OVER THE MOON: A GOLDEN SHOVEL

by Liam Boyle

Now’s a time to celebrate, drink

a toast with best French wine,

gather friends to break bread and 

sing patriotic anthems. Look

into the eyes of your guests, smile at

the thought of what’s been done, the 

great news, a return to the Moon.

 

Before radio silence, and

across 250,000 miles, the astronauts think 

of love—of our love for them, of

their love for us—“we love you” and all

that love is on the dark side of the 

moon, while back on Earth civilisations

 

are dying, rockets carry destruction; the 

truth is, we can no longer see the moon

as benign. This coincidence of time has 

undone all lyric, all hope. We have seen

the darkness passing

overhead. It will not go by.

Liam Boyle lives in Galway, Ireland. His work has been published in various journals in Ireland and internationally. He was a featured reader in the New Writing Showcase at Galway's Cúirt International Festival of Literature 2025.  

THE PASSOVER STORY: A MIDRASH

by Joel Savishinsky

 

It seems that long ago, 
there was a strong streak 
of antisemitism in Egypt. 
Something about domestic servitude. 
Lots of salty sweat; 
construction jobs performed 
by undocumented people. 
A labor leader arose—the usual kind 
of suspect: Jewish, bearded, 
an immigrant, messianic inclinations 
—and he called a strike. There were 
threats of retribution. There 
were counter-threats, something 
about nasty stuff, plagues. 
 
Death threats, sacrificial animals, 
an angel making overhead 
surveillance flights—
possible early versions of 
Jewish space lasers—
lambs' blood smeared on doorways, 
a kind of warning, a kind of sign 
to leave us alone. Then there was 
an expulsion order. Many waters to cross...
that kind of thing. The people crossed over. 
It was not the Hudson. The promised land 
was not, contrary to rumors, New Jersey. 
 
Apparently, some of the descendants of 
the people who got across the water are 
now persecuting another people 
—also Semites, as it turns out—who live where 
the former slaves’ ancestors used to live. 
It is a sad cycle. 
 
Those who have a sense of history and 
its tragic ironies now raise their wine glasses 
and say, with tears in their eyes, Oy vey. 
We should know better. 
We could do a lot better than this.
 

Author's note: Midrash: an ancient commentary on part of the Hebrew scriptures, attached to the Biblical text. 
 

Joel Savishinsky is a retired professor of anthropology and gerontology, and the author of the collection Our Aching Bones, Our Breaking Hearts: Poems on Aging. A Pushcart and Best of the Net nominee, his work has appeared in The New York Times, Passager, and Willawaw. His book Breaking the Watch: The Meanings of Retirement in America, won the Gerontological Society of America’s annual book award. He has been leading family Passover Seders for many years. 

THE RECKONING

by Julia Griffin

But for the young, I might not care too much.

I’ll go on reading in my little hutch

And typing quirky poems, as before;

I don’t in fact expect a civil war:

This outcome leaves small danger of a putsch.

Books, dogs, Prosecco—I intend to clutch

My pleasures, drifting further out of touch.

I’d be content just to enjoy them more

But for the young.

Here’s four more years of vicious double dutch,

The crumbling earth denied a vital crutch,

More guns, bent laws, less safety for the poor,

Billionaires’ bribes—all this I might ignore;

It’s not for me my misery is such,

But for the young.

Julia Griffin lives in south-east Georgia.  She did what she could.

MARCH

by Juditha Dowd

AI-generated graphic by Shutterstock

Once again we’ve let ourselves be taken in by spring. 
Words we haven’t spoken for months come tumbling 
from our mouths. Tulip, soil, survival. 
Fools that we are to trust a tease so early in the season, 
we need it like we need the cat to see ourselves 
in a rosier light—young and more attentive—aspiring 
to the better selves we seem to have forgotten. 
We need it like we need the moon to make the universe 
believable. I’ve been thinking about how hard it is to write 
a poem without any mention of spring or moon or hope
so maybe that’s worth a try. But night still comes too early. 
I see you’ve already poured the wine, set a glass 
beside my chair where a cat sits watching the fire. 
If I don’t close these blinds right now, the rising moon 
might keep me here, wandering the galaxies. 
In case it’s true that hope cannot eternally renew itself
or spring last longer than today, let me let me stay with 
what I know tonight, release the cord and step away.
 

Juditha Dowd’s fifth book of poetry, Audubon’s Sparrow, is a lyric biography in the voice of Lucy Bakewell Audubon (Rose Metal Press). She has contributed poems to Beloit Poetry Journal, Cider Press Review, Kestrel, Poet Lore, Poetry Daily, Presence and elsewhere.

YOU ENTER HIS HOUSE

by Nathan Porceng

U.S. Roman Catholic bishops are due this week to discuss whether politicians, including President Joe Biden, should receive Communion while supporting abortion and LGBTQ rights, a debate that has divided the clergy and laid bare internal cultural rifts. —Reuters, June 15, 2021

and his air smells funny

and his art looks funny

and his wine tastes funny

but you try not to offend him,

for you’re dining in his house.

You exchange pleasantries.

You catch up a bit.

You ask about Gabe,

and Michael

and all the other boys

from yard days past

and he tells you they’re

fine,

even made a bit of money,

though they don’t come

around as often as they should,

and you try not to offend him,

for you’re dining in his house.

And it’s Eastertime,

or Christmastime,

or all another holy time.

He asks if it’s been a rough year?

“You don’t look so well.”

“You used to be so giving.”

You swill your wine.

You swallow.

“Yes, it has been a rough year,”

you spit,

but you try not to offend him

for you’re dining in his house.

He tells you

he likes you 

better in person.

You tell him

you like him 

better by mail.

He nods.

He appreciates your candor.

He makes a little joke.

He tells you he has it on the BEST of authorities

that this is FINALLY the year

that your team

(Panthers, Pirates, Penguins... )

will win it all.

In years past,

you’d fake a smile,

and try not to offend him,

but you can’t even manage

that.

He plays you a song.

He ushers you out.

You leave his house,

feeling emptier for it.

Nathan Porceng is a Washington-based poet, songwriter, and submariner. As part of the band Bridge Out, he won first place at the 2014 Northeastern Songwriter Festival in Brookfield, CT. He firmly believes Joe Strummer gave us all the tools we need to save the world.

DID YOU SEE GROUNDHOG DAY THE OTHER NIGHT?

by DeWitt Clinton

Too many days identical to identical days though
Identical days are far better than having no identical
Days left, as in that was the last identical day we spent
But then, you’ll be coming along soon I suspect, just
As the rest of us don’t really have a lifetime left though
Everyone is saying we’ll get over this, through this, we’ll
Make it, just take big deep breaths, eat Brussel sprouts,
Ease up on the whites and reds or for our friend up the
Road, the foreign sounding frothy drink he ends each day
With but really, it’s only not so bad if someone you know
Doesn’t call or send a text or drop in on a video check
As the bad boy virus is going to take way too many of us
Even if we keep a positive glow about all that’s happened
So far, and the reports of available masks made across
The oceans, the make-shift ventilators, the gloves that
Seem to tear even as we put them on, perhaps it’ll just
Be that unmasked ungloved shopper eager to stock up
On a basket of groceries, Charmin, Bounty, Clorox wipes,
Or just about anything that might convince us we’re clean,
We’re not sick, we don’t have a dry cough just a cough
Now and then, and our temp is about the same as it’s
Always been, and the chest occasionally feels all wound
Up but it’s probably just something we ate that gives
Us such a burn that would put any of us into a panic
Over is this it, is this what we’re trying to dodge, is this
Tasty tiny bat going to take us all out, like this, right now?
Well, yes, as the bad bug seems to constantly evolve
Into something we can’t even begin to imagine, though
Whatever it is, we’re just never going to know exactly
How to take the bugger out, just like granny did years
Ago when she twirled that chicken around and around
Then placed the goofy neck out nice and straight so
No one would have to wonder, ever again, what some
Of us, but not all of us, might be salivating again as
By sundown, the table is set, parts are frying, and
We just hope everybody we knew yesterday will
Be knocking on the door, hoping there’s still a chance
That tomorrow will be another chance for another
Identical day that will help us to get through what
Some of us actually look forward to, something identical.

DeWitt Clinton is Professor Emeritus at the University of Wisconsin—Whitewater, and lives in Shorewood. Recent poems of his have appeared in Lowestoft Chronicle, The New Reader Review, The Bezine, The Poet by Day, Verse-Virtual, Poetry Hall, Muddy River Poetry Review, Across the Margin, and Art + Literature Lab. He has two poetry collections from New Rivers Press, a recent collection of poems At the End of the War from Kelsay Books, and a collection of poetic adaptations of Kenneth Rexroth’s 100 Poems from the Chinese in production from Is A Rose Press.

TRADE WAR FALLOUT

by Devon Balwit

The Trump administration is considering tariffs as high as 100 percent on Scotch and Irish whiskey, Belgian waffles and wines from across Europe, as part of its retaliation against the European Union for illegal airline subsidies. —The New York Times, December 13, 2019

Just as I learn to love Laphroaig, the tariffs
come, T***p ever the buzz-kill.
Bled for an extra 100%, I’ll shift
from the peat-smoke of Islay to a local distillery.
For two hundred years, the Scots have bunged
casks. I hope they can hold out. Maybe
bootleggers will sneak crates ashore in dinghies.
I’ll learn the codewords and hiss, Hey
Pal, down by the docks, then hurry home
to shots. The hit-list includes many
favorites: Gouda, Olive Oil, Cashmere,
Wine—all now harvested for dusty
warehouses. O Airbus, what have you done?
You’ve greyed the grey world for everyone.


Devon Balwit's most recent collection is titled A Brief Way to Identify a Body (Ursus Americanus Press). Her individual poems can be found in here as well as in Jet Fuel, The Worcester Review, The Cincinnati Review, Tampa Review, Apt (long-form issue), Tule Review, Grist, and Rattle among others.

AU REVOIR, SAINTE EGLISE

by J. D. Mackenzie





The holy church does not believe
inanimate objects like buildings
have souls, but I know you do—
I saw into yours

I recall a summer term
fixated on gargoyles,
drinking in the art
and St. Julien
on Bastille Day

Wood on the inside,
stone on the outside
centuries of incense smoke
spilled wax and wine

This of all weeks
hours after Palm Sunday,
the Easter sermon
already written

Fire takes us
when nothing else can,
not even time


J. D. Mackenzie is an Oregon-based poet with an unnatural dependence on topics found in the news, including international and progressive news outlets.

WHEN THE WATER RUNS OUT

by Joanna Schroeder



When we run out of water
we will drink tall glasses of stones
from the riverbeds.
We will brush our teeth and rinse

with only the stream of our own saliva,
the trickle of blood from our own gums.
We will wash our hair with wine,
clean our bodies with vinegar.
We will shower the azaleas with time,
all the second hands pulled
from antique watches, gathered in a pail
to pour down like our memory of rain.
We will survive on the notes
of desperate songs, the ones
we haven't heard in years,
conjuring old lovers ghosts
so parched as we are
so thirsty,
even for our own tears.



Joanna Schroeder is an ex-punk adult from Columbus, Ohio.

WHITHER WEATHER #1: CA RAIN PRAYER

by Frances P. Davis

Lake Cachuma photo by Paul Wellman, Santa Barbara Independent, January 23, 2014

We listen with such longing
its little liquid voice
metallic tap on heater vent
click against cement, hiss on leaves

Our thirsty memories stretching
far back to parched times in caves
sand and dry wadis, long treks
to miracle holes gushing springs

Enough of this listlessness
dehydration’s wilting lassitude
withering fruit and vines
the farmer’s boot on powdered ground

May the sky anoint the land with rain again
let’s hear it pounding shingles
gutter runnels gushing
the splash and gurgle of surfeit

Dance or pray or seed the clouds
catch cumulous in a net and twist, bring
back birds in puddles, boats on brimming lakes
canals bearing gifts to penstocks south

Let’s smell the earth drinking
the air electric with recharged ions
let’s catch rainwater in a goblet, lift it
like the finest wine and swallow


Frances P. Davis lives in Summerland, California, a button of a village stitched to hills overlooking the Santa Barbara Channel. The village looks at water all day long, but its reservoir is dry, its lawns browning, its vineyards, raisins on the vine.  A Pushcart Prize nominee, Frances writes a column about the town for the local newspaper and publishes poems in print and online journals.

NEWS ITEM ON HURRICANE SANDY

by Iris Litt

Image source: Jacksonville Wine Guide

According to the news report
some downtowners had to resort
to flushing their toilets with wine.
I think that’s fine
but the politically-correct are outraged,
they have a different take:
It’s like Marie Antoinette’s “Let them eat cake”
since, in the projects, people hauled water
up many more flights than they oughta.
So toast this flushing way-to-go
with pinot noir, cabernet, merlot
chianti, montepulciani
or maybe an Italian bubbly
which may act doubly
on all that slush
and you’ll have a royal flush.

Let them complain.
If (please not) we have another hurricane,
me, I’m flushing with champagne.


Iris Litt’s most recent book of poetry is What I Wanted to Say from Shivastan Publishing. An earlier book of poetry, Word Love,  was published by Cosmic Trend Publications.  She has had poems in many literary magazines including Onthebus, Confrontation, Hiram Poetry Review, The  New Renaissance, Asphodel, Poetry Now, Central Park, Icarus, The Rambunctious Review, Pearl, The Ledge, Earth's Daughters, Poet Lore, Scholastic, and Atlantic Monthly (special college edition).  She has had short stories in Travellers Tales, Prima Materia, Out Of The Catskills,  and The Second Word Thursdays Anthology; and articles in Pacific Coast Journal, Writer's Digest, and The Writer.  She teaches writing workshops in Woodstock, NY, and has taught creative writing at Bard College,  SUNY/Ulster, Arts Society of Kingston, Writers in the Mountains, Educational Alliance, New York Public Library, and Marble Collegiate Church. She lives in Woodstock and in New York City’s Greenwich Village.