Flashes of Life by Michael Brockley

 

Ken Cheung

Flashes of Life

Thanking Luci

Luci worked at Panera for two weeks. She’d wake up at 3:00 a.m. to arrive at the bakery by 5:30. Dancing between wheeling pastry and bagel racks to ovens or displays and cleaning tables for the first morning customers. From 6:00 until noon, she ran the cash register between the caffeinery specials and the pecan braids. Luci cultivated smiles tailored for the needs of all her customers. A chuckle for the nurse in a hurry. A laugh of hilarity for the handsome man who resembles Tom Holland. A cheerful grin that was just right for me.

My Home Is Where My Tipi Sits After the Apsáalooke (Crow) multimedia artist, Wendy Red Star

We eat our last gratitude in the shadow of turkey balloons and skeletons. Wonder white bread sandwiching government cheese and bologna. Oatmeal cream pie desserts. Our grandfathers kept herds of ninety horses so the big sky might bless our tipis. Our ancestors rode brown-and-white paints through a history of blankets. They wore high-crown Western hats while staring toward the East. Now churches rise above junk cars with cockeyed crucifixes taped across passenger windows. Our children buy tents at Walmart. Or worship in immaculate shrines, while grandmothers grow old behind cardboard walls. We live upon the Earth our tipis sit upon.

© Michael Brockley

Michael Brockley

Michael Brockley is a retired school psychologist who lives in Muncie, Indiana. His prose poems have appeared in The Prose Poem, Doublespeak Mag, and Keeping the Flame Alive. In addition, Brockley's prose poems are forthcoming in Bay to Ocean Journal, Unlikely Stories Mark VI, and Stormwash: Environmental Poems, Volume II.

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I Am Not The Face in The Mirror by Selma Martin

© Copyright Colin Smith

I Am Not The Face in The Mirror

Those who knew my mother will tell you,
I am the spitting image of her, that her
demure smile is alive in me; if they didn’t
know better, they’d swear I was her.

My looks are not me to begin with—
like rain is not only wet; every atom of
rain is formed from the soil, its vegetation,
its temperature, the air, its perfume.

Like earth’s perfume that joyrides on
the wind, I lope hand in hand with it too.
I am Petrichor, I Am Petrichor;
I’m discriminate light kisses on your cheeks,

the warmth you feel in an embrace,
the chiaroscuro ballet of sunshine and
sunshade dancing to the tune of trees.
Rise to meet the sun, dear. 

Rise to meet me outside. 

Open the window and let me inside so
I can cover you in me; I want to be covered in you.
And my soul will welcome your soul, the mirror

and we will be one—clear and pristine will be
its reflection; never vile, never inadequate, never
needing. We carry each other’s taste in our hearts
regardless of stories in the mirrors.

Let’s coat each other in the human melting pot and
see how our me-ness perfumes the rain falling.

©️ Selma Martin

Selma Martin

Selma Martin is a retired English teacher with 20 years of experience teaching ESL to children. She believes in people’s goodness and in finding balance in simple living. She lives in Japan with her husband of 35 years. In 2018, Selma participated in a networking course that culminated in a final lesson to publish a story on Amazon. She completed the course and self-published her short story, "Wanted: Husband/Handyman," in 2019. Later, collaborating with peers from that course, she published "Wanted: Husband/Handyman" in "Once Upon A Story: A Short Fiction Anthology." Selma has published stories on Medium for many years, in MasticadoresUSA, The Poetorium at Starlight, Short Fiction Break, Lit eZine, and Spillwords. In July 2023, she published her debut poetry collection, In the Shadow of Rainbows (Experiments in Fiction). You can find Selma as selmawrites on Instagram and Twitter, and on her website, selmamartin.com.

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The Pigeon by Mary Kipps

 

Quang Nguyen Vinh

The Pigeon

On a cobblestone street corner

in the marketplace of old Jodhpur,

three young men are crouching

around what the populace

commonly referred to as a flying rat.

The pigeon, shocked to earth

by a spark in the tangle

of overhead electrical wires

where it had perched,

holds one wing tightly against its body,

while the other, fully extended,

flaps in spastic bursts.

Sheltering the bird 

from the wheels of motorbikes

and errant footsteps of pedestrians,

the men dribble bottled water

slowly, gently, over the quivering body,

trying to dispel the tremors.

What will happen to it, if they can’t

revive it? I ask my tour guide.

Then they will move it somewhere safe

and care for it until it dies.

© Mary Kipps

Mary Kipps

Mary Kipps enjoys composing in traditional forms as well as in free verse. A former Pushcart Prize nominee, her poems have appeared regularly in journals and anthologies across the U.S. and abroad since 2005.

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The Oak Tree by Judith Burton Ph.D.

 

Tom Fisk

The Oak Tree

Don’t plant an oak tree they told me

It is so slow to grow

Suggesting at my age I would

Never see it mature.

Nature is full of surprises.

Outside my window

Stands a sturdy, tall oak tree

With many branches

And keeps its leaves 

Until new ones sprout in the spring.

It shades the west side

Of my Old Farmhouse

And fills my heart with joy!

Don’t depend on what other people say

Depend on God and Nature every day.

© Judith Burton, Ph.D.

Dr. Judith Burton

Photography by Gretchen Nelson

Judith Burton, Ph.D., a woman of faith, is passionate about helping others stretch and grow.  Writing from her heart, she is working her way through illness and isolation, quarantined since March 16, 2020. She has published a series of children’s books starring Two Little Ponies, which aim to encourage kindness and combat bullying. They are available on Amazon.

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Hope by Angela Kosta

 

Meli Di Rocco

HOPE 

Hope is the subtle light that 

darkness challenges. 

It's in the heart, 

even when the world is silent.

It's the whisper in tears, promises 

sprouting rose petals in silence 

It's the breeze facing gentle 

caresses.

Hope is the smile of the eyes

that fears of challenge.

It's the Supernova guiding us 

toward the universe 

It's the outstretched hand 

when the path is unsafe 

It's salvation in the stormy ocean 

of life.

©Angela Kosta

Angela Kosta

Angela Kosta was born in Elbasan, Albania, and lives in Italy. She is a writer, poet, translator, journalist, and cultural promoter. A member of numerous international academies and associations, she has represented Albanian literature at various festivals and competitions. Her work has been translated into 45 languages and published in many countries. In 2024 alone, her works appeared in over 170 international magazines and newspapers. She has received significant awards, including Best Translator from OBELISK magazine for translating poems by Giosuè Carducci, and the title of Important Figure from the Moroccan newspaper Akhbar7 (2023). She was also listed among the 100 most prominent figures in Arabic literature by Al-Rowad News in 2024. Angela is an active member of academies in Italy, the USA, China, Greece, Poland, and other countries. Her work promotes dialogue between cultures through the written word, building literary bridges worldwide.

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A Conversation by Loralee Clark

David Olivares

A Conversation  

(—for Angela Carroll-Wallace and Listening to Mother) 

She begins with branches that curve, 

whispering an entry-way, 

focal point

and moves each one

from the loam and litter,

thin with hope

that others will see

with more than their eyes.

Spindly fibers, less supple

serve as cording, sure and thick

encasing

connections to meditations,

to being led to a knowing

400 million years in the making.

To a pulsing brain beneath her feet

rife with stories and lineages,

intuition which was alive

before settling in her body

as she builds a physical bridge;

an honoring to fungi teaching trees to root,

anaerobic teaching aerobic to breathe

cell building cell, adapting, evolving.

Her inhalation, their exhalation

life and death in beautiful dance;

a celebration in renewal

as the cording and curving are created.

There is sustenance in death,

strings of brown leaves tied,

spinning in the wind like waves

on a shore, light spilling through: 

a mystery and the knowing of a secret.

Each season is a heartbeat,

a whorl and expansion of tissue 

in a stalk of wood,

that gives itself over and over again;

to learn and luxuriate in commune, in

symbiosis, in contentment.

Remember: we make a cairn to 

convey a message

but each stone

sitting upon the other

tells its own. 

© Loralee Clark

Loralee Clark

 Loralee Clark’s latest chapbook, Solemnity Rites (Prolific Pulse Press, 2025), is an account of reimagined myths and truths of who we are as humans and how we live our histories. She has been published most recently in Periwinkle Pelican, White Stag Journal, Chewers by Masticadores, Nude Bruce Review, Lucky Leaves, Everscribe, The Rockford Review, and Soul Poetry, Prose and Art Magazine. Loralee resides in Virginia; her website is sites.google.com/view/loraleeclark. 

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OPPOSITE DAY by Peter Schwartz

 

don chowdhury

OPPOSITE DAY 

a kite is in many ways the opposite of a star 

in that it never actually gets there

like floating is the opposite of bravery 

because it doesn't take anything 

which is okay because differences often bloom horizontally 

(no longer opposites)

that same string gets used for that perfect guitar 

for someone that would otherwise not have any music at all

because the opposite of rich is not poor

and a single butterfly can become a whole reservoir 

so what if a flamethrower like most machines is the opposite of love 

if mutation is the opposite of growth 

and jungles are the opposite of anything resembling innocence

the sky is still the opposite of mostly nothing at all 

© Peter Schwartz

Peter Schwartz

Peter Schwartz has had poetry featured in Pank, The Columbia Review, Diagram, and many other cool places. He is the author of the poetry collection 'Old Men, Girls and Monsters' as well as four other chapbooks. You can check out his art any time you want to at: the-art-of-peter-schwartz.jimdosite.com. 

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Untitled in Blue To P by Gabriella Garofalo

Image / Andreea Ch

Untitled in Blue To P

Why do you keep the clouds?

Trash them out, darkness has an expiry date, 

And Spring got it wrong, no flowers, no clouds, 

Hardly a shivering blue, night and her heaps

Of scattered stars, when sham seasons loom over souls,

Words, skies, and survival comes in handy-

Same old story, you know, but what’s that,

No free food for souls, just those tenants 

Of the underwood, clouds in God’s eyes, 

Waves, and a different life if she wheezes 

Among slant words, so very young, so naive

When mixing up stars and shadows,

Or leaping in fear into seasons, and  trees- 

And ambos, alarms, lost bits all left in the dark,

No need for maps or rhumbs, just snatch her up, 

Yes, light, and you, moon, don’t screw around, 

Leave them alone, rooms, streets, hidden places, 

Play the game if she says blue will see to it, 

Giving you shelter if you freeze from the cold-

Drop dead, shadows, on the border of her soul,

As the briars of her blue are growing,

And no, the skies won’t fall down

Among scantily-clad girls, half-naked men 

Wrestling in the heat,

Or songs she rescued from water- See? Just like Moses.

© Gabriella Garofalo

Gabriella Garofalo

Born in Italy some decades ago, Gabriella Garofalo fell in love with the English language at six, started writing poems (in Italian) at six, and is the author of these books: Lo sguardo di Orfeo, L’inverno di vetro, Di altre stelle polari, Casa di erba, Blue Branches, Blue Soul, and After The Blue Rush.

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