Saratoga by Mimi Whittaker

cottonbro studio

Saratoga

Late summer green hills above the Hudson

our separate cars parked on the warm black pavement

this “date” a trial at civility 

to share our toddler son.

He ran the path to the tree line,

yellow wisps of hair bobbing above tall grasses

gurgling with chubby laughter

as we took turns

with peek-a-boos, hugs, and chiding to slow down.

You’d chosen this place to make peace,

but my chest was still a gaping wound.

I felt the fallen pulling me to lie beside them

in the blood-soaked fields.  Yet I survived.

I returned last week, more than twenty years

have passed.  We came in one car, my new and 

stalwart husband and I. 

History, beauty, and the pain that set you free

delivered us late summer, almost dusk.

We walked and drove all through those hills.  

Listened to the stories told at stanchions – pointed 

at the places 

of victory and doom.  Red posts for the British, blue

for farmer rebels – lines of fighters – the final fight

won two years after independence was declared.

We looked out as tourists do, along the bluff, quiet

breeze above the place where hospitals once stood.

Thought of how the river washed the wounded 

of both sides.

Quickened as the dimming spoke in shadows 

at the last position behind British lines.

A woman’s voice instructed that she and 

other wives of officers served tea from tent to tent.

Only faintly did the voice show sorrow for the dead

and those moaning in the darkness. 

In that place of twilight shimmer, out along 

the gray grass ridge

I thought I saw you running

with our still divided son.

“Saratoga” was self-published in a collection in 2020

© Mimi Whittaker

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Mimi Whittaker

Mimi Whittaker lives in Northern California. Her work appears in California Quarterly, Fish Magazine (Ireland), Blue Mountain Review, and other publications. She has authored 5 books of poetry and short prose, as well as a nonfiction book, Happiness Is Your Purpose. Her work is informed by the people in her life. 

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AS THE OVERPLAYED TURNTABLE GROANS by Nattie O'Sheggzy

Connor Kelley

AS THE OVERPLAYED TURNTABLE GROANS

the world holds its breath as if sweet stenches 

from the trenches were some fetish to disdain or dissuade.

The skeletal threads of fire and brimstone chainsaws

to teacups.

Morning hailstorms ground the waters of Hormuz.

Brackish taste remembers what the smell strains to unlearn.

Every step is a swindle of note. Every word a luxury.

Every tap dance kneads a hollow sound in the bones

from the brain that owns a hundred ritual regrets 

to the trails of ourselves in the shadow overlooking 

the cliff we turn to for a plunge. We love grunge 

whether the sun sinks behind hills or

The world frays at its forked ends.

We are worn-out fingers on a ploughshare,

the forgotten half-life of a smoldering song.

© Nattie O’Sheggzy

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Nattie O'Sheggzy

Nattie O'Sheggzy is a poet and writer known for his imaginative work. He has published two poetry books, Random Imaginations and Sounds of the Wooden Gong, available on Amazon. He enjoys reading, trekking, and walking his dog, Xhale. His writing explores life, nature, and human experiences. Nattie's unique voice and style blend modern and contemporary traditions with amazing imagery, symbolism, and experimentation. He is working on his third poetry collection, inspired by his passion for storytelling and the written word.

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Faithless Eye by David Blumenfeld

Maksim Smirnov

Faithless Eye

1948. I was eleven, convinced I had witnessed my first miracle, a camera that develops film instantly, a slice of time preserved, held tight. There they were: Mother, Father, little brother, soon to die, age seven, polio, I must have snapped the shot, snatched off the negative, and voila! A vague sepia image begins to grow like a burgeoning wave until the slick Polaroid film crests, crescendos, capturing the moment better  (it seems) than memory, that fading, fleeting, forgetful keeper of family records, errant historian, inconstant forge of things-gone-by, time’s careless custodian,  yet the photo, like memory, soon fogs, fades, flickers, and decades later, what remains? A barely visible scene: faces a blur, Mother a mist, Father a shadow, little brother…gone.                                                            

1995. “I’m losing it,” says my daughter. “Can’t recapture Mother’s image, can’t see her face, she’s dead for a few months, and it's vanishing, her visage  from my mind’s eye, memory’s faithless eye, must I lose her image too?” But I, father, widower, her image still sharp in my inner camera (for now). What I fear losing is the pain, duller now, dull thud-of-a-club, not the knife-like, once-whirring saw-in-the chest-and-head. Don’t let me lose the pain, the pain is the memory, the photo, avatar, incandescent incarnation of how much was lost. That is worth preserving. Let me hold the pain, holy pain. Let it stay.

© David Blumenfeld

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David Blumenfeld

David Blumenfeld resumed writing poetry after a hiatus of more than forty years. One of his pieces received a “notable essay” commendation in The Best American Essays 2023, and another appeared in The Best American Haiku 2023. Since 2022, he has been nominated for a Pushcart Prize three times. Davidcblumenfeld.com.

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Valentine’s Day Sky by Ruth Harper

Szabó Viktor

Valentine’s Day Sky

My grandson’s drone soars ninety feet into the air,

projects fuzzy images onto the Earth-bound iPad.

We are trying to capture this spectacular sunset.

My iPhone camera does a better job,

and soon the drone rests on the deck with us.

In these final moments of Valentine’s Day,

we stand in silence,

as the layer of darkening clouds to the west

separates into blobs of biscuit dough 

thrown against a flat baking sheet of prairie sky.

Gradually, lit from below,

the clouds take on only pale pinks,

shunning the oranges and yellows

that glow along the flat horizon.

We watch as colors deepen—

pink becomes mauve, becomes magenta—

before this dazzling dusk is overtaken by nightfall.

A waning crescent moon rises in the southeast,

its dim wattage no impediment

to our view of emerging stars and planets.

Directly overhead in the twilight,

Jupiter’s bright eye gazes as

my best valentine, age nine, takes my hand in the dark.

© Ruth Harper

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Ruth Harper

Ruth Harper is a retired counseling professor who began writing poetry during the pandemic lockdown. She has published two chapbooks: (Uncertain Seasons, Finishing Line Press, 2023, and Dreaming the Sturgeon Moon, South Dakota State Poetry Society, 2025).

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Survivor by Elaine Sorrentino

Mahmoud Yahyaoui

Survivor

One of three poults
he spurred our sympathy
with his nightly limp across the lawn,

always the last
in a chorus line of five.
We found his challenge endearing,

his mother's patience merciful
as she hung back
while siblings romped free,

splashed in the creek
and chased each other
through grass and field.

We hardly recognized him
soaring into our yard months later
fully grown, still hobbling,

a solo act this time.
No sibling or parent by his side,
thriving despite the odds.

© Elaine Sorrentino

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Elaine Sorrentino

Elaine Sorrentino, author of Belly Dancing in a Brown Sweatsuit (Kelsay Books, 2025) has been published in journals such as Quartet Journal, ONE ART: a journal of poetry, Minerva Rising, Willawaw Journal, Glass: A Journal of Poetry, Gyroscope Review, Sparks of Calliope, Sheila-Na-Gig, Poetry Porch, Ekphrastic Review, and Haikuniverse.

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ever full by Ken Gierke

Atypeek Dgn

ever full

torn paper

the beat of wings

turn of a leaf

a passing shadow

less than before

now a memory

a streak of chrome

a trail of red in the night

the world passing by

this, and more

unspoken thoughts

wait to be mined

take shape

in words, colors

that seep across the page

hold everything, and nothing

the reader left to decide

the poet’s intent

empty hands, cupped

hold more than the universe

has to offer, hopes, wishes

left unfulfilled, nothing

from the past but memories

awaiting the future

© Ken Gierke

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Ken Gierke

Ken Gierke writes poetry primarily in free verse and haiku. Twice nominated for the Pushcart Prize, he has been featured by numerous journals and anthologies. His poetry collections from Spartan Press are Glass Awash (2022), Heron Spirit (2024), Random Riffs (2025), and The Long Haul (2026). His website: https://rivrvlogr.com/

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The Road Patchers by Ryan Quinn Flanagan

Levent Simsek

The Road Patchers 

Two pylons set out in opposing directions,

and some kid on the walkie-talkie

stopping traffic so the wheelbarrow of asphalt

can drop its load and the yellow vests 

move in with their many rakes to spread the mound. 

Then they turn their rakes, running the backside

over the rocks to smooth the surface.  A senior operator

then runs a wheeled machine over their work to rule out

any imperfections.  I am there to watch it all,

sitting in a park with the summer heat over cracking 

knuckles.  Through a windshield of bug guts and streaks

of blue washer fluid come to a dry.  The pimply kid

with the broom finishes everything off.  While the driver

of the asphalt truck

sits on lunch in his truck along the side of the road.

On the phone with his wife about why

he will be late tonight,

and is informed about the stops he needs to make  and what he should pick up.

© Ryan Quinn Flanagan

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Ryan Quinn Flanagan

Ryan Quinn Flanagan is a Canadian-born author who resides in Elliot Lake, Ontario, Canada, with his wife and many bears that rifle through his garbage.  His work has appeared both in print and online in such places as The New York Quarterly, MasticadoresUSA, Evergreen Review, LatinosUSA - Poetry Bookshelf, Borderless Journal, GloMag, Lothlorien Poetry Journal, and The Oklahoma Review.  He enjoys listening to the blues and cruising down the TransCanada in his big blacked-out truck.

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