‘Half-Life of a Birthday Gift’, ‘Geography’ & ‘Math’

Photographer - Tobi Brun

Half-Life of a Birthday Gift

Green sweater
with rough cuffs
reads
World’s Greatest Grandpa
in cracked print
between
one of eight coatracks
at the local Goodwill
until a freshman girl
purchases said garment
for the upcoming
funny sweater kegger.

Geography

She’s Argentina and I’m Chile
as blue duvet crashes
atop only her pale coasts.
There’s a sea on my side
but limited to 5 am skies
behind windowpanes.
She is tropical everywhere
except her legs which is why
my feet are buried under
Patagonia sweaters while I shiver
into Easter Island stone
yet there’s no border
I’d rather share than between
our two bodies of water.

Math

Dad set the clocks in the house five minutes fast
so on-time and late were synonyms in his thesaurus
which he’d recite other pages at loud registers.
I subtracted that number from every value
as neighbor’s addresses shifted the next door down
and I was never sure if dad turned into
the right parking lot driving five over the limit.
The night before I’d have nightmares about
forgetting my locker combo and for the first
couple tries you could’ve convinced me
that I overslept and was late to class
where every A- on a quiz was a B+ and
I only got 100’s on projects with extra credits.
During football practice, I’d over pull my gap
where there was no teammate to block and
I’d hear Dad’s yell again but in a thick, Jersey accent.
On the sideline I’d watch the cheerleaders
work on their choreography and how
they all moved their left leg, then their right,
before moving their left leg again
to the unpredictable beats of dubstep until
locking eyes with the girl I once overheard
describe me to her cheer partners as a five.

Will Neuenfeldt studied English at Gustavus Adolphus College and his poems are published in Capsule Stories, Months to Years, and Red Flag Poetry. He lives in Cottage Grove, MN, home of the dude who played Steven Stifler in those American Pie movies and a house Teddy Roosevelt slept in. Instagram.com/wjnpoems.

‘Biking the Big River Trail on the First Warm Sunday in March’, ‘Wrought’ & ‘Opossum’

Photographer - Tobi Brun

Biking the Big River Trail on the First Warm Sunday in March

the ride was not without surprises:
a man’s long white beard was being conjured by the wind before it parted
and shot over his shoulders; heading in the opposite direction, another man,

in his golden years, zipped past on a unicycle; melting remnants
of snow beside the path revealed that someone had lost their sole,
one black memory foam insert, separated from its mate.

Approaching Pickerel Lake, sunlight danced on the water beside
a blackened shoreline where a recent controlled burn left the soil rich,
fertile, primed for new growth. As I turned my bike around for the return ride,

I was fortified by a recollection from my childhood in Colorado Springs:
the great-niece of Helen Hunt Jackson,who, well into her eighties,
pedaled around town on a fixed-gear bike, poised, in a skirt
and matching blazer, pillbox hat pinned atop her steel gray hair.

Bracing against the wind, I pedaled uphill and into my sixth decade.

Wrought

Fearfully and wonderfully made,
at the core, we are palindromes.
Knit in our mothers’ wombs,
x and y chromosomes lining
up in repeat sequences,
flowing in both directions,
inhabiting every cell,
we unfold in symmetry.

Then there is the eye —
mirror unto itself,
window to the soul,
portal through which light enters.

From the outside,
our bodies are matchy-matchy,
like glossy catalog pages
of families wearing coordinated
Christmas pajamas;

limbs and sense organs complementing
each other in bilateral pairs:
eyes, hands, knees, ears, feet, nostrils.

It is the heart that shows the first visible asymmetry.

Opossum

I peer into morning’s blackness as my breath
fogs the windowpane adding a halo
to the glow of the street lamp.

Overnight, snowfall has covered everything
in undisturbed brilliance. The velvet brown
branches of the sumac are laced in whiteness.

Streets, sidewalks, rooftops dazzle
with the purity of a holy winter night. Inside,
on the verge of attending to the mundane:
feeding the dogs, making coffee,
preparing for the work day,

I almost miss the constellation
of tiny, star-shaped footprints
advancing across the front steps,
tail mark dragging behind

trailing winter magic in its wake.

Julie Martin lives near the confluence of the Mississippi and Minnesota Rivers. Her work has recently appeared in the following journals: The Talking Stick, Pasque Petals, Plants and Poetry, Agates, and The Coop: A Poetry Cooperative. With poet and artist River Urke, she co-hosts Up Close: Meet the Poet Behind the Verse, a quarterly program that showcases the work of local poets in the Twin Cities and beyond. Read more of her work at JulieMartinpoet.com.

‘Paradise is Burning’, ‘On the Road to Emerald City’ & ‘Greyscale’

Photographer - Tobi Brun

Paradise is Burning

Prosperity pinches at the sides of purpose
Teeth pulling to the profiteer
Oh, why me? They shout treating philanthropy as penance
Pacify their pessimism for paradise is burning
And passion is not measured by the weight of one's purse

On the Road to Emerald City

White knuckled I gripped the smaller half of a wishbone
A receipt with a hastily scribbled number and a heart
That would never text back
But I, the larger half of a hope

In your clenched hand, three-quarters of a smile
A number stuffed in my pocket with keys of Tin Man fingers
Wrapped around a paper heart
And you, the smaller half of a promise

I was given the gift receipt for the medals Oz gave to the lion
As if courage could be bought with store credit
Fluorescent lights and rows and rows of ruby-red slippers
Selling the dream of no place like home

She will get her whole smile
When yellow bricks turn to gold
Tell King Midas, gold means nothing to a kingdom of statues

Greyscale

The color before blue
Not everything has meaning like it used to
Point out the charm of my favorite artists

Eyes too small for a face
They have shrunk
Let my world build plaque on the gums

Like a first word, I’ll go out with a gargle
False hope of holy water
Fluid in my lungs
Undrying a worm in the sun

A weather vane still turns when no ones home
When no one tends to the garden
The birds still bathe in dirty water

And dogs still smile at the rainbow in greyscale

William Weiss is a writer hailing from Pasadena, California. He works with disabled adults to help expand their capabilities and possibilities, and as a musician, he loves the rhythm behind words and the diverse dialog of interpretation poetry brings. You can often find William brooding over a line under his desk, sitting on his desk, on the floor, in a crowded elevator, or really any place that he has a second to think. He is a recently published poet in The Broadkill Review as well as Oprelle Publications, and a semifinalist in the Philadelphia Stories’ National Prize in Poetry.

‘The Home I Love’, ‘Still Life’ & ‘A Message to the Giants’

Photographer - Tobi Brun

The Home I Love

Everything looks like

Western Pennsylvania to

The traveler from

Western Pennsylvania, so

He believes he has

Seen the world.

It is as if he

Is pursued by an endless

Sea of relatives,

And the dangers of

Distant lands are only those

Reflected in his

Sunglasses. So he is lost

Among identical roads.

Still Life

Center: chowder in

A fat, white bowl, bits of fish

Cut in sluices lumped

Over the pale lip;

Left: a folded corner of

The tablecloth, that

Deep, speckled blue the

Color of unbroken waves;

Right: the slab of bread

Slathered with cream-gold

Butter, long lines laid across

Its crusted hillside.

A Message to the Giants

Play leapfrog across

Lake Erie, if you have to;

If the Ohio

Is not enough. Step

Side to side, one country to

The next, but be sure

To account for homes

Along the way. No-one likes

To be woken up

By an ecstatic

Big toe squashing the bedroom,

Let alone the death.

But I doubt you can hear me,

Your airplane eyes coasting from

Cloud to cloud, your golden hair

Growing, careless, unchained, and

My voice as small as it is.

Caleb Haas is an emerging poet from the Pittsburgh area, working on his first chapbook: "One to Another".

‘All the Times One Wanted to Walk Away’ & ‘Burial Rites’

Photographer - Tobi Brun

All the Times One Wanted to Walk Away

In Vienna, you thought it too profound to say love me.
Of our divine inferno, as you called it, I loved
being its prisoner and your beautiful disregard
of it: your reprimands lingering in the air’s orange perfume,
my soft weeping the lullaby to which you fell asleep,
your thundering snores the denouement of our evening.

The banisters sang songs of philos for the descent of
Eros: the mahogany reddened like my lipstick pigment
and the steps creaking in coital harmonies.
When you scoffed yet descended the stairs after it.

On the hotel veranda we shared breakfast—
colazione, you ameliorated—
my love ever as hot as the mocha espresso,
as tempting as spreading all the gianduja cream
atop my biscuits, leaving none for you.

When I twirled the knife in the juice
of the jar, replaying our joust of yesternight, pleading:
Darling, do not forget I am your mosque;
Let the horrors nesting in Past’s loins be our charm,
Let them mature into things you love: cherries, boutiques.
Venture! Let us organisms dance in the aggrandizement.

Then, Venice—how their servants welcomed you,
thinking you a crucifer imported, a blessing from Karlskirche!
when you are merely a postulant, rendered immobile
in your waiting to secure my love,
my approval dangling before your tongue.

Our voyage along the Venetian lagoon
where I collected stolen glances from the gondolier,
my pulse thumping like its rudder when
your possessive grasp landed on my neck,
held as you doused my cheek with a smacker.

Oh, all the times one wanted to walk away!
Though I am rendered defenseless like the Simonists
of Dante’s Hell plunged into the ground, their feet ablaze,
just as my heart is afire for your wiles and you.

Burial Rites

It begins when home soil is raided,
the reminder that no earthly dwelling is safe
from infiltration. Inundating Rain storms the
barracks of root and clay until all organisms are
flushed out. And when the bodies of so many
worms are lined up for execution on the cobblestone
crematorium, the mocking sun doing its worst,
they are granted no urn save for the trapping labyrinths
of shoe soles. And when passersby do trample and stomp
on and past the massacred and the still-writhing displaced,
unsure if it is the rain or the worm to blame for the littered
pathway—they were not outside during the storm, after all—
the grass blades shake from the shock of slaughter and plead,
if anyone is listening above, may He remove the Worm Crushers’
hearts of stone and give them hearts of flesh! so that
someone may look upon the site in horror and extend the courageous hand
that will transport the worms to Sod, will dig graves of flower petal
and dirt for their home burial, and will not stop, despite scornful stares
of onlookers, until each corpse has met its proper resting place.

Blake Harrsch is a poet corporeally in New Jersey with a writer’s heart determined to capture stories beyond temporal bounds. She is an English Literature Master's candidate and writing instructor at Seton Hall University. @blakeharrsch, blakeharrsch.com.

‘Wine or Vinegar?’, ‘What Another 'JC' May Have Meant...’ & ‘毀滅與的’

Photographer - Tobi Brun

Wine or Vinegar?

The earliest of the New Testament Gospel texts –
Mark –
states definitively that wine (οἶνον),
mixed with myrrh (ἐσμυρνισμένον),
was permitted or offered (ἐδίδουν)
at what is generally considered
the crucifixion of Jesus ...
in ancient times,
by the way,
myrrh had many applications,
including in anointing kings and high priests.

Further,
Mark states that while this libation
was permitted or offered,
it was the person now known as 'Jesus' who –
it may be read –
gave sweet intoxication mixed with a healing balm (metaphorically).

Such manna (מָן)
should not be confused with חומץ (vinegar) –
rather,
it is properly recognised
as a reference to superlative rhetoric
or philosophy.

That manna is apparent elsewhere,
including in a passage in Matthew 27:46 –
purporting to represent
'reasoning' [λέγων]
'shouted again' [ἀνεβόησεν]
in a 'marvellous discourse' [φωνῇ μεγάλῃ]).

For those with an understanding of Aristotelian philosophy,
the application of dialectic methods
and creative translation of various languages,
the relevant transliterated Aramaic and Koine Greek
might be read as shown below.

Being, existence, causation and fate (YHWH)
laments the query,
"Why produce myriad peaceful fruits?"

There – and here – exists
the fundamental generative good
in each emerging moment, my deity,
mine is where what is me is:
in favour of survival;
against abandonment; and
left behind as an inheritance.

Expressed thus –
as may have been the case
for a philosopher, grammarian and rhetorician –
it is a life lesson
free from religious dogma
and relevant to all.

These are a couple of examples
of different interpretations
that may be applied
to the earliest Gospel texts ...
which,
believe it or not,
do not even include the name 'Jesus'.

As for the moniker 'Christ',
it is of only recent invention -
from about 100CE to 1300CE,
a word for 'Good'
was actually the epithet applied ...
and it was used in parallel with derivatives of an earlier descriptor:
χρυσός (meaning 'gold', 'precious' or 'treasured').

All might not be as we have been told
by those influenced by religious dogma –
including that this 'Jesus' died on a cross,
or was a man
(perhaps,
rather than a God,
she was an exceptional mortal woman).

Due to a progressive
(and terminal)
neurological condition,
I may never get the opportunity
to complete my PhD on this matter.

Regardless,
I enjoy sharing thoughts with others
as they arise ...
little by little, perhaps sense will prevail.

The action of the fates aside,
however,
what we can surely agree upon
is that the world needs more good works –
and for that,
all we need to act on
is our own 'divine' spark
(the best of intentions
produced in our own individual minds
[Michelangelo left that message
on the roof of the Sistine Chapel]) ...
after all,
as noted in James 2:20,
“faith without works is dead”
(and I suspect 'Jesus Christ' likely thought the same).

What another 'JC' may have meant ...

Julius Caesar (100 BCE – 44 BCE) –
Roman general, statesman, author and historian –
is believed to have once written,

“FERE LIBERNTER HOMINES
ID QUOD VOLUNT CREDUNT”.

The traditional reading of that passage
is something along the lines of,

“Men generally believe
what they want to believe”.

Rendered thus,
it is a maxim of sorts
that has a Stoic tone to it
(or some may perceive a Cynic).

An alternative reading –
one applying creative translation –
providing guidance
rather than observation
follows:

Humanity,
speak willingly, eagerly, gladly, cheerfully, vigorously and enthusiastically
that which wishes, intends, consents to and advances towards
imagination, thought, confidence and life-preserving trust.

Such an approach is consistent
with masterful philosophical approaches –
and consistent with the teachings
of another subsequent 'JC'.

毀滅與的
信仰是力量讓破碎的世界重見光明
信仰是力量讓破碎的世界重見光明
的與滅毀

Destroying, ruining and slander obliterates ...
provide, cause and participate in the optimal

Belief, justice and capability reproaching?
Broken.

Bindú?
The realm governed by a buddhá duplicating manifest brilliance:
hope in adverse circumstances, frankness and open-heartedness.

Truly,
to rely on this power and influence?
Pramāṇa.

Permitting destruction, ruin or exile?
Shattering, fragmenting and shredding.

The aim, standard and criterion?
A life, generations and a world
characterised by prudent views ...
only clarity, observation, intelligence, knowledge,
discernment, sensibility, understanding, and wisdom.

Winning the lottery?
Helping, supporting, befriending and choosing
extinguishing destruction, ruin and slander.

Douglas Colston hails from Australia, has played in Ska bands, married his love, fathered two great children and among other things, pursued a PhD he hoped would provide a positive contribution to the zeitgeist. Having been a former Pushcart nominee, his writing has appeared in anthologies and magazines, including: Tenth Muse; POETiCA REViEW; Impspired; Hive Avenue; Rue Scribe; Inlandia; and Revue {R}évolution.

‘girl writer en café’

Photographer - Tobi Brun

girl writer en café

She had eyes like mossy tree bark
that looked at me just once
but I saw the forest of her soul through the trees of her eyes,
My unworthy gaze met hers for the first and only time
And in that moment (I admit) my heart reached for the sun,
She went back to writing in her small notepad
at the table next to mine,
Her rimless glasses bending low to the paper
as she wrote shorthand,
What could she be writing?
I wish I had the courage to ask
but since my youth had been shy and yellow bellied
and will forever never know,
All I have is her short dark hair,
small silver hoop earrings,
Small-chested pink t-shirt
and white platform converse
meeting at the end of a long denim skirt,
My coffee got cold beside my neglected computer
as I snuck glances her writing-preoccupied way,
Hemingway’s A Moveable Feast mere words on a page
with no story or concept
as I struggled to not soak her presence in like a sponge
but failed miserably,
She stood to leave and my sunny heart eclipsed,
When she was gone I could still aftertaste her lingering memory,
But I could finally focus on my work
and begin to wring out the sponge
onto this page.'

Jacque Margaux is a Franco-American writer and hopeless romantic with a sensitive piscine soul. His poetry is his therapy. To cope with the loss of all those who he fears to approach, he writes poetry about them. He nurses his broken heart in Upstate New York. Some of his work may be found on the Instagram page of his close acquaintance, @notrileycreative.

‘Maranatha’, ‘Saints’, ‘Offerings’

Photographer - Tobi Brun

‘maranatha’

on the very first day of the year
we all sat tied-up and watched on the old projector
the same glorious service from a far away church
with a proper garden, a proper pulpit
something we could only dream of
while our mosquitoes flew in circles like the fans spreading out dust and heat
but at that time, we were equal
actually, we felt better than the ones suffering:
global warming, wars, hunger
how beautiful, isn’t it?
the pastor used to scream in complete awe
while the washed off colors of the screen flicked
how close we are from Salvation —
Maranatha we would sing
Jesus will come for us;
seven horns, seven eyes
continuing the year
the word reverberated in my mind
as if i was caged, brought back to that wooden bench:
i looked at the sunsets after thunderstorms
and kneeled praying for my life
i heard ominous music resembling the trumpets
and hid myself inside

Saints

I have Saints in my walls, my shelves, my bags
Some Saints I am not sure who they may concern
I just want to connect everything to the Holy.
Maybe in an attempt to find meaning in the mess my room is
Though I am afraid of reading the Bible
Realizing what it has to say about me
About the sour candy wraps scattered around
I don’t know much about the Gospels;
But I know about the rage of God to Cain
You know, it is the way the church raises that is killing me

offerings

i went to a chapel in a crisp monday morning
to sit at the bench by the Virgin Mary
she looked youthful, with her hands clasped and her kind countenance
the statue was made with white stone
but so colorful it looked with all of its offerings
many rosaries with beads of different colors and materials
flowers around her halo and on the holy ground
bracelets spelling a secret, prayer cards to São Longuinho
i could not even pay attention to my prayers because all i could think was
how beautiful,
it is a canvas of the community
of what we long for, of what we are

Anna Correa is an Brazilian immigrant based on Orlando, FL. She studies computer science and is an editor for her local school magazine. She has been featured at Phoenix Magazine, The Word's Faire, and Wingless Dreamer Publisher. More of her work can be found at annacorrea-archive.com.