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Thursday, November 30, 2023


by Barbara Eknoian

Why do tears keep falling from my eyes as I watch? They say Rosalynn stood by her husband for seventy-seven years, and that she cared deeply for the most vulnerable among us. Throughout my life, although I am a good person and wouldn’t harm anyone, I never did anything as inspiring as she did for others. When the choir sings “America the Beautiful,” I’m a young girl again at school singing. Why do I find this tribute so touching? The religious music playing is the old-fashioned kind, which I miss very much. Maybe, that’s why the tears flow easily while listening to all her good works. One of the speakers comments that Rosalyn would be pleased that First Ladies from both sides have come to honor her, including Biden, Obama, Bush, Clinton, and Trump, and everyone laughs. I feel like I’m at an inspiring church service, though I haven’t attended in years. I’m so glad I’m watching. Her husband Jimmy, left hospice at their home in Plains, Georgia, traveling l40 miles so as not to miss his wife’s tribute. He is wheeled into church. Their daughter, Amy, says, since her dad can’t speak, she’ll read a love letter he wrote to Rosalynn when he was in the Navy seventy-five years ago. I imagine him thinking this right now: 

Good-bye Darling, 
Until tomorrow 

Barbara Eknoian’s work has appeared in Chiron Review, Cadence Collective, Redshift, and Silver Birch Press's anthologies. Her recent collection of short stories Romance is Not Too Far From Here is published by Amazon. She lives in La Mirada, CA with her daughter, grandson, one cat, and a very mischievous kitten.

Wednesday, November 29, 2023


by Alejandro Escudé

An afternoon grading on the internet, I walk out

To the November skies of Los Angeles, warm,

A day moon more orb-like than usual in the east.

The sun a shining lake behind fair weather clouds.

I’m thinking of you. How you stalked us in our 

Classrooms for years, removing first our books.

Taking our grades and popping them on screens

That would never time out, even on vacations.

It’s you I blame whenever I can’t direct students

To a specific page, numbers eliminated long ago,

The corners, dog-eared, the scanning of the hand

Across print to mark a quote, to seize an argument.

But I’m a gnat on a remote beach of the economic

Planet to you staring at a sea of adolescents with 

Endless passwords tattooed on their brains. Strolling,

I spot a Yellow-rumped Warbler shadowing me along 

The side of the road. An intelligence, a god, birthed

Of the moon and sun. Buffering, my human hopes.

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.

Tuesday, November 28, 2023


by George Salamon

“‘All the cemeteries are full': Palestinians buried in a mass grave in Gaza.” —Reuters, November 22, 2023

"Any man's death diminishes me, because I am involved in mankind." —John Donne, Meditation 17, 1623

On the pile of rubble
the wailing of a mother
means nothing.
On the broken street
the raised fist of a father,
The weeping of entire
populations on both sides,
The killing of the air,
the end of our oceans,
In times of exhaustion
and nihilism, values
have vanished and we
are turning into machines,
surviving to function, not
to live.

George Salamon thinks the lords of Silicon Valley have,  million clicks after millions of more clicks, succeeded into turning most of our minds and hearts into file clerks and bean counters.

Monday, November 27, 2023


by Jenna Le

Under the politician's monument,
there was a grub twisting in the topsoil,
and a topsail from an ancient ship
folded nine times,
and a mole with pale human-like fingers
prodding a tree root,
and under this,
a chest seething with stolen coins,
and an aquifer dank with depleted water,
and a cave system beading on for miles
and miles, and a vein of gold ore,
and a cache of diamonds, and a hoard
of sapphires, and under this,
a corpse moaning the name of its child.

Jenna Le is the author of Six Rivers (NYQ Books, 2011),  A History of the Cetacean American Diaspora (Indolent Books, 2017), and Manatee Lagoon (Acre Books, 2022). Her poetry appears in AGNI, Denver Quarterly, Los Angeles Review, Massachusetts Review, Michigan Quarterly Review, Pleiades, Poet LoreVerse Daily, and West Branch. 

Sunday, November 26, 2023


by Elya Braden

“Bereshit” print from Nireh Or

The beginning is the promise of the end.

—Henry Ward Beecher


Every Fall we rock the house,

dance & sing & lift the scroll.

Roll back to B’reishit. In the beginning—

chaos cleaved into light & dark

a man a woman a garden a fall.


Roll back l’dor v’dor—generation

to generation. 

Roll back Deuteronomy’s gifts—

Ten Commandments, Moses peering

into the Promised Land.

Roll back Numbers’ sufferings—

rod, stone, bland manna,

a wilderness of complaint. 

Roll back Leviticus’ hundreds of tiny edicts

the cost of forgiveness—

denial & purification.

Roll back Exodus’ hungry waters,

locusts, frogs, endless night,

          lambs’ blood to guardian our sons.

Roll back to Genesis—father/mother/handmaid,

multiply two sons & divide 

by one patch of desert.


So, who’s to blame for blood feud? 

Isaac & Ishmael? Or their mothers—

Sarah & Hagar? Sarah’s laughter 

withering on her lips as her handmaid 

suckles Abraham’s eldest— 

a legacy of lack & opportunity.

Or blame God—God’s two-faced 

promise: I will make of your son 

a great nation


Well, one thing we know about land 

is God ain’t making any more.

Yet we multiply like frogs, spill

from lakes & puddles & faucets & mouths, 

our hunger rises like the papery wings 

of a thousand moths splitting their cocoons, 

stripping the trees of green.


So why not drone a war on this day 

we dance & sing, raise Torah scrolls 

above our heads to celebrate return? 

B’reishit bara Elohim,

“In the beginning, God created…”


Air raid sirens the only psalms now sung 

in this land of too many Gods.

Editor’s Note: Simchat Torah, a Jewish holiday that celebrates and marks the conclusion of the annual cycle of public Torah readingsbegan for Hebrew Year 5784 on Saturday, 7 October 2023 and ended on Sunday, 8 October 2023.

Elya Braden is a writer and mixed-media artist living in Ventura County, CA, and is an editor for Gyroscope Review. She is the author of the chapbooks, Open The Fist (2020) and The Sight of Invisible Longing (2023). Her work has been published in Anti-Heroin Chic, Prometheus Dreaming, Rattle Poets Respond, Sequestrum, Sheila-Na-Gig Online, The Louisville Review, and elsewhere. Her poems have been nominated for the Pushcart Prize, Best of the Net, and Best New Poets.

Saturday, November 25, 2023


by Julene Waffle

Ten minutes before the sun started 

its fiery path across the sky 

and dropped its first dewy light 

through my window, 

someone called the fire department 

at Tioga Downs,

but it was already too late.

Always Smooth, Better Call Saul (a cheeky bugger), 

Birdie Three, the angel of the barn, and more.

Did he speak to them? Tell them why?

There must have been a click of an igniter

Did their ears prick at the sound? 

Did they stomp their feet?

Da Boogie Man, Danzon Hanover who loved 

nipping at zippers and pulling strings. 

A barn intentionally set on fire. 

In an instant thirty horses were gone.

Diamond Express whose eyes sparkled like her name. 

Fireside Tail arrived not twelve hours before; 

A yearling, her owner cried, 

I’m so sorry little angel.

Their trainers and owners couldn't 

free them from the flames for the heat 

and the smoke and the burning.  

Hall It Off. It’s Rigged was a soft-hearted oaf. 

Karpathos was 22 and in his eleventh year 

of retirement. Lone Wolf American.

Onlookers could hear them, kick and scream,

then nothing 

but the crackle and break of flame and beam.

And people crying in the dusk.

Hot Shot Joe had a zest for life 

as big as the race inside him. 

Hunts Point—no one will know his full potential. 

Ideal Chance arrived two days before.

He was in a new home amidst strangers. 

These horses were more than statistics, more than racers; 

They were promises made and promises kept.  

They were family.

Market Mayhem. Mc Mach loved racing 

but might have loved his ears scratched more. 

My Delight was a lady’s man. Payara danced in her stall.

Owners knew their lineages better than their own.

Grant Me This adored her barn sister Silverhill Misty.

Pineapple Sundae just finished six months of rehab

for a knee injury.  He was a race horse 

who didn’t have one last chance to run. 

Once they begged for treats. Others leaned eagerly out

of their stalls to greet everyone who passed.

Some napped twenty-two hours a day. Some knew 

their mind and let everyone know it too.

Pocket Watch N. Prairie Dutches. 

Rough Montana Lane loved cuddles and kisses.

SD Watch Me Now was grumpy, but 

would secretly give you kisses then pull faces 

behind your back. Blazin Mooss was sweet in the barn 

and crazy on the track.  Slave Labour. 

Schlitz lived for hay bags and hugs. 

And a horse named Violence 

would sit in your lap if you let him.

Buzzards R Flying was a wise old man at heart

and his brother, didn't even have time 

to earn his name.

Some were just learning. Some were veterans.

They were nicknamed: Dandy Cheeks, Princess Di,

Macaroni, Norman, Spongebob, Sassy Susan, Tank.

They were gentle to the wheel,

and named by little girls and boys who were their best friends.

They made men cry at the track and made their owners 

throw themselves into the flames to save them.

Julene Waffle, a graduate of Hartwick College and Binghamton University, is a teacher in rural NYS, an entrepreneur, a nature lover, a wife, a mother of three boys, two dogs, three cats, a bearded dragon, and, of course, she’s a writer. She finds pleasure in juggling these jobs while seeming like she has it all together.

Friday, November 24, 2023


by Geoffrey Philp

Sebastiao Brito de Mendonca walks in a dry area of an affluent of Rio Negro river, as the region is hit by a severe drought, in Santa Helena do Ingles community in Iranduba, Brazil October 13. REUTERS/Bruno Kelly

The forest might be recovering from one drought and then get hit by another while it’s still recovering,” said Chris as we sail down the Rio Negro, the scent of burnt-out mahoganies clinging to our shirts while caracaras screeched overhead.


he hangs up his gloves—


We pass barges on the shoreline, tipped on their sides, like pink dolphins trapped in the silt.


the next punch could be the one


“If that happens, it can take even longer to get back to normal, and eventually it reaches a point where it can’t get back to normality.”


he couldn't answer.

Geoffrey Philp, a Silver Musgrave Medal recipient, is the author of Archipelagos, a book of poems about climate change which was long-listed for the Laurel Prize. Philp’s poem, “A Prayer for My Children,” is featured on The Poetry Rail—an homage to 12 writers who shaped Miami's culture. He  lives in Miami and is working on a children's book Marsha and the Mangroves.