Helen Bournas-Ney

Melody

When song unleashes memory –
an unanticipated hound
sniffs and sifts and tears
through ancient ground,
grabs you, takes you,
right   back
there.


Helen Bournas-Ney writes poems because it gives her so much pleasure to build them, and also because she loves the clearer and broader view she gets while constructing them and when they are finished.


 

 

Howie Good

Love Note / Anniversary Edition

Yes, because there is space junk
falling uncontrolled toward Earth,

and poseurs occupying roles that
rightfully belong to love-drunk poets,

this is not the worst place for us
to possibly hide, a country overlooked

on the Discovery Channel but crammed
to its very borders with kindergartens

and prayer candles and repurposed
war machines, and where, if it rains,

the rain is vastly similar in sound
to the tiny tinkling bells of your name.


Howie Good stays up late.


 

 

Shamayita Sen

Regret

smells of
charred bones in a
crematorium, or
of pills stuck in
my throat through
a sleepless night.


Shamayita Sen is the author of For the Hope of Spring: hybrid poems, and editor of Collegiality and Other Ballads: feminist poems by male and non-binary allies.


 

 

Chris Bullard

Seasonal Haiku

Another April
ruined by rain and then May
ruined by flowers.


Chris Bullard was born in Jacksonville, FL, lives in Philadelphia, has some degrees, some publications and is amazed to find that his life history really only requires less than 35 words.


 

 

Mary Damon Peltier

Digging a Garden in New England

Where there are roots
there are rocks,
in the crevices of memory
pain.


Mary Damon Peltier wishes she were working in a garden instead of staring at the dingy white walls of her apartment.


 

 

Howie Good

Deadheading

Every morning
and again
most evenings

I deadhead
my flowers,

using thumb
and index finger
as pincers

to remove
spent blossoms
one by one,

some scratched
and dented
like a student trumpet

and some flat
like a paper star,

but others more
like a poet confined
in a madhouse,

petals curled inward,
colors exhausted.


Howie Good believes with Mencken that a good phrase is better than a great truth.