Friday, October 23, 2026

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

Enjoy more posts by Ken Gierke HERE.

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/


Thursday, October 22, 2026

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

Enjoy more posts by Ryan Quinn Flanagan HERE.

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.

Wednesday, October 21, 2026

Dear Miss Manners by Cheryl Ceasar

Tuğba K.

Dear Miss Manners,

Our mailbox is infested with tiny beetles. Today I pulled out a catalog of unaffordable fashion, for some reason titled Poetry, and there were things that looked like little eggs on the cover. I scraped them off, into the catmint below, using the other junk mail as a tool. I put the catalog in the recycling box. Now I need to make time again to look up how to be removed from the mailing list. I feel briefly bad about the wasted paper and wonder how all these extra jobs came to be part of our daily remit.


But that’s not what I’m writing to you about. I wonder, are we the only blighted mailbox on the block? The only one on the carrier’s route? Do they put on sanitary gloves before opening our box? The carrier changes fairly often, and we don’t know them, not even their name. Do they talk about us at the post office? Are we the house with the beetle box?


You may ask, why don’t I just spray insecticide? Well, I’m a vegan and try to avoid killing other creatures unnecessarily. And we have a cat, who might eat the dead beetles, or eat something that ate them… I should probably use some natural remedy like vinegar and salt. I need to make time to look this up. Then our mailbox will smell like a salad, and I don’t know what the carrier will think about that. 


Yes, I do realize that they have other things to think about. For me, this is just one more conduit to the deep well of my inner shame. Another unveiling of my essential unworthiness, just as Huck Finn was revealed to be a boy and not a girl by the way he threaded a needle. 


Yesterday, I arrived ill-prepared for a three-hour meeting of 84 people. There had been some documents in a vast beehive of Microsoft Teams for me to review two days before, and I hadn’t seen them till that morning. The queen bee herself greeted me by name, smiling at the door; I called her by the wrong name. As I sat with my work group, I noticed the gel polish curling off my fingernails at the sides. Stealthily under the table, I peeled off the little beetle shells and hid each one in my pocket till the break. No one seemed to be looking at me anyway. 


But how do I know? Everyone is so smooth and professional. Was there a flicker of a glance, a curl of a lip that I missed? Maybe they see the whole ritual and are disgusted. Like the mail carriers. 


Miss Manners, these inner squirmings are probably outside your remit. You are probably thinking, Write to Ann Landers. But she’s been dead since 2002, and I don’t really want to be told to wake up and smell the coffee. I smell it all the time. I guess what I really need to hear is that I am human; nothing human can be alien to me. And to hear it from someone I trust. Terence said it (Homo sum, humani nihil a me alienum puto) but comedically, in his play The Self-Tormentor. Karl Marx said it, reportedly. Maya Angelou said it, definitely.


In the late seventies, a philosophy professor lectured us about a mechanical bee programmed to deliver the wrong signals in its waggle dance. The hive, we were told, went off to investigate the indicated nectar source. Finding none, they returned and broke their stingers against the metal waggle dancer, attempting to put her to death.


Fifty years later, I look up the story on Google. I read that worker bees are “highly skeptical” and follow others’ waggle-dance instructions only 10% of the time. If the directions delivered would lead to danger, the workers will administer a head butt, which briefly interrupts the dance. Young worker bees must learn the waggle dance; some never do it correctly, but are still allowed to live in the hive. Erroneous dances can actually improve the colony's life by leading it to forage more widely. In any case, “[a] simple mistake in choreography is not a death sentence.”


I’ll take that for now. Sorry to have bothered you, Miss Manners. And sorry, planet, for the harm I just did with that genAI search. I’ll try to make it up somehow.


Best, 

Beetle Box


© Cheryl Ceasar


Cheryl Ceasar


Cheryl Caesar is an ex- expatriate, having lived in Europe for 25 years before returning to her native Michigan. She teaches writing at Michigan State University and serves as president of the Michigan College English Association. Her chapbook of protest poetry, Flatman, is available from Amazon, and her poems and artwork appear in both volumes of Words across the Water (Fractal Edge Press). In 2024, she won first prize for prose in the “My Secret Lansing” contest sponsored by the Lansing Arts Council.

Tuesday, October 20, 2026

Communications by Kushal Poddar

George Pak

Communications

Have you noticed that he 
writes, 'Hope you are doing well."  
only when he is not?

The pattern exists because 
you haven't noticed, otherwise 
he would have felt being naked

in a summer city.
How are you? You text.
The same. He answers. 

The feeling that the curtains 
need to be changed or the garden 
needs to be buried beneath 

another garden gardened with more care 
begins to crop up in those moments.

You never follow up on the urges.
The texts become more meaty, definite.

© Kushal Poddar

Enjoy more posts by Kushal Poddar HERE.


Kushal Poddar

Kushal Poddar has authored ten books, the latest being
A White Can For The Blind Lane, and his works have been translated into twelve languages. He is a co-editor for Outlook Magazine and the editor of Words Surfacing. He does illustrations and sketches for various magazines.

Monday, October 19, 2026

Leaving Summer with Hope by Diane Klammer

Art by Diane Klammer

Leaving Summer with Hope
combined nonet

fronds
palmate
in my hand
float here and there
gusts flutter in trees
summer ashes mix cottonwood hues leaves make mauve- yellow necklaces

I thought summer was in my grasp
here come bright red falling maple leaves
bay waters wave to new seasons
catfish greet our food-filled palms
swirl sea life with fall ash
you swim disappear
then resurface
throw kisses
to us
all

© Diane Klammer

Enjoy more posts by Diane Klammer HERE.

Diane Klammer

Diane Klammer is a disabled writer, singer-songwriter, painter, retired therapist, and biology teacher. Her work has appeared in the United States and Canada, England, Scotland, Wales, and Australia.  She has appeared in Lummox, Avocet, Open Earth Eco Poems, Rattle, Spaces, Syncopation Review, and Missing Slate Review. She strives to write from a place of humor and compassion and is grateful for the diverse voices in poetry, books, music, and film. Her new book, Nonlinear Healing, is coming out in June or July from Finishing Line Press.


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Sunday, October 18, 2026

Two A.M. by Karen A. VandenBos

João Sampaio

Two A.M.


Like a baby in a womb I slumber in

a sleeping bag under the stars.

I eat and drink the ground, swallow

the sky and rain.

Unsure of what is happening I am

entranced by the moon and the stumps

that are ghosts of trees.

It is the night that sheds me of my

troubles, and laughter brings my senses alive as any wild animal.


© Karen A. VandenBos


Enjoy more posts by Karen A. VandenBos HERE.



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.


Saturday, October 17, 2026

The New Chair by Paul B. Thornton

Blesson Poulose


THE NEW CHAIR

My wife asked, “Would you be willing to take Babci to buy a new chair?”  

I thought to myself, how hard can that be? “Sure, I’ll take her.” 


Babci was my wife’s mother, making her my mother-in-law. "Babci" is the Polish word for grandmother. She had seven grandchildren: five boys and two girls. 


At 92 years old, she resided in an assisted living facility in Ludlow, Massachusetts.

 

Why did she need a new chair? 


Babci was losing strength and having trouble getting out of her old, saggy chair in her apartment. Sometimes she would push on the armrests and rock forward two or three times before she could stand.


When it didn’t work, she would sigh, shake her head, and try again. It frustrated her. And I could tell it embarrassed her.


As a solution, my wife wanted to buy herself one of those high-tech chairs. When you press the right button, it lifts you up, making it easy to step out of the chair. 


I scheduled a trip to take Babci to Pieroway’s, the local furniture store. Just as I was about to leave, my wife said, “Whatever you do, don’t let her see the price of the chairs.” She said that because the super fancy chairs were expensive. They cost between $2,000 and $3,000. 


For Babci, the thought of paying over $2,000 dollars for a chair would seem crazy. She had only paid $4,000 dollars for her seven-room house back in 1960. She lived very frugally. Visiting McDonald’s always meant stashing condiments and salt-and-pepper packets in her purse. However, when it came to helping others, especially family members, she was very generous. 


On Tuesday, I picked her up and drove to the furniture store. At the time, she was using a walker and moved slowly. Once she had safely reached the store, I ran over to the chairs and flipped the price tags over. 


When she approached the chairs, the store salesman walked over and explained how to operate them. 


He said, “If you press this button, it will raise your feet. If you press this one, the chair will recline. Then, to elevate you so you can step out of the chair, you can press this button.”


She sat in the first four chairs and systematically pressed all the buttons. There were six chairs she could consider. 


I thought to myself, this is easy. We should be out of here in 5-to-10 minutes.


While Babci was pressing the buttons on chair four, the store salesman reappeared and said, “How’s it going? Do you have any questions?   


Babci responded, “Yeah, I have a question. How much does this chair cost?”  


The store salesman said, “Well, lucky for you that chair is on sale. The original price is $2,999, but this week, it’s on sale for $2,499.”   


Hearing the price—$2,499—her eyes widened. She shot out of the chair as if it had suddenly caught fire.


She grabbed her walker and headed to another part of the store where traditional living room chairs were sold. She spotted one chair with a big red sign above it: Sale of the Week: $300. 


She plopped down in the chair and said, “This is really comfortable. I really like this chair.” 


“But that chair doesn’t raise your feet or recline. Most importantly, it doesn’t elevate you enough to step out of the chair. We need to go back to the other chairs. Try the last two chairs and pick the one you want,” I responded.


Reluctantly, she returned to the hi-tech chairs and tried the last two. 


At this point, I asked, “So which chair would you like to get?” 


She hesitated for a moment and said, “I can’t decide.”  


Pointing to the second chair, I said, “That chair would look really good in your apartment. It’s a nice size and color.” 


She repeated, “I can’t decide,” and for the third time, reiterated, “I can’t decide.”  


I then said, “Okay, let’s head back to the car.” I was convinced she couldn’t get the $2,499 price out of her head. 


Outside the store, Babci said, “Where are we going next?” 


I said, “I’m taking you back to your apartment. I am going to play tennis.”


She responded with, “Oh, I thought we were going to go to more furniture stores.” 


“Nope, we’re done. I have a tennis match at 3:00,” I announced.  


I dropped her off, played tennis, and returned home. My wife greeted me with, “So what type of chair did you get?”


“No chair. It didn’t work out,” I responded.


My wife asked, “Was price an issue? Was price THE issue?”


“Yes,” I said. “Once she discovered the prices, things took a downturn.” Then I added, “But I’d like to give it another shot. I’m going to tell her the insurance company is paying for the chair.”


My wife said, “Good luck with that one.”


Round two: a week later.  


While driving to the store, I spent 15 minutes assuring her that the insurance company would cover the cost of the chair.  

  

Once at the store, she tried several chairs by sitting in them and hitting the buttons. She finally decided that chair number 2 was the one she wanted, so I said, “Great, that will look super in your apartment! Why don’t you head back to the car while I make arrangements for delivery.” 


Several days later, the new chair arrived, and she loved it. She even demonstrated how it worked for several family members.  


My white lie, the insurance company is paying, was worth it. Babci never again struggled getting out of the chair.  


Babci thanked me, handed me a 20-dollar bill, and said, “Have coffee. It’s on me.”


Driving home, I realized that when I removed the one thing holding her back—the cost—everything became easier. Seeing the world from their perspective is essential.


Lesson learned— to move forward, identify what’s holding the person back.


© Paul B. Thornton


Paul B. Thornton

Paul B. Thornton is an author and speaker. He conducts seminars and workshops on alignment, leadership, and implementing change. His latest books include Leadership Styles, The Leadership Process, and Organizational Alignment for Peak Performance.


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Friday, October 16, 2026

A Cold Day in December, 1958 by Stephen Granzyk

Michael Noel

A Cold Day in December, 1958


That first day of December, my friends and I headed to South Park after school to ice skate, most of us eighth-grade classmates at St. Paul of the Cross in Park Ridge, just outside of Chicago. It was the Monday after Thanksgiving, and the football field at the park was now an ice rink. Skating season was back, when boys and girls might pair up and glide around the rink hand in hand. I was just 13 and, like other teens, newly interested in romance, though for me the need for attention and affection now seems to have been more urgent. Just skating on a freezing winter day, bundled against the cold, holding mittened hands, created a warm hyper-reality for me.


I skated with a girl briefly that day, but  I can’t recall with certainty who it was. I do remember the exhilaration of circling around and around with the sounds of steel blades scraping on ice and the joyful cries of youth in my ears—calling out to one another, racing, playing tag or crack the whip-- but I can’t bring back the face of my partner. I’m guessing it was probably Diane Wellbank. Diane often captured my attention with her long black hair and unusually large, dark eyes. I do have a clearer memory of a spring day with her on Riverview Amusement Park’s parachute ride. As we sat locked together in our car, the parachute hanging above us, gradually rising some 200 feet into the air, I watched the pond near the ride grow smaller and smaller below. At any moment, we knew the chute would deploy, and we would hurtle back to earth, in accord with the ride’s design to thrill with speed. Throughout, Diane was happy and unafraid while I was so scared I could barely speak, and completely embarrassed. That was in the warmth of June, right before we graduated.


In cold December, while I was breathing in the chill air and feeling the warmth of closeness with another, a devastating tragedy was unfolding miles away in Chicago. Thick black smoke was billowing from another Catholic grade school. Within, kids my age and younger were suffocating on the gaseous, acrid smoke, gasping for their last, dying breaths. My father, picking me up to take me home for dinner, was the one who told me about the Our Lady of Angels school fire. Ninety-two young lives ended in terror that afternoon, along with three nuns. Watching film footage years later, the sight of firemen coming down ladders out of the inferno, with so many limp, lifeless children in their arms, is deeply upsetting. Those unfortunate kids wore the uniforms typical of parochial schools all over America. The disaster went worldwide and spurred significant regulations in the materials used in building schools and triggered other safety measures in the U.S. I wonder how many parents, or haunted surviving children and their teachers, found solace in that. 


The day was also distinctly memorable because, as my father told me what he had seen on newscasts, tears welled in his eyes. That he could cry was a revelation. Though I loved him,  I also had watched him slapping my mother on two occasions. The first time, I was only six or seven, but I grabbed him around the waist, begging him to stop. As a child, I was overwhelmed, terrified by his angry abuse, without conscious choice, thrown into a role as my mother’s protector. I also constantly depended on her to soothe my resulting chronic anxiousness. The anxiety has been lifelong, complicating many of my relationships. 


Unlike those children who died that December day in 1958, I  am fortunate to still breathe. Given so many more days, what have I learned?  That trauma can be mended. Compassion for others who suffer can help heal personal pain. So does the choice to forgive.  Our lives play out within the infinite multiverse, most of it dark, except where lit by astral phenomena, which, though more enduring, like us, have a finite existence. When we see their images, they may already be changed in form or extinguished. Yet across a vast expanse, their light still shines.

© Stephen Granzyk

Stephen Granzyk

Stephen Granzyk is a Chicagoan, a retired English teacher, now poetry editor at Pleaseseeme.com. He writes poetry and short fiction, some of which have appeared in journals including The English Journal, Ariel, Wink, and Poetic Sun. He is working on a longer narrative about his discovery of a long-hidden family secret.

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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 tra...