Author: The Editors

her parting kiss

fell soft upon my lips

and with no hesitation

although I knew the separation

to be of short and temporary nature

a frosting covered my heart

as though a spring blossom was suddenly

withered within a February chill

my soul cried and I………………

 

Nah…..

She kissed me goodbye

And that feeling

That certain lousy feeling

It hit me

Hard

And there’s no name for it

 

It is that feeling a western hero

would feel

Should he draw down upon

an evil foe

Only to find his holster filled

with emptiness

 

The sensation that would

befall an astronaut

lost

and with no remaining

means of  navigation

 

And I have yet to find a word

that truly fits it

 

But whatever one may call it

It is a lousy feeling

Making one aware that

a part,

perhaps,

the most important part

of you

is missing

and that’s

the way I feel

every time

she kisses me

goodbye

---

Matthew Longerbeam is a native of Maryland. He was a victim of violent crime in the 1990s and has spent most of his adult life in recovery. Matthew is currently working on a degree in Human Services at HCC and lives in Williamsport, Md with his wife Tabby and his cat Hobo.

 

Fourth coffee, seventh book,
apartment looking down on train-track,
knowledge’s cruelty frozen into wrinkles,
his friends tried to convince him
that ignorance is inviolate
but with a lot of cramming
he may yet know these things.

Clock strikes midnight.
Legend has it that,
math and literature
dissolve into dust motes
at such an hour –
but no, he’s the one who fades,
or is it Pip, dissolute, broke,
or planar right angles in spheres.

He whispers in Romeo’s ear –
“Stay with me.”

H begs Hipparchus
not to bail out on him —
but it’s sleep that walks
his streets of London,
that incorporates complex numbers.

His head falls down
on a makeshift desk.
In the morning,
he awakens with a stiff neck,
tired, and feeling a fact or two shy
of total ignorance.
So he makes coffee.
Opens another book.
Luckily, today
there’s no math, no lit,
just a character test.
Pass this

and who says he won’t pass these others.

---

John Grey is an Australian poet, US resident. Recently published in Examined Life Journal, Studio One and Columbia Review with work upcoming in Leading Edge, Poetry East and Midwest Quarterly.

 

Staring at the Milky Way in a dream of ecstasy
he thought only of the sweet nectar
of days long gone.

Mixing the oils once again on the firmament
she teased while the paint dripped
tiny drops into planets.

Orion floated her hair of stars and flames
burning the irises of a young heart
sparks shattered the silence.

Slender as a ray of infinite light he craned his neck
to reach the pregnant celestial bodies
for a single taste.

Blinded in desire, dissipating all senses into dust
swinging her magic wand like a mace
she saw him beg.

Softly her essence caressed those pitiful lips
he trembled in his shriveling shell
and sweetly he died.

---

Fabrice Poussin teaches French and English at Shorter University. Author of novels and poetry, his work has appeared in Kestrel, Symposium, The Chimes, and dozens of other magazines. His photography has been published in The Front Porch Review, the San Pedro River Review and more than 350 other publications.

Here, one of seven and a half billion,

hung nebulous and tiny in a sea of wild mysteries,

scattered broad through the purple ink

of ancient vastness, like bird seed flung wild,

I stand, and learn, as if it was something new,

how to walk free in my own skin.

How to balance on the tight rope of such uncertainty

as a gyrating rock round a fire ball

made mostly of hydrogen.

 

And I behold my apple size world,

With its yellow splash of happiness

gleaming through the frozen white rain.

 

How small can I get–   and yet, how large–

 

There is that within me,

not of bones and dirt,

that calls to the flaming vastness,

yearning for the stars

as one does for that which is most familiar

yet which they have lost.

I spread these hands wide,

hoping against reason and science

to hold it all close once more.

 

And the stars shall come, I suppose,

when I least expect them.

Come as a dream,

softy, then all at once.

My little hourglass broken,

sharp shards glinting rainbows.

And they and I shall fly together,

When the cage door is opened

and the dove of my heart escapes.

01 • 14 • 2018

---

Phoebe Anthas is a 22 years old, a dreamer, artist, poet, and a student of human nature in the classroom of the world.

it took my breath away

when I saw you today

little rose

such a welcome surprise

it brought tears to my eyes

to see just how lovely

you’ve grown

 

such sweet memories

rushed back into me

little rose

that through watery eyes

I just watched you walk by

wishing I had said hello

 

too many years have passed by

and now there’s no use in crying

this I know

I didn’t want things this way

but life swept you away

and I had to learn to let go

 

now I live for a chance

when I might ask you to dance

little rose

this is no perfect world

but you’re my little girl

and I want you always to know

 

they took you from my garden

and I missed watching you grow

I don’t know what they’ve told you

but in your heart I hope you’ll know

if a cold breeze should shake your leaves

or a storm is raging wild

you can come to me

and like an old oak tree

I will shelter you my child

---

Matthew Longerbeam is a native of Maryland. He was a victim of violent crime in the 1990s and has spent most of his adult life in recovery. Matthew is currently working on a degree in Human Services at HCC and lives in Williamsport, Md with his wife Tabby and his cat Hobo.