Steve Klepetar


A man plays trumpet
on the Third Avenue
platform, while the crowd

swirls around him
and my mother growls
“I’d pay him not to play,”

his notes glowing
in the black tunnel
like glowworms on a summer night.

Steve Klepetar’s sons have forgiven him for chasing them around the house reciting the opening lines of the prologue to The Canterbury Tales.



Yvonne Zipter


I thought I saw something scurry across the porch,
but it was only the sunlight and the wind
playing tag with the pine tree in the yard.

Yvonne Zipter writes poems and all kinds of other things, which you can discover at her website



Howie Good

Turning Japanese

We were born into an idiotic age,
given only clichés to speak growing up,
warned not to change the words around
or otherwise stray from the script,
and we meekly obeyed, but today
a bird in the pine outside our window
piped a string of discordant notes
once, twice, three times, waking me
just before light with its haiku.

Howie Good dislikes author bios.



Amy Snodgrass

Three Miracles

The water that has since washed them away

-those structures built by my daughter, carefully or with abandon depending on the day-

leaves patterns in the dirt,

waves and trails and hiccups that become, after a sincere but brief mourning period,

landscapes for new adventures

in this extra fine dirt with an inexplicable sparkle, fairy dust as she dances through it-

a deserted construction site miracle, this dancing- and

then yesterday, she said, “Mom! My mountain. It’s still there” and I see that

it had survived a downpour and I,

well, I

let her think it was another miracle

instead of swiping on my phone to teach her how cement hardens under water,


that years from now,

she will forgive me.

Amy Snodgrass eats a lot of Dove dark chocolate.



Mike Cole

There is
this morning
on the ridge
out our kitchen window

and we are glad
for the cold
and the brightness.

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