Larry Schug


I carry my burdens,
sing my songs,
hold goodness within,
not much different, it seems,
than a common wooden chair,
the bells of a working clock,
an ordinary vessel of clay.

Larry Schug says, “I could be considered old, though I am terminally immature.”

Bill Yarrow


Life is a brazen Chevrolet
in whose locked glove compartment
Death, disguised as a map of
New York State, lies curling
at the edges. is a website, not a sentence.

henry 7. reneau, jr.

The Book of Hours

The sun sets on enhanced interrogation,
even as it rose, exponentially, on drone strikes,

like the sum of collateral damage
became a euphemism, beyond our peripheral

vision, & we held the shining black eye
of history in our mouth, as if

we imagined God in our every breath, as if we
are, all of us, alone in the complicity of others.

henry 7.reneau, jr. writes words in conflagration to wake the world ablaze.

Scott Hughes


My brother sits across from me
in the prison visiting room,
his jumpsuit the color
of coffee-stained teeth, and says,
“Keep the letters coming.
Whenever I read them, I’m free.”

Scott Hughes typically writes fiction much longer than one sentence.

Karen Stanislaw

Where most are
too shy or numb to
you lodge,
mossy and shadow,
awaiting dictation.

Karen Stanislaw, fighting for her right to poet, is in current wrestle with – relatives and muddier Saturnian forces – the idea that she’s not honored “enough” survival and security concerns.

Zandra Mink-Fuller

Last Nerve

The lady sitting at the counter rubbing her straw
up and down against the apparently empty
Styrofoam cup,

sent my last nerve into the empty space
of the diner where Ruby’s young innocent
hands once served me hot bitter coffee

with a smile and a flounce of her copper
colored pony tail, every morning
when I stopped
on the way to my mundane job, now

all I see is the newspaper photo the
new waitress showed me of a

tangled blue Toyota, with license tags,
” Ruby Red”,
wrapped around a broken
electric pole.

Zee writes from a barn loft in rural Texas with a great view from her window which offers ample fodder for her stories and poetry. She has been published but desires to see more of her work in print.

Austin Davis

White Flowers

might miss
split second

your eyes
their blinds

your lips
to open

for me,
the clouds

to rest
every car

for gas,
like noticing

first whiff
summer air

it pauses
my skin.

Austin Davis is a widely published poet and his first full-length collection, Cloudy Days, Still Nights, is being released by Moran Press this spring.

Lissa Perrin


Under the silk nightgown
her fingers worry the lump
like a rosary bead,
counting the hours until dawn.

Lissa Perrin is a psychotherapist and occasional writer of poetry from Ann Arbor, MI.