Poetry

by Floyd Skloot.
“summer lose its grip. Nothing more /
than a waning of the scents that dwelt /
all season near the hilltop…”

by Erica Funkhouser.
“Sadness calls for inadequate outerwear. / Exhilaration for ultra violet. / All feelings are unhealthy.”

by Tim Suermondt.
“I lie back a little dreamlike, / let Mary Immaculate take the blood she needs. / The sun has found its way inside, / enveloping all of us in its light—”

by Joan I. Siegel.
“He does not wait for the sun’s return.
Instead he makes a pillow of darkness
to stretch inside this longest night…”

by Paula Bohince.
“My sister drove, / so long that what began before daybreak / ended in the same pitch, / and we barely noticed those in-between hours, // though this morning we laughed…”

by Jayne Marek.
“Old cat, my little love, as you withdraw / along with the declining days in October / and fold yourself into slanting light, / you seem quiet and neat as rolled-up socks.”

by Laura E. Garrard.
“I am finally kind to my broken body / when she pops her hip, limps her leg. // I do not shout down my spine / but coo and coax like a loving mother…”

by June Rowe.
“Named Inky by his captors, with appealing / comparisons to human traits, feedings / timed to please the children’s flattened / faces squished against the glass….”

by James Gonda.
“In the shed behind the house where /
garden tools lean in a corner there /
was a spider, black and still, as large /
as a thumbprint tucked behind a spade…”