BEING NEIGHBOURLY

by Brydon Caldwell

As humanity expands to

fill the globe, so too

does density as we are

stacked one on top of

another on top of another.

Neighbours, who used to be

a friendly wave across a 

field, are now as close as

thin sheetrock, plaster, 

and some studs.

In our proximity, our

capacity has not changed;

we are no more magically

tolerant of others than before.

We share a space that is

subject to the elements,

acts of God, even fire, water,

and air. Accept or deny

climate change, we all live

on the same globe with

common conditions. We can

turn on the kitchen fan when

the smell of curry gets too

strong, but none of us have

control over Mother Nature.

Still, it is easier to blame

someone nearby for those

things that are beyond our

dominion, rather than face

the shared responsibility for

dealing with those outcomes.

What, then, is the

neighbourly response?

Brydon Caldwell is a long time teacher and emerging writer from the western edge of the Canadian Shield. A lifetime of creativity and flirtation with the written word has finally coalesced into writing that he’s proud to put out into the world. His writing can be found in The Ekphrastic Review, The Fib Review, and the upcoming Fear Dealer, Opolis 2026, and Still From Somewhere anthologies.

TAXES, SEEN FROM THE MOON

by Indran Amirthanayagam
NASA photo

I walked in the woods 

today, a spring in my step,

the Great Leader had

stepped back from 

his threats 

to the sovereign 

Republic of X,

and my tax deadline 

loomed even clearer; 

no more time 

to distract with poems, 

even this one a lazy 

fingering,  extracting juice 

from the rind of past fears, 

raising arms to God 

to say thank you

for your intervention.

But what’s ten minutes 

to a poet avoiding reckoning 

with the IRS?  Only ten 

minutes to say thanks, 

 to say I love you  and keep 

in touch always. Ten minutes 

to say tomorrow will come—

it already has—

 

despite the terrible words

and bombs exploded

until now in the latest 

killing fields 

of our one Earth

lit by the rising Sun seen 

now for the first time 

by the Artemis crew,

from the dark side 

of the Moon. 

Indran Amirthanayagam writes a Substack. He has just published Isla itinerante ( Editorial Apogeo, Peru, 2025) and White Space Sonnets ( Sarasavi publishers, Sri Lanka, 2025). His other publications include El bosque de deleites fratricidas ( RIL Editores), Seer (Hanging Loose Press),The Runner's Almanac (Spuyten Duyvil), Powèt Nan Pò A: Poet of the Port (Mad Hat), and Ten Thousand Steps Against the Tyrant (Broadstone Books). He is the translator of Kenia Cano’s Animal For The Eyes (Dialogos Books) and Origami: Selected Poems of Manuel Ulacia (Dialogos Books). He edits The Beltway Poetry Quarterly, hosts the Poetry Channel on YouTube, and publishes poetry books with Sara Cahill Marron at Beltway Editions.

HINGE DAY

by Tricia Knoll

 

 

So much needs exercising, soothing for the opening to beyond and next. Where applause for sun reverberates across plains and oceans to replace fumes of exhaust. Even on the balconies of apartments in my hometown. My car hides in the garage to avoid the steep price of gas. I plot where to scatter a bag of saved marigold and zinnia seed. Where mornings come unchallenged by worst-yet shock. When the bully pulpit voice, a vulgar weaving from Greenland to birthright, issues ultimatums that seem to threaten using nukes to resurrect the stone age and abuses the many names we use for god. A cardinal teeters on my fencepost listening to the oven bird. 

 

Tricia Knoll’s The Unknown Daughter was a finalist in the 2025 New England Poetry Club chapbook contest. Her poems appear in journals and nine collections, full-length or chapbook. Wild Apples (Fernwood Press) details downsizing and moving 3,000 miles from Oregon to Vermont. After 18 years of working with free verse, she now writes mostly prose poems. Fernwood Press will publish her full-length poetry book, Gathering Marbles, in July 2027. Knoll serves as a Contributing Editor to the online journal Verse Virtual.

MILKWEED PODS BURST

by Lavinia Kumar

This is how the journey begins—

milkweed pods pop and seeds fly high.

The seeds wait to grow until next spring

then blossom ready for Monarchs to dine.

 

Butterfly bushes and milkweeds bloom—

this is how the journey begins,

as Monarchs flit, and suck sweet sap.

Do Monarchs and milkweed have a chat?

 

Their hungry caterpillars grow and munch

rest as cozy coccoon, under a green coat.

This is how the journey begins—

silent Monarch on silent milkweed.

 

Then colorful Monarchs start a new reign

fly south in thousands, cluster on trees.

And milkweed pods pop to make seeds fly

and this is how threats may begin.

A Pennsylvania school board member said she received death threats this month after her Facebook post was misinterpreted as celebrating the death of Turning Point USA co-founder Charlie Kirk, according to news reports. The Sept. 10 Facebook post, created by Homer-Center School District board member Misty Hunt, was uploaded the same day Kirk was shot and killed at Utah Valley University. In a separate post around 11:20 p.m., Hunt explained the caption of the misconstrued post was supposed to be paired with a video of milkweed seeds blowing in the wind, which she releases to help monarch butterfly populations. —PennLive, September 20, 2025

Lavinia Kumar’s latest book is Spirited American Women: Early Writers, Artists, & Activists—very short prose of near 100 remarkable women writers, poets, publishers, painters, artists, abolitionists, early suffragettes, and activists. 

ANTHEM

by Thomas DeFreitas

America is Bible and battery acid, Krispy Kreme and Christian soldiers, MAGA hats and “good people on both sides.” Forced birth, illegal miscarriages, classrooms from which history is deleted, whitewashed. Here we lock up refugees and confiscate their rosaries only to throw them away. Here we threaten families who display the wrong yard-signs. Here we say the Lord's Prayer at the end of twelve-step meetings, “not allied with any sect.” Liberty’s arm is tired from holding up that torch for all these bloody years. A voice-over announces the death, by embarrassment, of The New Colossus.

America is Deliverance and Don’t Say Gay. Fireworks on the Esplanade, the cannonade of 1812. Senatorial thoughts, congressional prayers. Spare the machine-gun, spoil the child. Wives submitting to their husbands, who give them black-and-blue merit-badges for overcooking the lasagna. America: a hot flat ounce of cola in a patriotic can. Plastic and persimmon. Sassafras and sadism.
 
America welcomes you if you’re One Of Us.

Thomas DeFreitas was born in Boston in 1969. A graduate of the Boston Latin School, he attended the University of Massachusetts, both in Boston and in Amherst. His poems have appeared in Autumn Sky Poetry Daily, Plainsongs, Ibbetson Street, Pensive, and elsewhere. His latest collection is Walking Between the Raindrops (Kelsay Books, 2025).

LOSING MY MOTHERS

by Nancy Fitz-Hugh Meneely

Detail of a Boomf greeting card.

I'm mother to a mother and the mother
she is married to. I love their way with Lilly, 
child whose mysteries will not be plumbed. 
The picture of her father shows him 
blond and serious at 8 
and that is all we know of him except that 
Lilly's smarter than her mothers can account for
and given to a fear of dark and a ready shame
they do not suffer in themselves.
But they are gorgeous in their mothering.
Asked “How Are You Unique?”, the daughter writes
I HAVE TWO MOMS. All caps.
 
I love these mothers, too, so much I miss them
when we’ve been apart a week. I am ridiculous.
They live five miles away.
 
And now I contemplate a brute and sudden loss.
I picture Jackboots hauling, shackling them
in such a way they cannot touch.
I see their neighbor, welcoming with cookies last July,
now watching from an upstairs room,
bitter with contrition, fearful for herself.
 
I’m powerless against the monstrous threats.
My terror, even loneliness, begins ahead of time.
Perhaps I am ridiculous, but if I lose my mothers
and their child, I'lI will myself
to swallow memory
or die of it.
 

Nancy Fitz-Hugh Meneely's first book Letter from Italy 1944 was noted by the Hartford Courant as one of thirteen important books published by Connecticut writers in 2013. It provided the libretto for an oratorio of the same name which was performed by Connecticut chorales and symphony orchestras. Her second book Simple Absence (Antrim House) was nominated for The National Book Award. 

A FAIR WITNESS

by Gina A. Turner

 

A Fair Witness [a profession invented in Stranger in a Strange Land by Robert Heinlein] is an individual trained to observe events and report exactly what is seen and heard, making no extrapolations or assumptions. – Wikipedia

I hear that people who shouldn’t be in this country are eating pets

I see state troopers at schools in Springfield, Ohio

I hear a candidate say “I have to create stories so that the media pays attention”

I see Springfield’s CultureFest cancelled over safety concerns

I hear what the 45th president said: people from Haiti “all have AIDS”

I see colleges in Ohio holding classes remotely

I hear lawful residents in Ohio called “illegal aliens”

I see elementary schools evacuated due to dozens of bomb threats

I hear what our country’s former leader said: Haiti is one of the “shithole countries” 

I see my Haitian friend promote her book on achieving a just economy

I hear a member of the Haitian community say

“We’ve been receiving a lot of threats, physically and verbally”

I hear parents say that their children are terrified

 

I hear people say that they are still undecided about their vote

Gina A. Turner is a Professor of Psychology at a community college in Pennsylvania. Her work has appeared in Poets Online, The New Verse News, and her school’s literary magazine The Laconic. She lives with her husband and dog in Lambertville, New Jersey. 

TRAVELERS REST LIBRARY GETS THREATENING CALLS…

AFTER REFUSING TO REMOVE PRIDE MONTH DISPLAYS 

—Greenville (SC) News, June 22, 2023

by Gilbert Allen

It's not a threat. “This is just what I've heard.”

The “good old boys” don't like this month's display.

One phones the staff—there are “whispers of war.”

He's not a threat. “This is just what I've heard.”

Just rainbow ribbons in the entryway

and a multicolored READ WITH PRIDE.

It's not a threat. “This is just what I've heard.”

The “good old boys” don't like this month's display.

Gilbert Allen has lived in Travelers Rest, South Carolina, since 1977. His most recent books are Believing in Two Bodies and The Beasts of Belladonna. For more information about him and his work, check out the interview here.

OUR HOUSE INSPECTION

by Joseph Kleponis

Claytoonz by Clay Jones

Our house is set on a foundation
Hundreds of years old. The men who set it,
The foundation and the building, too, were wise.
They saw what had and had not worked elsewhere,
And so, they reinforced the foundation
With a seemingly simple substructure
Of beams that balanced and braced itself
To support the elegant edifice
They had dared to frame. It has weathered storms,
Abuses from within and from without,
But now the climate has begun to change,
We have noticed threats where there had been none—
A minor infestation in the basement—
Will the structure hold, or need amendment?

Joseph Kleponis lives north of Boston, Massachusetts. He’s had poems published in online and print journals nationally and internationally. His book Truth’s Truth was published by Kelsay Books in 2021.

BEING ROOMMATES WITH A STRIPPER

by Jennifer Elise Wang

The picket line on Lankershim Boulevard in North Hollywood has been loud, energetic, flamboyant, and... costumed. The strippers from Star Gardens have organized for their protection and become a cause célèbre for other organizers and unions across the country. —People’s World, June 6, 2022

When your roommate is a stripper,

You discover who makes

The teeniest thong

You can legally get away with

And that 7-inch Pleasers

Are not too bad to walk in.

When your roommate is a stripper,

You start going to the gym more,

Not to have her body exactly

But to have the same gluteal control

In order to twerk along with her

In your at-home dance parties.

When your roommate is a stripper,

You see the stacks of 1s,

But not the 5s, 10s, or 20s

She has given to the house and staff.

When your roommate is a stripper,

You stop laughing at jokes about her job

Because her colleague was stalked

And another was threatened

While the bartender laughed

At the image of her possible demise.

Every night, it’s a flip of the coin

As to whether she’ll be assaulted.

When your roommate is a stripper,

You learn about misogynoir,

TERFs and SWERFs,

Labor rights and union-busting tactics,

And that it’s always “sex worker”

And never “prostitute” or the other word

That sounds more apropos for fishing.

When your roommate is a stripper,

You get advice on how to set boundaries

While still smiling at the customer.

When your roommate is a stripper

And getting ready for a night of picketing

While you’ve come home after overtime

And drink a beer with some Tylenol

For your Carpal tunnel and plantar fasciitis

And blink away your dry eyes,

You realize you are selling your body too. 

Jennifer Elise Wang (she/they) is a lab tech, burlesque dancer, drag king, and poet. She won First Prize for Open Poetry in the 2018 On My Own Time Art and Literary competition and has been published in The Gunpowder Review, Jerseyworks, and R2 Rice Review. In her free time, she likes to skateboard and volunteer at the animal shelter.

JUST AS THE BIRDS, DISTRACTED

by Paula J. Lambert

Most nights this week, there will be more birds in the air above

this country than people in beds down below.” —Josh Sokol

 

Just as the birds, distracted by light

that splits the star they follow into sparks

and mirrors so they never see the towers

that reach out to kill them, just as the birds,

 

so entranced by needs they cannot explain

that they propel themselves steadfastly

forward through all the wildfires we set 

for them (if they recognize their own 

plummeting numbers when they emerge 

from the smoke, they don’t show it, 

they keep flying) just as the birds 

soar even through their own sleep as, 

one by one by one, they die of thirst 

or starvation or exhaustion, falling into fields 

and ditches and sidewalks, mountain peaks

and seldom-seen valleys, just as they 

keep going, season after season, year after 

year, eon after unfathomable eon, so we 

sleep through it all in our beds below, 

writhing maybe through tangles of sheets 

and the existential threat we’ve made

of our lives—we who’ve lived long enough 

to multiply every problem we inherited, 

who’ve ignored or angrily explained away 

the desperate patterns of our own migration—

but sleeping, blithely unwilling to do more

than worry while, awake, we grab our keys 

and cameras and binoculars and go,

 

to the marshes, waterways and wild places

still left, still untrampled, still—unbeknownst

to us—part of the twisted dreams and difficult

truths we rarely remember, come morning. 

Paula J. Lambert has authored several collections of poetry including The Ghost of Every Feathered Thing (FutureCycle 2022) and How to See the World (Bottom Dog 2020). Awarded PEN America's L'Engle-Rahman Prize for Mentorship, Lambert's poetry and prose has been supported by the Ohio Arts Council, the Greater Columbus Arts Council and the Virginia Center for Creative Arts. Her work has been nominated for several Pushcart and Best of the Net prizes.

STURGIS HERE WE COME

by Jan Chronister

“If you are a Covid-19 coronavirus and happen to miss Lollapalooza, don’t fret or make crying, boo-hoo motions with your spikes. There will be other upcoming opportunities such as the Sturgis Motorcycle Rally 2021 which is set to begin next week, August 6 at Sturgis, South Dakota and continue through August 15. The Sturgis Rally website says, ‘We’re spreading out wings.’ With over 500,000 people expected, that may not be the only thing that’s spreading. As I covered for Forbes last September, one study estimated that the 2020 Sturgis Motorcycle Rally caused over 260,000 new Covid-19 coronavirus cases. While you shouldn’t bank on that specific number since the study had a number of limitations that I described, it wouldn’t surprising if the 2020 Sturgis Rally did contribute to the SARS-CoV2 surges seen last Summer.” —Bruce Y. Lee, Forbes, July 31, 2021

Doesn’t matter that we did this

last year, spread the virus

cross-country. Doesn’t matter

that we will gather in bars, 

spew saliva while we shout

face to face, maskless.

Doesn’t matter that

we are unvaccinated.

What matters is that we are free,

our hogs roar down the highway,

jobs and offices forgotten. 

Doesn’t matter that small

businesses just barely caught up,

will have to close again,

students, teachers, parents

left wondering how to cope.

Consumers plan to stock up

on toilet paper, coffee, flour. 

None of this matters.

No libtards can tell us

what to do. Fauci

is evil. Masks

don’t work. The virus

was engineered by globalists

to thin the herd.

We’ll survive—

doesn’t matter who else dies.

Jan Chronister recently resurfaced and is mad that we may all have to don masks and lock down to survive. She is grateful her home is in the country in northern Wisconsin, her freezer is full, and she can always work on poems while isolated.

POST-ELECTION STRESS DISORDER

by Howie Good

 

Thousands of President Trump’s supporters converged on Washington, D.C., on Nov. 14 to falsely claim he won the election. (Video: Jorge Ribas, Joyce Koh/Photo: Toni L. Sandys/The Washington Post)

The emperor’s model army marches on,

bringing with them the suffocating smell of smoke,

a darkness like mud, while tens of millions

of just plain folks artlessly demonstrate their devotion

by cheering threats of kidnapping and murder

and parading bright new flags that with each wave

in the lie-filled air grow duller and more tattered,  

and when the light dwindles to a final few hours,

there will be tweet storms and wild speeches

and the military music of boots stamping on faces.

Howie Good is the author of The Death Row Shuffle, forthcoming from Finishing Line Press.

BE CAUTIOUS

by Ron Riekki

“Thumbs-Up,” by Barry Blitt / The New Yorker cover July 30, 2018

                    My French girlfriend says,
                    “Your President loves all caps,
                    especially dunce caps,”
                    loves to yell,
                    to scream in fifth-grade language

               as if everything is a storm,
               as if he’ll make porn-$ize money
               if all hell breaks loose,
               as if we can’t lose,
               as if hell

          has no empty space,
          as if we all won’t suffer
          if suffering
          becomes the ring
          we must wear,

       where his words are slapped together
       like
       WE ARE NO LONGER A COUNTRY
       and
       the threat

               of
   NEVER, EVER THREATEN
   and
   in the mall
   my girlfriend points

and says,
“Look, it’s Trump”
and I ask what she means,
And she says,
“An escalator,

that’s what he does.”
Except this escalator
is broken
and she doesn’t even have to say
how much more fitting this is.

Ron Riekki wrote U.P. and edited The Way North (2014 Michigan Notable Book), Here (2016 Independent Publisher Book Award), And Here: 100 Years of Upper Peninsula Writing (Michigan State University Press, 2017), and Undocumented (with Andrea Scarpino, MSU Press, 2019).