A sailor lured to rocky shores

by love and sometimes loneliness

my ship has run your joyless embrace

run aground your cold neurotic flesh.

I stuff my ears against your song

eyes on a horizon away from gloom

heart heavy with jagged cliffs and whispered dreams

the ice in your voice when you speak of love.

Holly Day’s writing has recently appeared in Analog SF, Earth’s Daughters, and Appalachian Journal, and her recent book publications include Music Composition for Dummies, The Tooth is the Largest Organ in the Human Body, and Bound in Ice. She teaches creative writing at The Loft Literary Center in Minneapolis and Hugo House in Seattle.

Beyond is the aftermath

always leading to blue

waters, startling and clear afternoon

Beyond is the beginning

the very thought of essence

somewhere in a holy place

Beyond is the middle

the now and its peculiar

joy and lack of grasping

Beyond my mother’s struggle

my father’s prize

into my own unmapped regions

A series of waves

a steady shine

a sapphire edge

Carla McGill’s work has been published in The Atlanta Review, Bryant Literary Review, Shark Reef, Crack the Spine, Westview, Common Ground Review, Caveat Lector, Door Is A Jar, Euphony Journal, The Hungry Chimera, Carbon Culture Review, Neologism Poetry Journal, DASH Literary Journal, Schuylkill Valley Journal of the Arts, The Summerset Review, The Penmen Review, Cloudbank, Paragon Journal, Burningword, The Alembic, California Quarterly, Waxing & Waning, Broad River Review and others. She lives in Southern California where she writes poetry and fiction.

Stars like chips of ice

float above descending slopes

of Gorgonio, first the elevated plains,

uplands of hardened ridges,

then sudden drop over bare

undulations, desolate down through

the pass, until silver winds

heave and dawn cracks open.

Sea mists ascend in the west

Rich and resonant blue

Seafoam holy white, golden

sand, and gloria be to them, glory.

Hawk feather drifts across

the bronze bobcat sky, rabbits

find patches of dried grass

at the edge of everything

awaiting impending destruction;

strength wanes on freeways

from here to manifold

dreadful certainties.

Sea mists dissolve in the west

Splendid sun spilling light

On miles of shoreline, blue

Stretching out to a clear horizon

Melancholy rises at sundown

Hidden caves, stampeding

horses chasing unseen maps,

corridors drought dry with thorns

and miles to towns where lights

swing in the winds, hanging

there in insensible hope

waiting while children sleep.

Sea mists gather in the west

Purple night falls, coconut

crabs surface to survey

and gloria be to them, glory.

Carla McGill’s work has been published in The Atlanta Review, Bryant Literary Review, Shark Reef, Crack the Spine, Westview, Common Ground Review, Caveat Lector, Door Is A Jar, Euphony Journal, The Hungry Chimera, Carbon Culture Review, Neologism Poetry Journal, DASH Literary Journal, Schuylkill Valley Journal of the Arts, The Summerset Review, The Penmen Review, Cloudbank, Paragon Journal, Burningword, The Alembic, California Quarterly, Waxing & Waning, Broad River Review and others. She lives in Southern California where she writes poetry and fiction.

Years pass and the floorboards in the attic

creak. A memory of an untouched dollhouse,

a miniature carousel, a stuffed elephant

with a black plastic eye hanging on

by its last two threads. Dust so

thick it chokes, floats—

at sunset the day’s last beams

shoot straight through the round window

that resembles a clock with no hands,

just a tic-tac-toe grid from the

freshly painted white grilles.

If she knocks, I’ll open the door

and let down the ladder, sure.

She’ll sneeze and feel hair in

the back of her throat she didn’t

know she had.

Nick Godec’s work has been published in Grey Sparrow, Pennsylvania Literary Journal, Rue Scribe, and Steam Ticket. He studied history at Columbia University, received his MBA from Columbia Business School and now works in the financial industry. Nick lives in New York City with his wife, Julia, and their miniature pinscher, Emma.

—after William Wordsworth

Mary entered the tomb and lay beside

her son. It was cold and the

stone slab unforgiving. Her eyes a lake

without end, the earth moaning beneath

her, ground fossils of ancient lives the

world forgot and turned to soil. Trees

stood high around the tomb, moths fluttering

and resting on the green leaves. Cocoons and

habits transformed. Once there had been dancing

and knowing in a small plot of forest in

a ripe season. But now Mary sobbed. She loved the

Man, who grew and left softly, like a breeze.

Nick Godec’s work has been published in Grey Sparrow, Pennsylvania Literary Journal, Rue Scribe, and Steam Ticket. He studied history at Columbia University, received his MBA from Columbia Business School and now works in the financial industry. Nick lives in New York City with his wife, Julia, and their miniature pinscher, Emma.

Nothing here beyond us—plastic dolls

in a dark factory basement.

Lights turn off row by row.

This room is full of blank bodies.

Once I whispered dreams

through the dividing glass.

You called for sexy swimwear.

Your dollars dropped at our feet.

You kept us with the living,

made us believe we were alive.

Seeing you from the window made us

blind to our own facelessness.

They leave us here

in tight formation.

We dream a return

to the window,

waiting for

adoration and praise.

The moment never comes.

This plastic body isn’t mine.

Yet here I am.

Nick Godec’s work has been published in Grey Sparrow, Pennsylvania Literary Journal, Rue Scribe, and Steam Ticket. He studied history at Columbia University, received his MBA from Columbia Business School and now works in the financial industry. Nick lives in New York City with his wife, Julia, and their miniature pinscher, Emma.

And the nuances of counting are gone,

And the sun and the moon have confused their shifts,

And we flee like refugees of any given season,

The toll of the tower loses its math,

Day and night are only songbirds of the horizon.

Jason Visconti has attended both group and private poetry workshops. His work has appeared in various journals, including “Literary Yard”, “Valley Voices”, “California Quartely”, “Allegro Magazine” and “The American Journal of Poetry”. He especially enjoys the poetry of Pablo Neruda and Billy Collins.

This is an alphabet that goes beyond mere words,

The infant in his crib scrambling for a sign,

His arm he surrenders to almost vanish as it swerves,

All for the recreation of keeping time,

If recreation can fill a hall in turn.

Jason Visconti has attended both group and private poetry workshops. His work has appeared in various journals, including “Literary Yard”, “Valley Voices”, “California Quartely”, “Allegro Magazine” and “The American Journal of Poetry”. He especially enjoys the poetry of Pablo Neruda and Billy Collins.

She’s a magician with presence in every booth,

A poet whose signal flair has sung,

An artist who brings the canvas through,

A dancer with no one to fall upon,

A lover who tells her body what to do.

Jason Visconti has attended both group and private poetry workshops. His work has appeared in various journals, including “Literary Yard”, “Valley Voices”, “California Quartely”, “Allegro Magazine” and “The American Journal of Poetry”. He especially enjoys the poetry of Pablo Neruda and Billy Collins.