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Thursday, April 19, 2018


by Dianna MacKinnon Henning

Give my umbrella to the Rain Dogs / For I am a Rain Dog too.

Don’t assume the springs won’t break free
from their box mattress—sheets flaunting their disarray
across the bed, or

count on scenery through unwashed
windows, or that mice, anticipating
your arrival, will vacate. If

there’s a wishing-well in the front
yard, likely its weed-clogged, so
cast no coin, make no wish. If

you should happen to rest
on the hay-stuffed sofa, and a torrential
downpour slams your solitude, or should you

contemplate buying this foreclosed relic
for a getaway, don’t ease into the solitude
of sleep. Just when such calm seduces

you on the edge of its tricky precipice, thunder
shivers the walls of your potential buy, and any sanity
you thought you possessed surrenders to the rain

dogs—their teeth slavered with hope.

Dianna MacKinnon Henning holds an MFA in Writing from Vermont College. Published in, in part: The Moth, Ireland; Sukoon, Volume 5; Naugatuck River Review, Lullwater Review, The Red Rock Review, The Kentucky Review, The Good Works Review, The Main Street Rag, California Quarterly, Poetry International and Fugue. Finalist in Aesthetica’s Creative Writing Award in the UK. Three-time Pushcart nominee. Henning  received several CAC grants and taught through California Poets in the Schools and through the William James Association’s Prison Arts Program. Henning’s third poetry book Cathedral of the Hand published 2016 by Finishing Line Press.


by James Bettendorf

Records fell as an April snowstorm blanketed the Upper Midwest. —CHANNEL 3000

The shadow I see in the meadow is really a sheep in wolf’s clothing.  I go swimming in the small pond but the ice is so thick I have to break it with an ax so I can’t chop the tree branches into firewood.  It is so cold in April I choke on clouds of ice.  I wrap myself in a buffalo robe for warmth but the snow keeps falling.  I wear a large wool hat but the snow keeps falling.  The sun is shining but the snow keeps falling.  Even the sunshine I feel is eight minutes old.  My congressman gives me the cold shoulder.  It is hard to believe anything he says. Perhaps I don’t get his attention.  If I see a poisonous spider I will crush it with my shoe.

James Bettendorf is a retired math teacher writing in Brooklyn Park, MN. He completed a two-year poetry internship in the Loft Master Track program in 2009 and has published a book of poems swimming in the earth which includes art by his daughter. He is also a contributor to  Gatherings, A Forward Poetry Anthology and In the Company of Others. He has had poems published in several journals including Rockhurst Review, Light Quarterly, Star Line, Ottertail Review, Talking Stick, and Free Verse along with several on-line publications.

Wednesday, April 18, 2018


by Richard Meyer

The male ostracod Cypideis salebrosa, his genitals shaded in the photograph. (Maria João Fernandes Martins)

By studying dozens of fossilized ostracods, [researchers] have found that species where males . . .  have larger penises—disappear far more quickly. They say that it’s not size that matters, but what you do with it; what ostracods do with it is go extinct. —The Atlantic, 11 April 2018

Attention homo sapiens—
the men, that is, the average ones,
the less endowed below the belt—
that insufficiency you’ve felt
is but a myth—you’re now set free
by studies in biology.

Among the creatures in the sea,
the species known as ostracods
whose males possessed prodigious rods
became extinct while others thrived.

No longer lacking, flawed, deprived,
with evolution on your side,
embrace your normal tools with pride
and know in life, to their chagrin,
the biggest pricks don’t always win.

Richard Meyer’s poems have appeared in various publications, including Able Muse, The Raintown Review, Think, Measure, Light, TheNewVerse.News, Alabama Literary Review, and The Evansville Review. He was awarded the 2012 Robert Frost Farm Prize for his poem “Fieldstone” and was the recipient of the 2014 String Poet Prize for his poem “The Autumn Way.” A book of his collected poems, Orbital Paths, was a silver medalist winner in the 2016 IBPA Benjamin Franklin Awards.

Tuesday, April 17, 2018


by Frederick Shiels

Distraction Accomplished by Pia Guerra at The Nib

we were never wrong, nor were we right, nor did we know.
El Jefe de 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue has no doubts: October, 2016:
“It took guts for Director Comey to make the move that he made
in light of the kind of opposition he had where
they’re trying to protect her from criminal prosecution,”
or—April, 2018, "not smart," "failure", "slimeball," "the worst
FBI director in history." And yet

Comey stresses:  "I don’t buy this stuff about
him being mentally incompetent or early stages of dementia.
He strikes me as a person of above average intelligence who’s tracking conversations."
in other words—"not mentally unfit to be president,
but morally so . . .  a stain,"
The Director-emeritus seems not to be vengeful
not concerned about the weather, the yellow showers,

Summed it up—to date—about his first (public) meeting with the Man,
"well coiffed," he said, "hands about average" (charitably)
"And so I’m walking forward thinking that, thinking:
“How could he think this is a good idea? That he’s going to try to hug me,
the guy that a whole lot of people think, although that’s not true,

but think I tried to get him elected president—
and did. Isn’t he master of television? This is disastrous.”—
and so it is.

Frederick Shiels is an aspiring poet and Prof. Emeritus of Politics and History at Mercy College. He has published in Avocet, Deep South Review, The Hudson River Anthology, TheNewVerse.News, and most recent book is Preventable Disasters.

Monday, April 16, 2018


by Alejandro Escudé

The images
show only
bluish erasures,

the aftermath
of the airstrikes,

just days
after airing
the faces
of babies

tears or poison
on their reddened

How does one
fill the holes
that no longer
have meaning?

Can another
Adam and Eve rise
from the smoldering

Or another Tree
of Life

Wouldn’t that
be a sight?
In night vision,

a new man
and woman
squirming up
from the singed

like two worms,
then a blazing

bright as
an explosion.

Alejandro Escudé published his first full-length collection of poems My Earthbound Eye in September 2013. He holds a master’s degree in creative writing from UC Davis and teaches high school English. Originally from Argentina, Alejandro lives in Los Angeles with his wife and two children.

Sunday, April 15, 2018


by Pepper Trail


How often the tyranny is revealed in the out-of-doors
The trodden muddy road, the lichen-knit walls of stone
Torn apart, the sodden sky pelting with rooks
Brambles, lost sheep, broken-limbed trees
These things happened in a place, they say
Our land is the container of our struggle
Here, blood was shed, just here
And the generations walk past, and do not forget

How to make such art out of a twittering fool?
As true a tyrant as any, but
No more tangible than the pixels on a screen
Existing only because we believe he does
Which is enough, we find, to blight the trees
To break the walls, to set the dogs loose
Running frenzied through the panicked flock
Their eyes wild, their jaws stained with slaver

Pepper Trail is a conservation biologist, poet, and photographer living in Ashland, Oregon.  His poems have appeared in TheNewVerse.News, Rattle, Atlanta Review, Spillway, Kyoto Journal, Pedestal, and other publications, and have been nominated for Pushcart and Best of the Net Awards. His collection Cascade-Siskiyou was a finalist for the 2016 Oregon Book Award in Poetry.

Saturday, April 14, 2018


by Scott C. Kaestner

Presidential porn star spangled banner
apple pie, boner pills to manifest destiny
fake news erected in pleated khaki pants
fat cats and skinny puppies do the electric slide
in the land of semi-automatic gunfire and fentanyl laced dreams.

Scott C. Kaestner is a Los Angeles poet, husband, dad, and good mojo seeker. Google 'scott kaestner poetry' to peruse his musings and doings.

Friday, April 13, 2018


by Beth McKim

by EvanOfTheYukon at Reddit.

To think I trusted you all that time.
From the first, I revealed intimacies:
what I ate (and with whom), where I went

(and with whom), my sacred political views,
the deaths of my parents, birthday greetings,
family photographs, reunions with friends,
exotic travel plans. In other words, touts

of the good parts of my life. You seemed
to be my friend, asked only for a personality
test, occasionally, to display my narcissism.

You were sterling, helped me renew friendships,
introduce beloved newborns to our world,
confirm my wit and smarts to everyone.
Now I am shocked, baffled by your betrayal

of my love. You apparently sought the money,
sold my secrets to the most lucrative bidder,
placed my finances in jeopardy,  traitorously

sabotaged a presidential election, made fools
of us all. And suddenly, you want me to pay
for protection against thieves.  Not on your
life.  I’ll miss you the way we miss habits

thwarted . But I won’t have the pressure to record
my life for the world to admire. You’ll never know I’m
gone. Goodbye Facebook, my unfaithful friend.

Beth McKim is a writer and actress. Her poetry, essays, and  short stories have been widely published in anthologies and literary magazines.

Thursday, April 12, 2018


by Amber Miller 

We do not recognize the mangled faces of the bodies we take as trophies
We do not hear the sounds of their tortured wailing as they flee for their lives
We are complicit in their deaths because we do nothing to stop it
No matter how much we want to believe we are/aren’t the servants
     of a less violent world
Our children die the same and what can we offer but more guns and
     more bullets in their backs
And more bombs and more heroin and more opioids and more lies
     and more false hope
That’s it we’ll gaslight them all until corruption looks like truth and truth
     looks like lies
We are mass murderers we are tools of destruction we are killing ourselves
     and we don’t care

Amber Miller has poetry and essays featured in Aois21 publishing, Making Queer History, TheNewVerse.News, Anti Heroin Chic, and SubverSions: a journal of feminist queries.

Wednesday, April 11, 2018


by Akua Lezli Hope

As Stephon Clark’s death shows, we live in a time when the term “unarmed” is becoming inconsequential—and, for a black man in certain settings, meaningless. —Jelani Cobb, The New Yorker, April 5, 2018. Photograph by Max Whittaker / NYT / Redux via The New Yorker.

Whose cell phone is a gun
Whose frown is a gun
Whose toy is a gun
Whose today is a gun
Whose smile is a gun
Whose tomorrow is a gun
Whose wallet is a gun
Whose loud is a gun
Whose soft is a gun
Whose CDs are a gun
Whose silence is a gun
Whose protest is a gun
Whose stop is a gun
Whose go is a gun
Whose yes is a gun
Whose no is a gun
Whose pipe is a gun
Whose hand is a gun
Whose stand is a gun
Whose advance is a gun
Whose retreat is a gun
Whose plea is a gun
Whose kneel is a gun
Whose showerhead is a gun
Whose question is a gun
Whose answer is a gun
                         is a gun
                         is a gun

Akua Lezli Hope is a creator who uses sound, words, fiber, glass, handmade paper and wire to create poems, patterns, stories, music, adornments, sculpture and peace whenever possible. A paraplegic, she has founded a nonprofit paratransit firm. Her poetry collection Them Gone will be published by The Word Works Publishing on June 1, 2018.

Tuesday, April 10, 2018


by Elizabeth McMunn-Tetangco

On our way north,
red brake lights
slam like doors.

We see debris
before we see anything

a half-rolled license
plate, glass stars
ground into dirt.

The car is smashed
in on itself—rain
streaks along each

shattered window. A man

down with his hands flat
on his thighs

to see inside,
his shoulders

tight. Someone has put out

The thing I can’t

is the man’s MAGA
hat, clean like it is new,
holding the rain up

off his face.
I have to read it twice
to get it’s not

a joke, and then
it aches

and I’m ashamed,
the afterimage of the hat

and the wrecked car

drifting with me
all day long
like floating leaves.

Elizabeth McMunn-Tetangco lives in California and co-edits One Sentence Poems. Her chapbooks Various Lies and Lion Hunt are available from Finishing Line Press and forthcoming from Plan B Press, respectively.

Monday, April 09, 2018


by Jill Crainshaw

Amidst a turbulent week on Wall Street, two goats were found stranded on a bridge beam in western Pennsylvania on Tuesday. Goat photo source: Pennsylvania Turnpike Commission via NPR.

with a chance of thundersnow
these are the headlines we are living in
curators clamoring for credibility on facebook fake newsfeeds
talking heads trading on trending turbulence
the bald eagle has landed—on the mariners shoulder—looking for bears
hugging the life out of
fragile economies
while easter bunnies on the loose quadruple a towns investment
a teenagers hair creates a buzz breaking into the prophetic sound of her silence
as bells toll to remember the king who had a dream that one day—one day—
and a presidents goldilocks
blow in the


Jill Crainshaw is a professor at Wake Forest University School of Divinity in Winston-Salem, NC.

Sunday, April 08, 2018


by William Marr

Sunset on Walden Pond. Photo: John Greim/LightRocket via Getty Images. Sediment samples reveal swimmers and tourists are polluting the lake where Henry David Thoreau sought solace in the mid-19th century. —Seeker, April 4, 2018

It is earth’s eye; looking into which the beholder measures the depth of his own nature. —Henry David Thoreau, Walden

don't say a word
you'll startle the birds on the trees
and the fish in the pond

worst of all
you'll draw the attention of the noisy tourists
they will pour over by busloads
to look into your eye
that is now full of human waste
and mearure the shallow depth
of their own nature

William Marr has published 23 volumes of poetry,  3 books of essays, and several books of translations.  His poetry has been translated into more than ten languages and included in over one hundred anthologies.  Some of his poems are used in high school and college textbooks in Taiwan, China, England, and Germany. He is a former president of the Illinois State Poetry Society and lives in the Chicago area.


by Jessamine Price
Korea’s national creation myth also tells of a tiger and a bear who asked the son of the ruler of Heaven if he would make them human. He agreed, but only if they could endure 100 days in a cave eating nothing but garlic and mugwort. The steadfast bear endured and became a beautiful woman, who gave birth to Tangun, the legendary father of Korea in 2333 BCE. But the tiger grew hungry and impatient. He left the cave early, unable cope with the hunger and waiting, and has been slinking through the Korean mountains ever since. That is, until the last century when hunting and habitat loss pushed the Korean tiger over the brink of extinction in the wild in South Korea. With it went an important symbol of Korea’s identity. —ExpertSure. Image source: Zenzar.

The tiger’s eyelash
brushes the arc between sky and skin,
between sleep and the sweep of a vigilant paw.

Lash upon lash,
stripe upon stripe,
such dangerous grace is made.

The boar, the antelope, the bustard,
fed these teeth for a million years.
But the oceans rise—the deserts grow.

Drop by drop
drought by drought
such dangerous grace is maimed.

Jessamine Price, an American poet from Virginia, lives and teaches in South Korea. Her poems and essays are published or forthcoming in publications such as Hunger Mountain, the Lascaux Review, Delmarva Review, Poets Reading the News, and Rust + Moth. She has an MFA in creative writing from American University and an M.Phil. in economic and social history from Oxford.