coffee
And a place to sit
But he just smiles and shakes his head
Tapping the raggedy pillowcase slung over his shoulder
It holds all of his possessions

He waves an arm toward the sky
Telling us that he has everything
He needs in the world
Before he bows and takes his leave

Predictable as ocean tide
The gentleman’s silent appearance every day
As dinner is being served
Makes us smile
And wish that we could give him more

Deep down, though, we know
That already he has what makes him happy
Because he chooses to be happy
With what he has


* * * * *

Lorri Ventura is a retired special education administrator living in Massachusetts. She is new to poetry-writing. Her poems have been featured in several anthologies, in Red Eft Journal, and in Quabbin Quills.

Writing Beyond

by Julie Bolt


I’m writing beyond the patriarchy
Beyond Capitalism
Beyond Bitcoin
Beyond dystopia
I am writing beyond limitations
I am writing beyond war and crumbling societies
I am writing to survive
I am writing because love is in short supply
I am writing beyond supply and demand
I am writing because love is imperfect and defective
I am writing because words are often empty
I am writing to try and make them full
I am writing because after silence comes expression
I am writing in the cracks and through the layers
I am writing because life rushes toward death
I am writing because time has been wasted
I am writing because I have lived too much
I am writing because I want to live more
I am writing because I am not yet defeated
I am writing because I am angry
I am writing because I am scared
I am writing to find today’s power

I write pasts into future
I write to revolutionize love
I write for animals, water, our planet
I write between the real and the imagined
I write to honor instruments, canvass, the body, the pen
I write as a woman
I write as I age with desire
I write my rage and my passion
For moments beyond this moment
I write to rattle the cage
To float in the ether of me


* * * * *

Julie Bolt is an associate professor of literature and writing at Bronx Community College of the City University of New York. Her poems have appeared in Thieves Jargon, Slow Trains, The Red River Review, Poetic Diversity, Syntax, Shot Glass Journal, New Verse News and Home Planet News, amongst others.

Pay Attention

by Chelsie Kreitzman


I sit on the patio in early summer,
hand on my swollen belly,
feeling baby’s subaqueous movements, worrying
about all the heavy things:
The baby, the money, the future,
the husband and father who just walked out on us.

Two-year-old Emmett, all blonde curls,
picks up a pinecone from the sunny yard 
behind our apartment building.
“See pinecone,” he says with delight, 
shoving his treasure into my lap.  “So cute!”
His fat toddler finger jabs into the scales,
eyes so full of blue wonder that I want to cry.
Thank God he’s here, helping me pay attention.


* * * * *

Chelsie Kreitzman lives in Kentucky with her husband, two young sons, and a tuxedo cat named Cookie. Along with all things literary, she enjoys camping, hiking, working with horses, and spending time with her family. Her poetry has been published in a variety of literary journals, including Poetic Sun, The Purpled Nail, Stick Figure Poetry, and MockingOwl Roost.

Flying in the Face of God

by Chelsie Kreitzman


Jeni’s mom takes us to see Titanic 
on a Sunday afternoon, still in church clothes,
patent leather shoes splashing
in parking lot puddles outside the theatre.
My parents cluck about sabbath-keeping—
Sundays were not for moviegoing
when they were young—about how the film 
is rated PG-13, but I am only eleven.
I find myself here anyway, riveted 
to a dingy seat stained with popcorn butter,
beholding the Ship of Dreams.

Jeni is enamored with Leo, of course,
handsome heart-stealing ragamuffin,
but he’s not what pulls me in—
I am not yet boy-crazy. I’m the sort of kid 
who claims I never want to get married.
No, I am fascinated by the shipwreck,
the aftermath of all that icy water 
pouring into the shining black boat,
flooding the theatre with an eerie blue light 
as we watch its villainous rise.
It drags that once-precious vessel down,
down into irretrievable darkness
then goes about chilling the bodies,
silencing so many screaming lungs.
The love story is just pretend, 
but the tragedy is real.

Later, back at Jeni’s house, my head pounds; 
I’m nauseated, maybe seasick,
can’t stomach a snack when she offers me one.
Instead, I apply and reapply cherry lip balm—
the medicated kind that makes my lips tingle,
the kind that makes me think of ice.

I read that a passenger had a premonition 
about Titanic sinking. I wonder if it’s true.  
Did she feel some type of physical warning?
A particular headache, shiver up her spine?  
Why did she ignore it?

Twenty years later, the husband I married after all
walks out on me. I nearly drown 
swimming in a sea of hindsight, 
an ocean of ignored warning signs.  
I pluck artifacts from the wreckage, 
thinking about the iceberg lurking silent all along, 
about how I never should have boarded the ship.
The love story is just pretend, 
but the tragedy is real.


* * * * *

Chelsie Kreitzman lives in Kentucky with her husband, two young sons, and a tuxedo cat named Cookie. Along with all things literary, she enjoys camping, hiking, working with horses, and spending time with her family. Her poetry has been published in a variety of literary journals, including Poetic Sun, The Purpled Nail, Stick Figure Poetry, and MockingOwl Roost.

House of My Youth

by Anne Myles


Because the living room was a glassed-in porch I wanted vision.

Because the windowpanes were wavy I learned how to see through tears.

Because the plank floor creaked with every step I wanted to know where I was going.

The ceilings were dark and low so it felt right to burrow.

A line of lamps hung down the middle so I wanted to find illumination again and again.

Because my aunt had sewed the curtains I knew craft, and because she chose wild fuchsia flowers I believed in imagination.

Because my bed swayed in its old wooden frame I sensed there was a journey.

Bats chittered between the thin walls beside my head so I could tell the invisible world was never far.

Because the house was full of rooms I dreamed there was a secret room I had yet to discover.

Because the clapboard was white I wanted distance and memory and impossible longing.

Because the trim was red I believed that longing was the same as passion.

At times the wind would fling itself fiercely up from the lake so I felt called to endure.

Because the trees rustled through the long summer night I wanted to say what it was like.

But my parents filled the house with their voices so I could not hear my own.

Until the house and the lake and the voices were gone, and only the wanting left.


* * * * *

Anne Myles’s work has appeared in the North American Review, Split Rock Review, Whale Road Review, Lavender Review, Ekphrastic Review, and other journals. She is Professor Emeritus of English at the University of Northern Iowa and received her MFA from the Vermont College of Fine Arts. She is a Pushcart nominee and a recent transplant to Greensboro, NC.

 

Where Affection Speaks in Breezy Whispers       

by Jeannie E. Roberts


I

She found belief
during her daily rendezvous
the one where swallowtails glide
beside the soft burst of milkweed
and thistles greet the attention
of monarchs as light filters and renewal
rises like the vital dedication to faith

II

She found confidence
during her daily rendezvous
the one where field grass grows
in green agreement and goldenrod
waves in joyful communion
as bees bustle and dragonflies dart
like the eager equivalence of hope

III

She found devotion
during her daily rendezvous
the one where affection speaks
in breezy whispers and alignment
unfolds with gentle ease
as time stops and the soul opens
like the honeyed euphoria of love

IV

She found harmony
during her daily rendezvous
the one where grasshoppers gather
in busy alliance and the meadow
responds with quiet rapport
as elegance lifts and nature mends
like the subtle immersion of peace

V

She found resolution
during her daily rendezvous with God


* * * * *

Jeannie E. Roberts lives in Wisconsin, where she writes, draws and paints, and often photographs her natural surroundings. She’s authored seven books, five poetry collections and two illustrated children's books. Her most recent collection, As If Labyrinth - Pandemic Inspired Poems, was released in 2021 by Kelsay Books. Her poems appear in Panoply, Sky Island Journal, Verse-Virtual, Visual Verse, Writing In A Woman’s Voice, and elsewhere. She’s an animal lover, a nature enthusiast, and an equal rights advocate. She's also a Best of the Net award nominee and poetry editor of the online literary magazine Halfway Down the Stairs.