Chant du Cygne by Daniel P. Stokes

Image / Karol Wiśniewski

Chant du Cygne

November is notoriously

contrary, but this delicious afternoon

I headed for the beach. You’d not suppose

that marching to the tide-edge, preceded                          

by a fifty-kilo brute buck-leaping backwards,                            

would trigger musing.                                                

But as he sniffs my pocket, woofs                                     

and circles, frantic to play fetch,                                                

I find myself by chance upon a busman’s                                       

and, scanning sea and shoreline, seek                            

an image, insight worth my while to work.                                    

But worthwhile you might argue is contingent             

for, tilting from the light, I hollow,                                    

conscious in a heart-gripe that I witness

the old year’s chant du cygne.                      

And it’s not half a pang to self from season,                                                 

from autumn’s brazen flourish                                      

to…a fresh barrage of disaffected woofs.

“We set out to make the most

of what this moment offers, 

not drag clouds that haven’t formed

across the sun. Now, for both our sakes,

refocus on the game plan.

And throw the bloody ball.” © Daniel P. Stokes

Daniel P. Stokes

Daniel P. Stokes has published poetry widely in literary magazines in Ireland, Britain, the U.S.A., Canada, and Asia, and has won several poetry prizes.  He has written three stage plays which have been professionally produced in Dublin, London, and at the Edinburgh Festival.

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Goddess of green by Sabrina Rubin

Image / Anirudh Bharat

Goddess of green

This city is overcast today.

Yet as I stand by the window, peering past the black grill, 

I see the roads buzzing with rickshaws, cars, and people.

Though my world is confined within fifteen hundred square feet,

I hardly need even that much space.

I stay awake at night,

But my truce with the stars ended long ago.

Life now drifts on like a cactus

Pierced by the pain or affection of this rare, square-shaped machine.

Sometimes I wonder...

Would it have been better if I were not human, 

but a fruit-bearing tree instead?

They say trees have no hearts,

No sorrow, no pain,

No hopes, no longing,

No love, no joy

Yet nature befriends them.

They speak with stars,

Fall in love with the moonlight.

Quench their thirst in countless monsoons.

And in the end,

In buds, leaves, blossoms, roots,

Fragrance, fruits, and the shade of tender care

Worn-out Tree Goddess gives herself away.

© Sabrina Rubin

Sabrina Ruben
Photography by Carl Scharwath

Sabrina Ruben is not only a poet but a renowned physician. She is accomplished in art and literature. She has been awarded a bronze medal from the Writers Association of Crimea in the Chekov Autumn festival, the Buriganga award, the Gujrat Shahitiya Academy award, the PEN Palestine Peace Award, and the Bangladesh International Fame Award, among others. She is also a lyricist, having created so many songs in Bangla and English.

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Lost in Thought by Karen A. VandenBos

 

Image / Emma Bauso

Lost in Thought

Three years old and I walk the path around

my grandparents farm in Maine. A girlie

girl in all ways I wear my frilly white party

dress and black buckle shoes to greet the

trees and plants, dancing like a sprite

across potato fields, the tractor stirring

clouds of fairy dust. Lost in thought I will

dream I am the Potato Blossom Queen

not realizing that I have disappeared into

my own little world where imagination has

begun to bloom and my future as a poet has formed a bud.

© Karen A. VandenBos

Karen A.VandenBos

Karen A. VandenBos was born on a warm July morning in Kalamazoo, MI. A PhD course in shamanism taught her to travel between two worlds. A Best of the Net nominee, her writing has been published in Lothlorien Poetry Journal, Blue Heron Review, Moss Piglet, and others. 

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Collateral Damage: UV Zappers by Sterling Warner

 

Image / MEUM MARE

Collateral Damage: UV Zappers

My Dunga indoor bug zapper

sat like a blue moorish tower

it onion-shaped dome adorned 

with a pointed spire where led

spines flashed FLUO lights

tip to base in irregular intervals.

Glowing UV ray-like catnip to kittens

lure irksome creepy-crawlers and 

ravenous, aggravating, winged bugs

 

The insect monolith served as

landing pad, offered recreational

opportunities for flies, mosquitoes, gnats 

moths that traversed its horseshoe archways 

followed inviting, enticing flickers inside

put to rest forever in a zip-zap crematorium.

From terse spitter-spatters

longer lightening zaps sizzle, 

hiss, pop, and burst brightly

 

October sent Union, Washington, ice and snow 

blanketed October walkways, gardens,  and homes

sending ladybugs indoors seeking warmth for

hibernation; speckled ladybirds snuggled half-way

under ceiling molding in a line a foot long, dreaming

about spider mites, aphids, and nectar consumption.

Used to underleaf cohabitation

the crimson creatures grasp onto

stucco and wood for protection.

Some navigated below, hypnotized by Dunga’s 

bright essence, forcing their way into the tower’s

ribcage of illuminance, only to feel electricity

briefly zapping feet, clinging to outer shells, 

buzzing convulsively for three to five minutes 

forcing me daily to empty trays of fried ectoplasms. 

I marvel at glowing efficiency

bow my head, grieve at waste lady beetles never annoyed me. 

© Sterling Warner

Sterling Warner

Washington-based author, poet, and educator Sterling Warner is published in such magazines, journals, and anthologies as Verse-Virtual, Ekphrastic Review. Warner’s poetry/fiction includes Rags and Feathers, Without Wheels, ShadowCat, Edges, Memento Mori, Serpent’s Tooth, Flytraps: Poems, Cracks of Light: Pandemic Poetry & Fiction, Halcyon Days: Collected Fibonacci, Abraxas: Poems, Gunilla’s Garden: Poems (2025), and Masques: Flash Fiction & Short Stories.  He currently writes, hosts “virtual” poetry/fiction readings, and enjoys fishing along the Hood Canal.

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The Quiet Return by Carol Anne Johnson

Image / Hamid Tajik

The Quiet Return

There was a time I walked on shards—
each step a whisper of the past,
echoes clawing at my ribs,
a storm behind a smiling mask.

My foundation was shaken,
cracked by hands I couldn't stop,
by words that burrowed deep and cold,
like winter never meant to stop.

Time, with quiet fingers, sews
the fabric torn by younger pain.
And in the stillness, something grows—
a fragile root beneath the rain.

I learned to speak in softer tones
to the small, afraid-in-me,
to hold her hand through shadowed rooms,
and teach her what it means to be free.

Now dawn comes in gentler hues,
and breath no longer bears a fight.
I carry scars like ancient runes—
not curses now, but signs of light.

There’s strength in every trembling truth,
in tears I no longer deny.
And though the past still hums beneath,
I stand today. I don’t ask why.

Healing isn't clean or fast,
nor does it mean we must forget.
But I have walked through fire and ash—
I am rising. Not there yet—
but rising,
nonetheless.

© Carol Anne Johnson

Carol Anne Johnson is in her mid-40s. She is blind and was diagnosed with dissociative identity disorder and complex PTSD. She is also a survivor of child abuse. She enjoys writing poetry and reading, walking, and volunteering. You can follow her on her blog, http://therapybits.com/.

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A CROWD by Devayani Anvekar

 

Image / Pille Kirsi

A CROWD

 

of like and unlike minds and thoughts, 

ways, taste, like ants march along a lengthy 

path cross hills. Foothills. High mountains. 

Steep valleys. Vast deserts. Barren lands. 

Crowded cities. Noisy towns. Abandoned 

desolated villages. Beside green lakes. 

Blue rivers. Calm seas. Roaring oceans. 

A lengthy life. A lengthy pilgrimage.

 

Each heaving carrying, bearing, heavy

burdens of disbeliefs or of beliefs ardent.

Obstinate. Faith in same God or a million

various Gods. Of one’s own liking or in

one’s own image.

 

In search of a path. A purpose. To move

on. Go on. Walk on. Feel whole. One

with all.

 

Not all. Everything you. For you.

You alone. All by yourself. Alone.

 

Lost.

 

Like a sole survivor. Winner. On an

immense island. 

Alone. 

With growing illusions, delusions. 

Wild  

despair. Enveloping darkness. 

Alone.

 

In search of company. 

A crowd. 

In search of Sun. Bright rays. Light.

 

Uncover lightness. Brightness.

 

Light, slow, floating hours. Days. Life. 

Time.  

 

Unburden self. Reveal an unburdened

mind.

© Devayani Anvekar

Devayani Anvekar

Devayani Anvekar is an illustrator and caricaturist of social and domestic issues. She lives in Goa, India. She writes poetry, fiction, and non-fiction prose when drawing fails to help her grasp human struggle. Her written work has appeared in 50-Word Stories, The Metaworker, and is forthcoming in The Genre Society and Witcraft. 

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