THE EPIC OF THE PHOENIX by Angela Kosta

 

Image / Tiến Nguyễn

THE EPIC OF THE PHOENIX

Sun-dust glimmers 'neath craters unsealed,

Untold triumphs time has concealed,

Carved in tempests, on stone and flame,

By a tyrant hand with no name.

The blood-drenched Phoenix, whirls the sphere,

Thirsting in hell’s own frontier,

Burns to ash 'neath ruins deep

Then rises again, its vow to keep:

To rule the world anew, unbowed,

Above the silence of the crowd.

And we are mute…

I am mute…

Stripped of power, stripped of truth.

I cannot fight what mercy feigns,

Nor time’s cruel chain that still remains.

Beheaded, blind, we linger still,

Shadows of glory, bent by will.

We leave behind the sneer of loss,

Bear time’s burden, feel its cross,

And chew the darkness of the soul

No tears to cleanse, no centuries whole…

©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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I Blinked by Lee Robison

Image / Evelin Magnus

I Blinked 

just now and the snow

brightened; nothing  

else changed; the sun,

a dim disk

still suspended;

the willows, bare sticks  

along the ditch, still;

nothing else changed, 

just this sudden 

shadow leaving snow. © Lee Robison

Lee Robison

Lee Robison has retired from Federal service. He lives with his wife in Montana on a sliver of the ranch he grew up on, a couple of mountain valleys west of The Paradise. Lee currently works as a potter, poet, and storyteller. His collection of poems, Have, was published by David Robert Books in 2019. 

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WHAT FRIENDS SOUND LIKE by Peter Schwartz

 

Image / RDNE Stock project

WHAT FRIENDS SOUND LIKE

for Chris

I have no idea how he thinks he sounds

because I've never even looked in his eyes

but when he confessed a question the other day

how can God love me when I can't even keep

from doing bad I immediately thought okay this guy's

a blues singer which made me giggle because

he loves heavy metal almost as much as his church

but when he casually brought up the fact that

we were currently flying on a giant rock through space

in a mostly empty otherwise lifeless universe not really

making sense I said holy everything this guy's a poet too

and so we were in it like we almost always are

because neither of us particularly cares for trivialities

because like me he also understands or is always

calculating that distance as we talk so then he suddenly

drops a parable of how he once drank so much and the

music got so loud he woke up passed out in a field somewhere

only to reflect on how far from that moment he'd come especially

because of the whole hurling on a giant rock through space thing

which felt like him letting me borrow his strength like an older brother

might do with a cool shirt he'd just worn yesterday anyway

I don't remember my response to wherever we were

in that particular part of that particular conversation but

when he let himself go full preacher mode in what I imagined

as a whisper and told me he thought there are too many people

thinking they are the found sheep when we're all lost

because this world was actually designed to pull us

away from light well okay I made up that last part

but my point is if your eyes and ears work well enough

in a weird way everyone is everyone and you yes you too

can make great friends over the internet

© 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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Of Time and Silences in the Mirror by Myrtle Thomas

 

Image / Engin Akyurt

Of Time and Silences in the Mirror

1.

looking into a cracked mirror at night

seeing my temporal eyes and their darkness

such gladness falls and mingles with sadness

like a hard rain with thunder and lightning

glass then has a voice I had failed to hear

maybe there were faint whispers in silver waves

but youth had blinded my vision!

called with force in vanity

both past and future held my attention

still looking back has its treasures

the blending of mist and rain will disappear

quicker than my mirror's fading face.

2.

my eyes bright and sky blue looking through windows

catching the light breaking on life's branches

chasing the shadows that flee from me like my youth

I realize I've relinquished that youth long ago!

when my eyes were clear and my mind tasted life

what more could soothe my emotions in hindsight?

maybe the resemblance of summer rain or roses

or the power of life's thunder in my restless mind!

while I look into  black veins and branches of a looking glass

as it murmurs in whispered tones of strained glass

for now age has caused me to inspect my old passions

to listen to the sounds of my rattling bones and their sorrows.

© Myrtle Thomas

Myrtle Thomas

Myrtle Thomas lives in America and is retired from a large manufacturing company. She has been published in several poetry journals and magazines, and is a member of ALLpoetry.com, writing under the pen name Bluebird74. Myrtle self-published four poetry books and also has a new chapbook on Amazon (In My Land of Dreams). She uses poetry as a form of medicine to heal past wounds; poetry has been a companion to her for over thirty years.

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Color Haiku by Joshua St. Claire

 

Image / Bayramli Anar

Color Haiku

please hurry 

                    this is a limited time offer 

                                                               white crocuses 

indigo 

bunting 

dissolving 

into 

fox 

color 

theory  

amber light 

pulsing through cicada song 

—the heat! 

surprised 

to hear you talking about me 

blue sky 

yellow violets 

she decides 

to wait 

Weltschmerz 

the orange enormity 

of the dying sun 

pink clouds struck 

against the electric cyan 

floating ribs 

new green

the crow with a sprig 

in his beak 

dame’s rocket 

a cabbage white fluttering 

into blueness 

sea spray 

the storm color  of a gull  © Joshua St. Claire

Joshua St. Claire

Joshua St. Claire is an accountant from a small town in Pennsylvania, working as a financial director for a nonprofit. His haiku and related poetry have been published broadly, 

including in Frogpond, Modern Haiku, The Heron’s Nest, and Mayfly.

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Mirror Sadness by Julie A. Dickson

 

Image / Niklas Jeromin

Mirror Sadness

When you hear the music play,

But only for a while

Let the forces carry you,

Allowing just a smile

Echoed voices answer

Tomorrow’s dreams are mine,

Yesterday is fading

The traces all unwind

Wander through the courtyard

Hear the silence wane

Faces mirror sadness,

The suffering to claim

© Julie A. Dickson

Julie A. Dickson

Julie A. Dickson has been a poet for over 55 years, as well as a writer of YA fiction. She draws from memories, life experiences, nature, and visual art. Her work has been widely published in many journals, including Kind of a Hurricane Press, Lothlorien, Ekphrastic Review, Feed the Holy, and MasticadoresUSA. Dickson shares her home with two rescued feral cats, Cam and Jojo.

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Poetry by LeeAnn Pickrell

Image / Gioele Gatto

The Spring I Waited for the Dogwood to Bloom

Every day that spring

I watched 

Every morning

I walked out

my white robe trailing 

across the wooden boards

Splinters scratched 

the soles of my feet

My hands wrapped 

around a mug of coffee

steaming in the still cool air

I had come to the woods

to cocoon myself in green brush

and gray thunderclouds

as if in a room of my own

I could become

someone else deliberately

I waited 

for the lime-green blossoms to appear

the petals to unfold

toward the warming sun

The flowers faded to white

painting the forest 

in eyelet lace

When I emerged 

the dogwood blossoms had fallen

green leaves covered

the thin branches

I was only myself

yet softened by mornings 

I stood still enough

patient for once in my life

to see a dogwood tree bloom

First published in Jung Journal: Culture & Psyche, vol. 15, no. 2 (2021)

In the mail a spring morning

blossoms a new haiku 

tap tap of hammers as I meditate

crows skittering on the roof

crossing a suspension bridge

over a fast-running creek

walking the stations of a life

swimming hole

bench

waterfall

© LeeAnn Pickrell

LeeAnn Pickrell

LeeAnn Pickrell’s debut collection is Gathering the Pieces of Days from Unsolicited Press. Her chapbook, Punctuated, was published in 2024 by Bottlecap Press, and her book, Tsunami, is forthcoming in 2026 from Unsolicited Press. She lives in Richmond, California. See more at www.leeannpickrell.com.

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St. Mary’s of the Lake by Maria Giura

 

Image / Connor McManus

St. Mary’s of the Lake 

“Perched on our shoulders, / the dead ride with us, teetering like pyramids of water skiers, forming / enormous wings.”--Barbara Crooker

1. 
   

The first night

of a residency where I know no one

I go down to the lake 

wound up from the long drive,

watch the sunset on the Adirondacks.

It’s Sunday night, weekenders gone, 

a calm begins to settle. A few yards away,

a father lights a fire,

a child tubes, a mother 

shouts, “Stay close to the pier.”

I feel, not lonely, but aware of my aloneness 

as I try to massage the migraine away, 

try to slow down like the lake

lulling against its rocks,

when I think of my stepfather  

whose legs were more sea than land,

who tried to teach me to take my time, 

enjoy life more. 

2. 
   

I parallel play with poets

who write in their rooms with doors open

or gather together on porches facing the lake.

I pray, I write, I idle and read

I try writing exercises I’d never try at home, 

picking twenty words randomly 

and writing from them

which leads to this.  

I go down to the lake again 

this time to kayak with new friends 

who instruct me to hold the paddle lightly,

to relax my grip, 

the opposite of what I’d thought. 

The next day strolling Beach Street 

where the lake begins

and the steamboats await their passengers, 

I spot my stepfather on his sailboat

one foot on deck, one on the bow

smiling at me,

tipping his cap.  

(First appeared in " If We Still Lived Where I Was Born by Maria Giura published by Bordighera Press November 4, 2025) © Maria Giura

Maria Giura

Maria Giura PhD is the author of. two poetry collections published by Bordighera Press—If We Still Lived Where I Was Born (Nov. 2025) and What My Father Taught Me—and a memoir, Celibate (Apprentice House Press). An Academy of American Poets winner, Giura teaches writing workshops for Casa Belvedere Cultural Foundation.  instagram.com/mariagiurawrites/   facebook.com/maria.giura.3975  mariagiura.com

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