Saturday, August 30, 2014

Monday, August 18, 2014

Wednesday, July 30, 2014

poem by : ross vassilev

the indispensable nation if you ever find a human skull just lying around somewhere bury it in the ground and maybe it'll sprout an olive tree maybe it'll grow a pair of black wings and fly off with the crows all the way to India where 3000 years ago some Goddess laid her body down to become a river turning desert to forest for the people or maybe the skull would feel more at home in Cambodia joining the mountains of human skulls erected by Pol Pot and paid for by Uncle Sam.

Saturday, June 14, 2014

Tuesday, June 3, 2014

poems by JD Dehart

JD DeHart

The Anti League


They have banners and sashes,

these quiet old lady patrol people,

their cracking voices infused

with some otherworldly

demonstration vigor, now seizing

memories of years ago, sit-ins

and nationalism, yielding themselves

to their new great cause – forget

the wisdom of years past, forget

the girls who need the extra care,

rocking their screeching young,

not getting the expected;

the league now marching,

their cracking voices laying down

proverbial knowledge for buttoned-down

old-fashioned homespun reason

where there is no reason,

only a cause and a static sound.


A Weekend’s Promise


Walk with me along the pathway

I walked when I chose to matriculate,

look now daughter at the piece

of your future that can be in this place,

that can grow full and unleashed;

do not be burdened with the mundane

life you see in front you, do not listen

to what the boys say about you

and what you can and cannot be,

listen to voice of my teacher, the sweet

high tone or learning as she unpacks

a sentence, noun plus verb.




It would be easy to paint you

as a stark figure, my dear,

but do not illustrate yourself

as others do, leaving out the important

details, the parts of you

that make you whole, do not listen

to the angry voices of those

who should love you, for they only

criticizing themselves, then curling

back on a slight manipulation,

do not blame yourself for the fault

that lies in others;

so weave your portrait, strong,

strong like you can be, like you are,

and exist, a hope and complete circle.

Monday, May 12, 2014

April Salzano

Bio:  Recently nominated for two Pushcart prizes, April Salzano teaches college writing in Pennsylvania where she lives with her husband and two sons. She is currently working on a memoir on raising a child with autism and several collections of poetry. Her work has appeared in journals such as Convergence, Ascent Aspirations, The Camel Saloon, Centrifugal Eye, Deadsnakes, Visceral Uterus, Salome, Poetry Quarterly, Writing Tomorrow and Rattle. The author also serves as co-editor at Kind of a Hurricane Press (

Text Slap

I am sure there is an emoticon or emoji

to fit what is needed when I annoy

the hell out of you with my incessant questions,

answers to which you have already provided,

but I forgot not because I wasn’t listening,

but because I was—to everything

in addition to what you said,

laundry crying

kids on infinite spin cycle

students barking

dog whining

all forces conspiring

against my attention span, capability

of my memory.

We need a our own combination of keystrokes,

delivered via cell

for the next time it happens.

A symbolic hand to face, a parenthetical

punishment of sorts to shock me

back into the realm of the writer.

Retrospective Disapproval
is as pointless as retroactive praise. Lessons
have been learned with or without reinforcement.
The statute of limitations expired long ago. History’s
characters cannot change their clothes, the color
of their eyes, or be recast, except as memory fails.
Mine is sharp, all unfortunate edges, a mirror
I hold that reflects no perception but my own,
not fairest, but historically accurate. For the past,
I may be sorry, but I will never apologize.

The Church of Sugar
I worship bread dough rising,
kneel before icing slathered
on a binge, lick cupcake
with peanut butter center,
tongue the body of my tiny god.

April Salzano

Text Slap

I am sure there is an
emoticon or emoji

to fit what is needed
when I annoy

the hell out of you
with my incessant questions,

answers to which you
have already provided,

but I forgot not
because I wasn't listening,

but because I was--to

Friday, February 28, 2014

poems by Donal Mahoney

Midnight in the Garden of Envy

It's hot in our bedroom this midnight in June.
The air conditioner died but my wife sleeps on. 
She spent the day weeding the garden.
finally decide to open a window
and pray for a breeze.

No breeze but I hear roses and lilies
arguing about which is the prettier, 
which of them deserves more space 
in the garden to unfurl their beauty,
petal by petal, like Gypsy Rose Lee.

The peonies mock the roses and lilies,
claiming peonies are the prettiest of all.
The petunias along the borders yell
not to ignore them because they're not tall.
Suddenly there's a ruckus among the hibiscus.
They, too, claim they're the most beautiful.
They want more space, as do the hydrangeas.

The roses decide to offer a compromise.
Tomorrow they promise to count 
which flower in the garden attracts
the most butterflies and honeybees.
The flower that attracts the most 
will be named the most beautiful 
and be given more space in the garden  
and won't lose a bloom to bouquets. 

The other flowers discuss in a whisper
the compromise offered by the roses.
They take a vote and agree to comply.
Finally, silence returns to the garden.

I tell my wife in the morning to hide out 
in the yard with a clipboard to confirm
which flower attracts the most 
butterflies and honeybees.
We can't trust the roses, I tell her.
They'll cheat on the final results.

I ask her to keep an eye on the sunflowers
since they didn't join the furor at midnight 
over which flower's the most beautiful.
tell her more butterflies and bees 
will visit the sunflowers tomorrow
than any of the others because 
sunflowers at noon leap in the air 
and kiss every cloud in the sky.

Donal Mahoney

Nominated for Best of the Net and Pushcart prizes, Donal Mahoney has had work published in Vintage Poetry and other publications in North America, Europe, Asia and Africa.  Some of his earliest work can be found at Some of his latest work can be found at