Bhaiya by Steffen Horstmann

 

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Bhaiya

At dusk the nightingale sings

Beneath a flowering yew, Bhaiya.

Parvati's aura is adorned 

With beads of starlit dew, Bhaiya.

Our rooms echo the songs

We sang in Urdu, Bhaiya.

The sky reflects Himalayas

When the moon turns ice blue, Bhaiya.

The Ganges now shimmers

With the sun's rarest hue, Bhaiya

© Steffen Horstmann

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Steffen Horstmann

Steffen Horstmann's poems and book reviews have appeared in publications throughout the world, including Baltimore Review, Free State Review, Istanbul Literary Review, Louisiana Literature, San Antonio Review, Texas Poetry Journal, and Tiferet. He has published two books of ghazals, Jalsaghar (2016) and Ujjain (2017), and has recently completed a new book of poems, Ellora.

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An Indentation of Love’s Thumb by Loralee Clark

 

Ebahir

An Indentation of Love’s Thumb

knows the balancing places,

feeds itself on dulcet drones of insects,

thick and sweet

moon’s light, grey twinnings of nerve and

other delicate matter,

articulating memory which is not memory;

gaps of calm and willingness to hear the beginning.

She cleaves the heart signifying deep knowing,

comes in dreaming,

its infinite and hidden grace heating itself 

from the fire of aimless, puzzling pockets.

This pockmark is etched on the inside of an elbow,

between furrowed brows and on the delicate skin

of the earlobe,

perfectly curves against the left hip bone.

Memory grazes remembering and sinks into

unconsciousness, not needing language.

© Loralee Clark

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Loralee Clark

Loralee Clark has a fourth chapbook forthcoming, Neolithic Imaginings: Mythical Explorations of the Unknown (Kelsay Press, 2026).  Clark has been nominated for three 2026 Pushcart Prizes.  She resides in Virginia; her website is sites.google.com/view/loraleeclark. Her Substack, which focuses on the process of creativity, is nosuchthingasfailure.substack.com.

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New Morning by Mitchel Montagna

Tom Fisk

New Morning

There was a luminous globe
in the Northern sky
Like a torch sent to probe
through ages gone by

​It seemed real as the moon
tending dreams far and near
You could feel its soft tune
like the warmth of a tear

​Bright lights showered the field
with ripples of dawn
The night dwellers reeled

as summer had gone

​On the crest of a hill
fog swirls through the trees
There’s the ghost of a chill
in the new morning breeze

© Mitchel Montagna

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Mitchel Montagna

Mitchel Montagna has worked as a special education teacher, radio journalist, and corporate spokesman. He is married and lives on Florida's West Coast.

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It’s Vast by Peter A. Witt

Francisco Huerta

It’s Vast

Driving from Houston to Amarillo
leaving the traffic of I10, the cities
and the suburbs, to enter
the Hill Country, with its rolling
landscape, gullies created
by the runoff from a torrential
downpour, a few cattle per acre,
searching for something green
to chew, and the black vultures,
mile after mile of black vultures,
circling overhead for something
dead.

Then it's the open landscape
with the occasional city or town,
some still alive, one just a post office,
others, a gas station, a barely surviving
store, and houses left to the forces
of wind and rain before they
fall in upon themselves.

Somewhere along the way, I stop
to use the bathroom at a country store,
one toilet, in need of cleaning,
a man sitting behind the counter,
as if he hasn't moved for years,
but up for a friendly how's your day.

Purchase a stale coffee and chips
and I'm on my way, as the sun blinds
the windshield and I get ready
for three hours of headlights,
dodging jack rabbits,
and the sound of the road
rubbing against my tires,
as Willie sings about country
roads and going home.

© Peter A. Witt

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Peter A. Witt

Peter A. Witt is a Texas poet and a recovering academic who lost his adjectives in the doldrums of academic writing. Poetry has helped him recover his ability to see and describe the inner and outer world he inhabits. His work has been twice nominated for Best of the Net. He also writes family history and is an avid birder and wildlife photographer.

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Loveable Daughter by Dr. Alok Kumar Ray

Mehedi Hassan

Loveable Daughter 

My loveable daughter asked me once 

To bring her the buoy 

Meant in general for angling.

I shook my head to refuse

Disbursing a smile like a cunning politician,

Just like the Monalisha.

She said, "Oh..shit! 

You are not that good!

As a father, you ferry people 

From one bank to another in a boat every day,

Rowing in a fashion that the water looks like it's tearing apart,

And your head's sweating reflects on it, and

You are moving the boat 

Forward, cutting the current, 

And all your knots are loosening.

Your face looks clear.”

Not to answer,

Only adding sugar to the talking. 

Keeping the tongue between the teeth 

Sans any intention to taste the sweetness, juice 

Told to me in a very low voice containing tough words.

Fish are now very undisciplined and clever.

No need for a buoy now.

Come...come dear, spread the veil of the *saree, 

Me holding the other side 

As I used to hold you while reading books. 

Keep the saree tight around you

Till the water becomes slightly reddish.

We both like this. 

Will go on talking; upon our heads will reside 

Shadowing light.

*A saree is a type of garment worn by women in India.

© Dr. Alok Kumar Ray

Dr. Alok Kumar Ray

Dr. Alok Kumar Ray is a bilingual poet from Odisha, India. He writes both in Odia and English. His poems have been featured in a number of anthologies, newsletters, and magazines worldwide. He has authored two poetry anthologies in Odia and English. He has also edited one bilingual and one multilingual anthology of international repute.

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DEER by Pamela A. Mitchell

Chris F

DEER

After nearly thirty years, it hit me. My marriage was ending. At the same time, my mother, who lived three thousand miles away, was battling cancer. In addition, our fifteen-year-old son was acting out in rage.

Anguish ravaged my soul.  I knew I needed to be alone. To go to the desert to pray. 

I drove 350 miles to the high desert. Our son stayed with a friend. His mother was very aware of our situation. She graciously took him in.

When I got to the motel, I unpacked and decided to walk. I was on my way to the nearby canyon river when I fell down. My body shook with grief, and I began keening in horrible screams that frightened me. I had not physically hurt myself. I felt like I was expelling my life as I sobbed. Disbelief rattled my body like a snake. How would I go on? Where would I go? I needed my mother, yet in truth, she was dying just like my marriage.

As I unleashed my grief into the earth, I raised my head to look toward the river. What I saw startled me. A semi-circle of deer stood between me and that river canyon. They were snorting, bleating, and scraping their hooves in the dirt. I was afraid, thinking they might attack me. But I knew better. I decided to continue lying there and began to talk to them. I quickly realized they were worried. They knew something was wrong. As I spoke to them softly, I reassured them I would not hurt them.

Slowly and gently, I sat up, then realized. They already hurt. They were hurting for me.

© Pamela A. Mitchell

Pamela A. Mitchell

Pamela A. Mitchell completed nursing school at SUNY Upstate Medical in Syracuse, N.Y., received an M.F.A. from Goddard College, and attended seminary at St. Bernard’s Theological School Albany, N.Y. and Church Divinity School of the Pacific in Berkeley, C.A. Pamela taught writing at SUNY Adirondack Community College, as well as journaling and poetry with psychiatric patients at Saratoga Hospital. Her poetry can be found in various literary journals, including Pulse: Voices from the heart of medicine, The Healing Muse, and the anthology Intensive Care: More Poetry and Prose by Nurses (U. of Iowa Press). She lives in Bend, Oregon, where she teaches and consults in geriatric care. 

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On the fence by Dennis Williams

cottonbro studio

On the fence

There they were-unconcern

While all around them, the pressure surge

People crying

Children being abused 

While they dare to sit on the fence

They do not show apathy

Irrespective of how loud the crying gets 

They are people without a heart 

No worry

They are just perched on the fence 

They are not bothered by

What is going on on either side? 

Probably it is right on the left 

Or wrong on the right

The echo is loud

I too hear the bellow

But no one is utterly concerned

Everyone is just sitting on the fence

The fence is their refuge 

Sitting on the fence brings them comfort 

Somewhere they can be free, carefree

Just sitting on the fence 

No one will disembark

No one is willing to be lowered

They are all aloof

Just sitting on the fence.

© Dennis Williams

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Dennis Williams

Dennis Williams is a writer and Poet from Rural St. Catherine, Jamaica. He is looking forward to a good “publish 25”.  Dennis is deeply grateful to all the editors of magazines and journals who saw his work, took the time to read and appreciate it, and then included it in their prestigious publications. He would like to give a big shout-out to the editors of Lothlorien Poetry Journal, Academy of the Heart and Mind, Literary Heist, Active Muse, Rundelania Magazine, and Literary Cocktail Magazine for helping him bring his dream to life.

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Waiting in the Waves by Rose Anna Higashi

 

Anas Hinde

Waiting in the Waves

Dawn and dusk are soundless

When, like the first pink peony opening, 

A glow appears in the murky line

Between sky and sea,

And later in silence,

The huge red orb descends,

Surrounded by quiet islands,

In the dark Sea of Japan.

Doves coo before sunrise.

On the windward coast,

Mynahs call out at first light,

And the waves lap and lilt on the sand

Or crash against the lava stones

If high tide comes with twilight.

But light itself and darkness speak only to the soul—

To the listeners who lift our hearts and eyes,

Breathless and grateful

For the gift that will come.

from Searching in Circles (Kelsay Books, 2025)

© Rose Anna Higashi

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Rose Anna Higashi

Rose Anna Higashi is a retired professor of English Literature, Japanese Literature, and Poetry who lives in Honolulu with her husband, Wayne. She writes a haiku every day and publishes a monthly blog, “Tea and Travels” on her website, myteaplanner.com. Her poems appear in a variety of online and print media, including Poets Online, whose editors nominated her for the Pushcart Prize. Kelsay Books is scheduled to publish her third volume of poetry, Searching in Circles, in 2025.

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Dandelions by Peter Mladinic

Matheus Bertelli

Dandelions 

They look like lions’ tails

standing up,

long-stemmed, silky saucer crowns

on the lawn where I am.

Maybe in a field across the ocean,

some girl picks one

and blows the silky threads 

into the air. A girl in pigtails and a dress with ruffles.

© Peter Mladinic

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Peter Mladinic

Peter Mladinic's most recent book of poems, Maiden Rock, is available from Uncollected Press. An animal rights advocate, he lives in Hobbs, New Mexico, United States.

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