Dancing Star by Sushant Thapa

Yassir Abbas

Dancing Star

Blank.
The fate of something
Until it is discovered.
Bit by bit
Time runs out.
We dive deep
In the ditch of unfulfilling
Grief.
Taken away is the joy,
Like the falling leaf.
Every occasion
Is a battle
For the suffering one.
A kind hand,
Listening eyes,
And embracing care
Would never let the river dry.
They talk in abstract language.
When they give birth
To a dancing star,
The chaos makes them
Talk in abstraction.
When your heart is heavy,
You philosophize.

© Sushant Thapa

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Sushant Thapa

Sushant Thapa is a Nepalese poet who holds an M.A. in English from Jawaharlal Nehru University in New Delhi, India, with nine books of English poems and one short story collection to his credit. His poems are published at The Kathmandu Post, Trouvaille Review, Lothlorien Poetry Journal, Outlook India, Corporeal Lit Mag, Feed the Holy, Masticadores USA,  Indian Review, etc. He is an English lecturer in Biratnagar, Nepal. 

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Dolly Villanelle by Sher Schwartz

Dolly Villanelle     

––after Dolly Parton 1946-2026

Hello Dolly, I bring your gifts to dark world.

Your dresses, guitars, blonde wigs, and smiles–

Dolly, I bring all who thank you.

When disasters took their homes, you gave them 

back. Your country songs gave us medicine.

Hello Dolly, I bring your gifts to dark world.

Your tunnel is lit with rhinestones bright as

diamonds, and here's your unforgettable 

voice. I bring all who thank you.

Your career gave us wildfire relief, 

children's books, new hospital beds, and laughs.

Hello Dolly, I bring your gifts to dark world.

You said, Honey, you don't have to be a 

raving beauty to be special, and be 

beautiful. I bring all those who thank you.

You said, If I see someone without a smile

I give them mine. Magic is inside you.

Hello Dolly I bring your gifts to dark world.

Dolly, I bring all those who thank you.

@ Sher Schwartz

Sher Schwartz

Sher Schwartz is a published essayist, poet, musician, and retired Assistant Professor of Humanities living on a 200-acre historic farm in Eastern Oregon. Her chapbook The Beautiful One’s Ark was published in 2024. 

Feature Image Courtesy of Picryl.

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Poetry by Lorraine Caputo

with cloudd

BLUE AS …

… the sea gently washing to this shore

… the clear sky arched above our earth

… fresh calafate berries calling me to Patagonia

… the glacial river rushing through sharp canyons

… the nardo flower’s sweet scent thick

… those eyes I will never see again

… the sadness taking wing, fleeing my soul 

~~~~~

IN THE SUNSET SEA

 

Bands of rose ripple

across the deep blue water

As I lift my arms above

the golden sun reflects off

   the droplets

The gentle waves bathe my Spirit

soothing her

carrying away all the fatigue

all the sorrows

 

I sink into the sea’s warmth

   floating on its salty breadth

watching the now-orange sun

sink deeper behind the hills

Its colors spread wide

across the broken clouds

like an opal

 

I turn over & over in this iridescent water

just to feel my muscles move

to feel their pull with each stroke

just to know that

I’m still, I am still

alive

© Lorraine Caputo

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Lorraine Caputo

Poet-translator Lorraine Caputo’s works appear internationally in over 500 journals and 23 collections of poetry – including In the Jaguar Valley (Dancing Girl Press, 2023). She is a Best of the Net and Pushcart Prize nominee. She journeys through Latin America, listening to the voices of the pueblos and Earth.

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THOROUGHFARES CADRALOR by Sterling Warner

Neilstha Firman

THOROUGHFARES CADRALOR

1.  Freddy Cannon’s Organ

Come gather at nightfall at New Jersey’s Palisades Park;

just follow the sounds of shrill brass whistles, cow bells,

and off-pitch fanfare from steam-powered calliopes.

2.  Goodyear Theatre

Crawling through holes in cyclone fences

Ted scurried inside the abandoned tire factory

reciting Macbeth to a critical mass of machines.

 

3.  Sidewalk Inequity 

Bloated bellies rumble, parched lips remain silent

and empty eyes fixate on graffiti like holy scriptures

seek a balance between the marginalized and entitled. 

4.  Evading Harmony House

Leaves fall through rafters, dust silver goblets, and rest on Dossets

scattered across kitchen counters like pharmacy grail: the familiar

abandoned, my Aunt fled her home to live life in obscurity.   

5.  Orpheus’ Lyre

Autumn maple leaves drop and float on angry gusts

Sasquatch windchimes clang; I want angelic choirs

to mourn Carole’s death and chant solemn elegies.

© Sterling Warner

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Sterling Warner

Washington-based author, poet, and educator, Sterling Warner’s works have appeared in such magazines, journals, and anthologies as Verse-Virtual, Ekphrastic Review. Warner’s poetry/fiction includes Rags and Feathers, Without Wheels, ShadowCat, Edges, Memento Mori, Serpent’s Tooth, Flytraps: Poems, Cracks of Light: Pandemic Poetry & Fiction, Halcyon Days: Collected Fibonacci, Abraxas: Poems, Gunilla’s Garden: Poems (2025), and Masques: Flash Fiction & Short Stories.  He currently writes, hosts “virtual” poetry/fiction readings, and enjoys fishing along the Hood Canal.

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Baileys Spiked Coffee by Terry Allen

cottonbro studio

Baileys Spiked Coffee

The old gentleman sits by himself 

in the dimmed light

at his favorite corner table in the jazz club,

keeping warm on a bitter, cold winter night,

and listening to the trio play,

All the Things You Are,

a sensuous and tenderhearted song.

And that’s just fine by him.

It’s a piece he liked to play on the piano

when his arthritic hands didn’t betray his efforts

to bring to life Jerome Kern’s lovely melody.

It’s this piece that reminds him of his wife

who passed away two or three years ago.

Although, now, he’s not entirely certain.

Often, he can’t recall how long he’s been alone

and that’s when, he feels her presence,

and he thinks she may not have left at all.

It’s in these fleeting moments

that he hears her voice so clearly

that he finds himself speaking out loud to her.

And now, in the last year or so, he sees her

for just a moment. Usually it’s late at night,

sometimes she’s sitting in a chair,

looking at him from across the room,

or she’s passing by the bedroom door.

I should talk to someone about this,

he finds himself saying aloud

as the trio takes the lush, intricate music

for an improvised walk around the room.

I’ll make an appointment next week

and talk to the doctor, he thinks

as he sips the last of his drink

and sits back and is carried away to a time 

when the air was warm and his wife was near, 

just as she is now, sitting close to him,

listening to the music, and keeping time with her translucent hand on the table near his.

(First Published in Front Porch Review)

© Terry Allen

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Terry Allen

Terry Allen is an Emeritus Professor of Theatre Arts at the University of Wisconsin-Eau Claire, where he taught acting, directing, and playwriting. He directed well over a hundred plays during his thirty-eight years of teaching. A few favorites include: Candide, Macbeth, Death of a Salesman, A Funny Thing Happened on the Way to the Forum, and The Threepenny Opera. He is the author of five poetry collections: Monsters in the Rain, Art Work, Waiting on the Last Train, Rubber Time, and Preserving the Past for the Present.

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The Wolf I Feed at Dusk by David Anson Lee

 

L'oeil à deux Vanessa et cédric

The Wolf I Feed at Dusk

At dusk the day gathers its arguments:
sirens, headlines,
a neighbor’s anger
seeping through thin walls.

Inside me, the wolves circle.
One sharp-toothed, bright with outrage,
keeps a ledger of wrongs.
The other moves slowly,
ribs showing,
eyes worn smooth as river stone.

I carry food
without knowing it.
Every word chosen,
every silence kept,
every thought rehearsed
after dark
tilts the bowl.

Tonight, I feed the quieter one.
I give it wind in the trees,
my breath returning to itself,
the memory of a friend’s laugh
breaking a hard hour open.

The fierce wolf watches, offended,
but does not leave.
It never does.
Grief wants a mouth.

Still,
the gentler wolf lifts its head,
not victorious,
only alive,
and for a moment
the world feels less like a wound
and more like a place
I might still learn
to tend.

© David Anson Lee

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David Anson Lee

David Anson Lee is a poet, philosopher, and physician living in Texas. Born on the Pine Ridge Indian Reservation, he explores themes of healing, grief, resilience, and the sacred dimensions of ordinary life. His work has appeared in Ink Sweat & Tears, Braided Way, Silver Birch Press, and numerous other journals.

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