David Anthony Martin Harrow Somewhere in the dead of night the loom of an elephant in a room keeps a man in the dark awake. David Anthony Martin forages wild mushrooms in season, collects feathers when found and writes daily.
Read MoreJames Mc Elroy Cuckoo Different from your winter quarters in Africa you come, because I’ve seen you, and cruise like an accipiter in heat along the near side of Divis Mountain before it becomes one more housing estate in Belfast just off the Ballygomartin Road. James Mc Elroy grew up in Belfast and now teaches […]
Read MoreJames Hamby Sunbeams at Dusk In the living room where my mother kept her porcelain cats and angels, motes danced in slanted sunbeams as dusk gave way to shadow. James Hamby works in the Writing Center at Middle Tennessee State University where he also teaches classes in composition and literature.
Read MoreTodd Mercer Is This Thing On? The same way my parents assumed I never listened before I became just like them, I’ll assume you hear me clearer than you seem to, my impassable, beloved child. Todd Mercer, winner of the 2016 Dyer-Ives Poetry Prize and the 2015 Grand Rapids Festival for the Arts Flash Fiction Prize had […]
Read MoreTodd Mercer Great View, Poor Accommodations Jesus couldn’t really see Peter’s house from there, but that’s the cool cat the apostles loved, the mensch making jokes for them even as he slipped away. Todd Mercer, winner of the 2016 Dyer-Ives Poetry Prize and the 2015 Grand Rapids Festival for the Arts Flash Fiction Prize had his digital […]
Read MoreDamian Balassone The Palace The poem is a palace and each verse is a spiral staircase that leads to a dim lit dungeon where the prisoner resides. Damian Balassone is an Australian poet.
Read MoreH. Edgar Hix Stuck Having found the needle, I discover I have lost the haystack. H. Edgar Hix has had some poems published recently, which says something about the state of American letters.
Read MoreSteve Klepetar The Iceman I found a man buried in the ice wrapped in furs and his mouth looked so small beneath that hood— a cherry blossom floating on a black pool. Steve Klepetar lives and writes in Saint Cloud, Minnesota, where he tries desperately to hold on to his dwindling hydrogen atoms.
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