“A Side Shadow Afternoon by a Straight Loft” by Đặng Thân

The sun is already dark spring has gone Longing for memories on the hill of the old-hometown soul The wind pushes the butterflies up without ambiguity The mass of people crowd together in silence The ghost smiles lonely on the moonlit path The tea pot has been repeatedly filled up then runs out Who’s drinking…

“Memories of the Future” by Michael Mirolla

The bells still chime at noon (electric now) tintinnabulating over that house on 14th Avenue. The hypnotic call for black-kerchiefed worshippers who shuffle rosary beads in hand susurrating towards the churchyard where “unauthorized vehicles will be towed at owner’s expense” awaits. A blessing? Or a …? What will we dig up spinning forward the wheel?…

“Untitled” by Soňa Pokorná, translated by Filip Noubel

Danger of broken glasses looming  So we canceled cheek kissing  And started hugging  — Crossing an infinity of hugs your hand’s touch in the kitchen Líbání na tváře jsme zrušili  hrozilo rozbití brýlí Začali jsme se tedy objímat  — A přes všechna ta obejmutí dotek tvé ruky v kuchyni  Soňa Pokorná is a Czech photographer…

“Diary of an Addict” by Megha Sood

The immeasurable joy cupped in the soft centers of my puny palm and a gentle rush that reached soft corners of your mouth making an arc so irresistible that it broke all the barriers of touch and passion. A passion that simmers under the folds of my skin like the frothy moonlight. The silent glimmer…

3 Poems by Uchechukwu Onyedikam & Christina Chin

a tree houserevered with offeringsthe Iroko-manburning incenseadverts the spirits *** first rainof the season pied cuckoo waitsfor her arrival  *** heritage City indigenous inscriptionson our facesthe tattoo on her chin Christina Chin is a painter and haiku poet from Malaysia. She is a four-time recipient of top 100 in the mDAC Summit Contests, exhibited at the Palo Alto Art Center,…

“Green is my Bed” by Thomas W. Case

I explored thedepths of hell, andfound it wanting,wandering the streets,looking for a utopia.Not all that shines isthe sun.Pictures can bedoctored, and when thelayers are peeled awaythe purple horizon isn’troyal.It’s a ghastly negative,with black and whiteimages that lacklove and depth. All the potions are placebos.It’s temporary and tiring.When I grew up,I stopped playing withtoys, they break…

“What Should I Do With My Regret?” by Megha Sood

that keeps coming back to me like a stray dog looking for love, and empathy when I have none What should I do with my grey regret? Fuelled with hate and remorse; like a leftover dough on a marbled kitchen top   rising unbidden out of hate: taking up all the space in my being. What…

“Lazarus” by Brian Kirk

Imagine the stench it must have made,a cadaver rising from the tomb.A boy from the West Bank, four days dead,arose as if from sleeping in his bed,discarding his frayed Halloween costume.Imagine the stench he must have made,offending the senses of the startled crowd,he who had graced Hell’s anteroom.This boy from the West Bank, four days…

Four Poems by Frank Dullaghan

How it Happens Spring 2021 – For Louise and Ellis She was with him when they gassed him, when his grip on her finger fell away. Then she kissed him and was sent out to wait. Three-months old, post-op, he will not remember. But his Mama will. This is how it happens, how mothers grow…

“Frozen Love” by Thomas W. Case

Living on the Scandinavian streets havehumbled her.No Christmas cards witha 20 spot anymore.No trust fund fromMom and Dad.All the money vanished likethe last spider of vodka,like a dropped bottle of beer.She could go to ashelter by herself,but she chooseslife on thestreets in thebrutal winter to bewith her Swedish boyfriend.Love is lunacy–sometimes frozen.Two dead friends last…

“Imagining Botanic Gardens (Singapore)” by Michael Mirolla

The heat should rush through you like a sword of bees. The humidity should follow to finish you off. Leaving you to reach for breath where there’s none to be had. A choke hold that squeezes like a tire hung around your chest. Like a knee that just won’t let you rise again. But all…

“Sonnets, Villanelles, and Cats on my Desk” by Thomas W. Case

I’m in a cool group.To stay on topof my writing, and topromote and marketmy poetry, I oftenpublish online.If Lord Byron couldhear that. In this place thatI belong,I have deadlines.I procrastinate untilthe very last day, and thenscribble some shittylines and get angry withmyself for putting thewriting off. I have a couple ofweeks before I needto write…