Love Is.... by Karen A. VandenBos

Nida Kurt

Love Is....

Love is the warmth that wraps

around sorrow and the taste of

your name on my tongue.

Love is resurrection and a vast

ocean of promise.

Love is the fire in the belly of

a star and the storm that flows

through my veins.

Love is the lightning in the space

between us and the thunder beating

in our hearts.

Love is the embers that continue 

to burn even beyond death and

the alchemy of poets. Love is nothing if not wild.

© Karen A. VandenBos

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Karen A.VandenBos

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

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A Book I'll Never Write or Publish by Myrtle Thomas

Râmbeț Ioana

A Book I'll Never Write or Publish

1.
Where does the dome of love dwell?
maybe in the wide stretch of the universe
or in the shadow of the moonlight fading
I know I can't see the dense expanse
or the rain that still falls in London.

2.
I've never had an explanation of many things
seen or unseen realms, beyond life's portal
nor the workings whether reality or fiction
but I see the light and the darkness.

3.
life and love have reached for me in the darkness
and in silver threads of daylight with unseen fingers
I was carried away on the wings of a mysterious bird
a creature unafraid of the darkness or the burning day.

4.
I've reached my hand out to trace it, only to find emptiness
such a great void to search with tired eyes and deaf ears
but the touch of his hand upon my breast and inner thigh
awakened me to the fire in my heart and my belly.

5.
now there is understanding in the visions of my dreams
when fingerprints and footprints fade from my mind
maybe but for the slightest moment of an hour I felt it,
and in that flash of morning light, I knew it was the scent,
of roses and I was tempted to follow after such things.

6.
I can say that there are things spoken and still unknown
things wished for and things that are dreaded in the head
as the tail of the stars and the moonlight, the swift arrow
of the sun as it hovers and burns through our dreams.

7.
I can say in the latter part of life I've found what love is -
of what is sung in love songs, the painful joy as it rumbles
like thunder burning within my soul to rise like the moon
I know that my chapters will end soon as I carry these flowers away.

8.
both living and dying are both sisters of love and sorrow
each has its own bouquet of flowers set as a jewel
in a crown
my arms are full of flowers and trailing stars, such are these
written and unwritten chapters that are chained to my hands
and stained with the dreams I've dreamed, sins I've sinned.

9.
I write these verses to myself to read and to remember
for such is the memory of a woman walking a marathon
looking into the sky for a star or a doorway framing
the twilight
bear with me in this chapter of my book with its 
long verses

for my mind meddles in memories of fire and thunder
of the touch I felt when love found me and it grew
like a star.

10.
time is sometimes a trial we must endure like fire
in the sky
I believe it still rains in London and Paris is so far
from my flesh
and as for now I still feel his hand on my yearning
breast and thigh
while the scent of the night's dew falls in the last hour
of twilight
I still remember being burnt and binding my wounds
in sorrow and joy.

© Myrtle Thomas

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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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Daughter by Dr. Alok Kumar Ray

Yasir

Daughter

The trust you had established in front of me, 

The trust you had built in my mind 

On the backdrop of asking to get the moon in your palms. 

The eye-catching highest image of faithfulness 

That you had built in your mind's canvas 

Remains in my mind, my daughter, my only one. 

The varieties of dolls that you wanted the most. 

Mouth-watering eateries 

That I couldn't afford. 

Corresponding sensitivity, anger, rage, and tears of yours 

All of which I will always remember and

Remain with me forever.

Your eagerness to study, 

Your desire to participate in the games and to win.

Remember, one by one, 

Your memories seem to flash before my eyes

Like a movie, 

Occupying my whole mind as a memory, very romantic.

During the higher educational stage 

That is full of so many unsung, unknown deeds, 

An endless cycle of breaking and joining, 

An eternal process of bending and straightening, 

Which makes my mind feel like yesterday, 

Revealing the reason for existence.

There is a difference between seeing the moon in the sky 

And seeing its reflection on the pond, my daughter.

Putting lotus stems like fear aside will gather the moon 

Even if you’re not able to catch the moon.

But do not forget to stretch your hands towards

The moon.

© Dr. Alok Kumar Ray

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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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Shhh by Michael T. Smith

Валерия Шкода

Shhh

In me, you – the memory

Not even Lethe can efface

Those dulcet lays of yours 

Have converted me

 – into what?  Not even I know,

But I say it all in petto,

With my lips brushing your ear

In a reverie of endorphins.

I say it all in a lisp of wetness, 

My words a hansel 

With a glean of tomorrow,

Skylarking to your ear

On short feet, 

Treading oh so delicately.

So nobody else can hear,

I remember saying these things 

Y o u – a singularity

of history that Clio has

not yet even finished, 

whose antelucan eyes

repeat ourselves

like a duvet of a book,

who’s binding explodes

with billets-doux imagined. 

(Originally published in Pif in 2018)

© Michael T. Smith Enjoy more posts by Michael T. Smith HERE.

Michael T. Smith

Michael T. Smith is an Associate Professor of English who teaches both writing and film courses. He has published roughly 300 pieces (poetry and prose) in over 100 different journals.  

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Here are the days of small things by Dorisa D. Costello

Ioana Motoc

Here are the days of small things

a cup of cold water, a blanket

for a cold night, a kiss

to warm cold comfort

We were warned against

their neglect: the gathering

together, the breaking

of bread, the fatherless

and widowed and alien

the small things, the 

least ones, make

our days salt and light:

a small grain a tiny flame

© Dorisa D. Costello

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Dorisa D. Costello

Dorisa D. Costello is Associate Professor of English at Jessup University. Her poetry and prose look for the sacred in the mundane and the holy in the human. She is a 2026 Pushcart Prize nominee in poetry and lives in Northern California with her cats, Benedick and Beatrice.

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THE OAK by John Grey

Simon BB

THE OAK

The tree is alive.

So alive I check

whether I’m being followed.

I knock on the trunk.

The sound goes in.

Something absorbs it.

It does not come out.

The bark shifts.

It’s rearranging.

The tree is deciding

which face to show me.

Underground, it’s busy.

It drags its roots through old bones,

Above, its branches twitch

thought there is no wind.

I seek acknowledgment.

That’s why I carve a heart into its side.

And the sap beads up, thick and amber.

It’s like an eye trying to open.

Try as I might to add my initials,

the tree rewrites them

into something it prefers.

Something older.

From long before my time.

And the canopy reaches for the sun.

Its devotion is almost predatory.

Why not?

Isn’t worship just hunger in disguise?

No teenage theatrics,

no need to be seen.

The oak is just a tall, patient body

reaching for the light.

The light makes for a good meal.

The tree plans to swallow it whole.

© John Grey

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John Grey

John Grey is an Australian poet, a US resident, and has recently been published in Midnight Mind, Novus, and Abbey. His latest books, “Bittersweet," “Subject Matters,” and “Between Two Fires,” are available through Amazon. Work upcoming in Alchemy, Touchstone, and Willow Review.

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Mask of Calm by Kristi Jones

Quionie Gaban

Mask of Calm 

Walking from the gate to the jetway
to the airplane

I put on a mask of calm

Arranging my face to look normal

Trying to look serene

Aiming to fit in with others

Hiding my fear of flying

Behind my mask of calm

I am anything but calm, cool, collected

Adrenaline spikes and fears surface

Fear that the pilot might make a mistake

Fear that the plane might malfunction

Fear that the plane might crash

Calming medication and deep breathing

Soothing mantras and distraction items

Fears still surface

I wonder about other passengers

If any of them wear masks of calm Hiding their fear of flying

© Kristi Jones

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Kristi Jones

Kristi Jones is a poet from Madison, Wisconsin. She loves spending time outdoors, whether tending her community garden plot or hiking local trails.  Kristi’s poetry has been published in The Tiny Seed and UAMS Medicine and Meaning.  She holds a BA from St Olaf College.  

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The Lovers by Glenn D’Alessio

Pareekshith Indeever

The Lovers

I wish I had my notebook 

to write about them

changing bit by bit,

by beams streaking past clouds,

and past water stippled

red-rock-cliffs

with streaks of black 

sliding across iron oxides

in a paling sky

of darkening forms, 

and greying lintels

for God to step down 

 

blue caverns of clouds

angels fly through

to herald the Lord

saying goodnight to this canyon

so we’ll feel no fear

of what happens in the dark,

for no other sight is mightier

than when night meets day,

just a moment to savor,

yet making us neighbors

where in the final glory

greys gain hues from heaven --

beige, purple, and red 

that bred salmon cliffs 

clambering to be the Lord’s antechamber

in savory songs whispered in cedars

of delightful desert dreams

where dwell no harbingers of hell,

but spells are woven by breezes 

draining down rims canyons bring to God,

expecting him to wear them as rings

wedding him to earth

where he enters her soft form – lovers nocturnally nourishing each other.

© Glenn D’Alessio

Glenn D’Alessio

Glenn D’Alessio is a West Brookfield, Massachusetts, carpenter who used to teach Energy Conservation classes at Worcester State University. Three of his chapbooks have been published by Finishing Line Press (FLP), with a full-length poetry book due out in September 2026.

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