Hilary Sideris


I place Greek
stress in every
word, a tilting
stroke, an act

of linguistic
kindness my
English can’t

Many years ago as a child in Indiana with 20/20 vision, Hilary Sideris shot her neighbor with a BB gun.



Janis Haag

Pink Hollyhocks

The stalks shoot up first,
though you have done nothing
to deserve them, restarting
from last year’s leftovers,
fuzzy green lengths, extending
slender arms that end
in plate-sized leaves,
tiny buds clustering like tumors
along each stalk, ones that will grow
and burst into frilly magenta,
taking over the bed by the garage,
growing taller than you,
sending you searching for sticks
to prop them up, stretching
toward an almost-summer sky.

Jan Haag, a writer living in Sacramento, California, admires the art of pithy poems.



C.T. Holte

Job Application

My idea of an ideal occupation
would be to watch over you
when the weather gets cold
to make sure
you don’t lose your mittens.

C. T. Holte grew up in Minnesota without color TV; has had gigs as teacher, editor, janitor, etc.; gets poems published occasionally; and got a cool chain saw for Christmas.



Mike Cole

With You

(for Christy)

At Horseshoe Lake,
a pocket of snowmelt,
you swam in the rain,

and on the other shore
those hikers in their ponchos
leaned on walking sticks

and contemplated
your abandon
to cold water.

Mike Cole lives and writes and waits on the arrival of poems in the mountains of Central California near Yosemite.



Soumya Rampal

Magnum Opus

I read Plath
and I wonder if
she wrote to
on a sunny day,
when everything was
except for her insides –
“dying is an art”
she said,
her first and last

Soumya is trying to be more forthright.



Stephen  Cramer


In the museum
of picture frames, try
not to be distracted
by the paintings within:
incidental lily pond,
subsidiary nudes,
minor skies blurred
by the dizzy churn of stars.

Stephen Cramer teaches writing and literature at the University of Vermont and lives with his wife and daughter in Burlington.



Mike Cole

Glacier Point Moonrise

Tonight the full moon will climb
the curved shoulder of Half Dome
and we will stand at the lip
of Yosemite Valley and watch
as the miles of spires in the east
are tinged in pale silver

Mike Cole lives and writes and waits on the arrival of poems in the mountains of Central California near Yosemite.