Library Card by Ryan Quinn Flanagan

 

Tetyana Kovyrina

Library Card

A young toddler

in blue overalls

and mini-Velcro sneakers

stares up at the librarian,

mesmerized. 

"Now give the lady your card,

so she can give you your books,"

his mother instructs.

He hands the library card over, wide-eyed.

In a tiny grey train conductor's cap.

The librarian

reaching down to give

the kid his books.

Two children's books,

the one on top is

Clifford: The Big Red Dog.

"Say thank you,"

the mother implores

her child.

The kid says nothing

and waves goodbye.

With that clumsy munchkin 

of a hand.

I am in line behind them,

smiling the honest

smile.

And later,

sitting over a sandwich shop

sub and pop,

I think of it again.

An ache in my cheeks

from another deep smile.

The sun's warmth

through the window,

over my lazing

arms.

Sometimes

the world is good.

© 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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Factory Workers on Their Way to Work by Ruth Holzer

Factory Workers on Their Way to Work by Helene Schjerfbeck

Factory Workers on Their Way to Work

(after the painting by Helene Schjerfbeck)

Their faces pale with fatigue, 

their downcast eyes empty,

in pre-dawn darkness two women

hurry to their shift at the woolen mill.

All day they’ll stand at the spinning machines

surrounded by a racket of gears grinding,

pulleys whining, and the ceaseless clatter of the looms 

echoing around the brick walls.

They’ll inhale dust and fibers,

exhale another scrap of themselves

until the thin twined threads

of their lives fray and break.  

© Ruth Holzer

Ruth Holzer

Ruth Holzer has written ten chapbooks, most recently On the Way to Man in Moon Passage (Dancing Girl Press) and Float (Kelsey Books). Her poems have appeared in Blue Unicorn, California Quarterly, Freshwater, POEM, Slant, and elsewhere. She is a multiple Pushcart and Best of the Net nominee.

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Skipping Over Winter by Peter A. Witt

Natalia Sevruk

Skipping Over Winter

In the final days of autumn

I dream of spring wildflowers,

mind skipping over the trials 

of winter, the cold, the snow, 

until one day the daffodils bloom, 

the crocuses pop up 

searching for the sky,

and the first blue bonnets

make their way from leaf

to stems, then rise

into the warming air

calling families with children,

and an unruly dog

to settle among them

for a ritual photograph.

© Peter A. Witt Enjoy more posts by Peter A. Witt HERE.

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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We Long-Term Lease Unity Church in Princeton, Massachusetts by Pamela Gemme

Mikhail Nilov

We Long-Term Lease Unity Church in Princeton, Massachusetts   

                           

      “Wisdom's cry aloud in the streets, she utters her voice in the broad places.” (Proverbs 1:20)

Money from my tax return leased it cheap. 

Pleasant Street. (Answered prayers). 

A supreme sanctuary. 

For my uncommon little family.

Never a bride. Never been better.

Down my aisle, I call the shots. 

Graduated from Worcester State. I rejoice.

Naomi passed grade 8.

Turning 15. Dance & voice. 

We sing redemption songs.

My girl & I sit butterfly on kantha mats

In our new-wave nave. Notes soar.

We found a kitten & her feral mother. 

(Out back). Named her Riff Raff. 

Fed her tuna fish for her first supper. 

Standing in my vestibule among saints.

My father comes for a looksee & pledges. 

Allegiance to the flag, one nation.        

I removed the pews. My thrift store list brims.   

Lemon oil to anoint the hardwoods.

Royal blue panes, resoldered windows,

Found crystals to place each in the center 

of three arches between columns.

Born again, brilliant glints of borrowed light.

One for Bishop. One for Dickinson. One for Plath. 

© Pamela Gemme

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Pamela Gemme

Pamela Gemme is a poet and artist. Recent or forthcoming publications: The American Journal of Poetry, Haiku Journal, The Chicago Quarterly Review, Naugatuck River Review, J Journal, SoFloPoJo, and others. Pamela works privately with poets to write about their trauma, and she runs local workshops. Pamela co-leads a reading series in Needham, Massachusetts, with the poet Mani Iyer. Most recently, her manuscript Making My Madonna received Honorable Mention in the 2025 Slate Roof Press Contest. Pamela co-edited Essential Voices: A Covid-19 Anthology from WVU Press, released May 22, 2023. Pamela is on the editorial board at the Worcester Review. Pamela is an Ambassador at the National Baseball Poetry Festival. Pamela’s chapbook, Making My Madonna, is forthcoming from Finishing Line Press.

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My Religion? Cat by Kushal Poddar

Art © Kushal Poddar

My Religion? Cat

The girl lifts the grey cat. Her face

is now a cat's. Life should stop here.

Light should highlight only this.

My religion? Cat. Or newt. If we could say.

The girl and I take a detour, stroll

down the lane fenced by the ruined houses

and a gathering that will let our blood

be a fresh flood if we are to be killed here and now.

© Kushal Poddar

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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.

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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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