Category Archives: Poems


David Hanlon

Your Promises 

layed out on the table
like our finest cutlery set
that shimmers & glistens
but is never used.

David Hanlon is a Bristol-based poet who can be followed at

Sarah Paulos

With No Umbrella

Yes, you’re supposed to kiss your lover in the rain,
But you’re supposed to kiss in a mild shower,
With good lighting, while the music swells,
Not in an April thunderstorm
When the raindrops batter you like hailstones
And make you squint into the darkness to see your lover’s face.

Sarah Paulos usually uses too many semicolons in her poems.



Sarah Paulos

In the Winter

It was winter when I inchwormed my way to the very forest floor
And crawled into the earth, hoping for its warmth,
Waiting to see if I could outlast the frost that kills the mayfly.

Sarah Paulos usually uses too many semicolons in her poems.



Devon Balwit


Look, look away, the feed’s grim dance,
the lesser kudu, all whorled iridescence,

holding me a full breath or more, while
the starving polar bear, a slink of ribs and

misery, catches my eye only long enough
to identify it, before, unable to soothe and so

sick to see, like a rubbernecker passing
shatter, blood-spatter, I move on.

Devon Balwit admires and worries about the earth’s creatures.



Rajani Radhakrishnan


That night, time and I sat on the couch,
barely talking, the ginger tea growing
cold in ochre mugs,

ignoring the moon
that walked in through the window,

its dark half draped over its arm,
shaking its head at the improbability
of a moment that wasn’t.

Rajani Radhakrishnan is from Bangalore, India and blogs at

Mark Young

prevaricated ambiance

An American skate punk—
who earns his living
as a lens grinder—used

equivocal language &
refreshing scented candles
to harness the sensual

tweets from his CEO
& turn them into a
sordid tale of treachery.

Mark Young’s most recent book is random salamanders, a Wanton Text Production.



Anne Graue

I am not quite ready to leave 

because leaving would mean losing time spent watching The Great British Baking Show and would mean I would miss watching someone bake and construct a 3-tier meringue or a gingerbread pub with stained glass windows and a sticky sweet floor or watching someone leave their bread dough
to prove, knowing that proving is everything, such as the difference between having or not having enough air, between rising or not rising enough
for it to become the bread it needs to be, the bread which can be pulled apart without much force and shared with little fanfare or the need for anything
to drink, but most of all, I would miss the failures: the dough that didn’t rise, the jam that wouldn’t quite set, the walls of all of the gingerbread houses that refused to stand no matter how much icing glue held them together, and the accidental use of salt when sugar was clearly called for.

Anne Graue lives in New York and is the author of Fig Tree in Winter (Dancing Girl Press, 2017), and has published poems in literary journals and anthologies, including The Book of Donuts (Terrapin Books), the Plath Poetry Project, Random Sample Review, and Rivet Journal.