This issue features
photograph by Volgariver,
poetry by Julia Duncan,
poetry by Alamgir Hashmi,
photograph by Marilyn Barbone,
poetry by Jon Petruschke,
photograph by Colin Young,
poetry by Gary Shulman,
poetry by Stuart Stromin, and
photograph by Daniela Simona Temneanu
Volgariver
Summer Landscape
Copyright © by Volgariver.
Melissa Andrés
Beyond Our Hill
My mother and I walk pass the cows,
the goats and the horses on our way to the creek.
Foliage overhangs along our winding course.
Small rocks line the bottom. Large rocks create a bridge.
We hop from one gray rock to another
across the clear water careful not to slip.
We bend forward when our hill begins to slope
and strive for a good foothold as we begin our ascent.
Clay churns into the earth beneath our bare feet.
Heat from the midday sun penetrates our skin.
My mother and I glance at the valleys
beyond our valley when we reach the top
and at the hills beyond our hill. Rows
of fences and shrubbery enclose
each pasture below us in the distance.
We find fallen palm tree fronds
and crawl into them like cradles
sliding and smiling down our hill
until a jumble of rocks plunges
us to the precipice of sorrow
and there we wait
for joy’s return.
Copyright © 2023 by Melissa Andrés.
Before our Separation
We haven’t left each other yet
or lived apart for years.
Our home is still our home,
the same one we were born in.
We eat yellow rice
with red pepper flowers
on top while we listen
to the last Tocororo sing.
Our dogs sit at our feet
waiting for scraps
while the trumpets
play their final notes.
The villagers haven’t gathered.
They haven’t hugged or cried.
Their shoulders haven’t sagged
nor their spines begin to bend.
They haven’t yet dispersed
or heard me scream.
They haven’t walked back to their homes
or start to cook my favorite rice again.
My grandmother hasn’t dropped the roll
of wool she used to make my dress
nor have I watched the yards of gold
trail behind her in a blaze.
Copyright © 2023 by Melissa Andrés.
About the Author
Melissa Andrés, originally from Holguin, Cuba, arrived in the United States on the Freedom Flights with her family. She grew up in Florida (Miami and Sarasota) but has lived in Texas, New York, and Europe. She has worked as an elementary school teacher and taught English as a second language. She holds a BA in International Studies from the University of South Florida and an MFA in creative writing from Sarah Lawrence College. Her work has appeared or is forthcoming in The Laurel Review, Rattle Magazine, The San Antonio Review, Ligeia Magazine, Inkwell Journal, Burningword Literary Journal, West Trade Review, and elsewhere. Her poem “The Poisoned Horse” was nominated for a Pushcart Prize.
Julia Nunnally Duncan
Shack at the Top of the Street
I was happy to see people move into
the shack at the top of the street,
a house usually vacant,
its doors unlocked,
that we neighborhood kids explored,
perusing dingy rooms
and treading on creaky floorboards,
hoping to find mementos left behind—
a Mason jar with marbles or an old photo.
And now a family gave the home life again,
a young couple and two kids—
a sister and brother,
who were potential friends.
The children were hungry
by the way they lit into the package
of raw Valleydale hot dogs
that I'd found in our refrigerator
and brought to them.
I ate one, too,
sharing their meal
and sealing the deal of our friendship.
Their mama with her dark ponytail
and daddy with blond Brylcreem-slick hair
were friendly
and invited me to accompany the family
for a movie at our local drive-in.
Back then,
my parents and I didn't think twice
about my getting into a car with these folks—
strangers though they were—
for they were neighbors now.
Their time on our street was short,
and after they moved,
the shack stood empty again
till it was torn down
and a new rental house built in its place.
I don’t remember their names,
but I haven’t forgotten the family
that briefly joined our neighborhood
in the 1960s—
friends never to be seen again.
Copyright © 2023 by Julia Nunnally Duncan.
Andre
Andre was a real chum,
up for any adventure
that might come our way.
One summer day we set out
to find an old farmstead,
over a sloping pasture
and through dense woods—
a long trek for kids our age—
I barely in school
and he soon to start.
But we trudged through blackberry vines
and high grass
till we found our way there.
We explored for a while,
and on the hike back,
we became lost,
but he followed me,
and we found our way home.
In time his family left our street,
and my friendship with Andre
was gone.
But like so many people
from those long-ago 1960s,
Andre has passed from this world,
but not from my mind.
Copyright © 2023 by Julia Nunnally Duncan.
Edna
Edna was a gentle girl
with fair skin and blonde hair
worn in a braid.
She lived down the street,
and I rode my horse Thunder there
and tied his reins to the backyard clothesline
while I went inside her house to play.
We sat in her small bedroom
and listened to records,
not saying much,
but enjoying each other's company.
She invited me to stay for supper one day,
which I was happy to do,
being hungry and smelling the savory food
cooking in the kitchen.
But before suppertime,
her mother told me to go on home,
hurting my feelings,
though in reality the family probably
didn't have food to spare,
there already being six people to feed.
I didn't go back,
but Edna and I were still friends,
and she would come to see me
till her family moved away.
I was eleven then,
but to this day, I think of Edna
and wonder whatever happened to her.
Copyright © 2023 by Julia Nunnally Duncan.
About the Author
Julia Nunnally Duncan is author of ten books of poetry, nonfiction, and fiction. Her latest poetry book is A Neighborhood Changes (Finishing Line Press). Her works have appeared recently in Smoky Mountain Living, WNC Magazine, World War One Illustrated. and History Magazine. A new essay collection All We Have Loved is forthcoming from Finishing Line Press in 2023. Her poems and essays often explore her upbringing in a Western NC textile mill town. She lives in Marion, NC, with her husband Steve, a mountain woodcarver. They enjoy the outdoors and spending time with their daughter Annie.
Alamgir Hashmi
Rain Comes Down on All Heads
Rain comes down on all heads
equally. But a few
have umbrellas too.
Except vehicles left in water
and these milk cans,
there is nothing
about the bus stop
at night.
The clouds are mounting again.
One more
water kicking comes
and looks
wet mouse at me.
Perhaps asking
if I am already waiting.
Then, we turn our backs.
I have walked
the day in noisy fall. Now my
silence be mine.
His loincloth showing is
his.
As such, to God
ravenously watching the
water dance, no cat-calls mean
much.
Copyright © 2022 by Alamgir Hashmi. Reprinted by permission of the author from Voices Now: World Poetry Today (Tristoop Books, 2022).
On This Sidewalk
On this sidewalk
a few words
in chalk
say what it means
to be poor.
Who can stop
the tripping feet,
a sparse look
through inadvertence,
or a rainwash?
Perhaps this
stinkcologned old man
secreting gentle
speech
knows the art.
Though picturesque
and lying in the dee,
whose solace
(you think)
is he?
As he rises,
his knees would weakly knock
for help;
only a stick would
hold his hand.
Copyright © 2022 by Alamgir Hashmi.Reprinted by permission of the author from Voices Now: World Poetry Today (Tristoop Books, 2022).
About the Author
Alamgir Hashmi is the author of numerous books of poetry and literary criticism. His poetry and prose have also appeared widely in journals and anthologies such as Wild Gods (New Rivers Press, 2021), Footprints (Broken Sleep Books, 2022), Voices Now: World Poetry Today (Tristoop Books, 2022), and Madness: An Anthology of World Poetry (RedPanda Books, 2023). He has taught as a university professor and is Founding President of The Literature Podium: An Independent Society for Literature and the Arts.
Marilyn Barbone
Full Moon Beauty
Copyright © by Marilyn Barbone.
Jon Petruschke
Haiku poems
spring equinox
all of her gets
equal attention
Copyright © 2023 by Jon Petruschke.
summertime love
he’s only ever seen her
in freckles
Copyright © 2020. Previously published at Crosshatch Publishing,
tropical sun
through cracks in the door, your shirt’s
missing button
Copyright © 2023 by Jon Petruschke.
About the Author
Jon Petruschke (he/him) is a psychotherapist and published author of short fiction and poetry. He grew up in the Philadelphia area, but currently resides in Portland, Maine where he has led a writing group for the past 20 years. His work has appeared in Modern Haiku, Presence, Tsuri-Dōrō, Akitsu Quarterly, Philly Fiction, Crosshatch Publishing, Under the Basho, Variant Literature, and Paper Wasp, among others. He has a book of poetry – Dream Haiku: Poems from Nights and Naps.
Colin Young
Haines Falls
Copyright © by Colin Young.
Gary Shulman
Here’s to the Children Who Don’t Quite Fit
Here’s to the children who don’t quite fit
Who run around aimlessly when all the others sit
Who look at the world through eyes unique
And into their souls you’d love to peek
To see just what magic makes them tick
When they look at a tree and call it a stick
Here’s to the teens who will not abide
By life’s set rules that they push aside
As they rock back and forth in their own special world
While grown-ups grow frustrated with lips tightly curled
Then bursts of brilliance they reveal as they race
While tears of love roll down a parent’s face
Expectations often missed but still they yearn
Wondering today what skills they will learn
We hope for the ones who don’t quite fit the mold
That the world will be kind as they grow old
We know that the bullies will play their cruel game
Reality is, cruelty sometimes brings shame
But optimism lives in each heart and mind
Of parents and professionals who continue to be kind
With a network of supporters shining bright as the sun
The ones who don’t quite fit have already won
Nobody knows the future
So why pretend?
Let’s celebrate their victories!
May they never end!!!
Copyright 2021 by Gary Shulman.
Legacy
So let’s just suppose today was the day
You looked in the mirror and to yourself you did say
Looks like the journey has wound down to an end
My social card now devoid of extravaganzas to attend
The termination date on this relic
Has way since expired
This old wizened soul
Has grown oh so very tired
What legacies of life did you truly embrace
That you could leave behind for the human race?
What gifts did you bequeath to this fragile tenuous world?
What treasures did you leave still yet to be unfurled?
Profundity alas is not a jewel I would leave
To those left on earth for my soul yet to grieve
Trinkets of gold, silver, diamonds and such
Legacies of wealth….not really worth very much
So let’s get to the crux, let’s get to the heart
Of legacies pure and pristine
So where shall I start?
How handsome he was!
What an artist was she!
Did you see how they bowled?
Such a lawyer was he!
Legacies all……..or perhaps legacies none
Even for those who had one helluva run!
Not to belabor the point nor pretend to be a sage
Just a simple thought to place on this page
The choices in life you have made will be
Your lasting, resplendent legacy
So choose to be kind in all that you do
No greater legacy could be left by you
Copyright 2021 by Gary Shulman.
Ode to a Vintage Soul
As his journey approaches 90 years
Of life on earth, it’s time,
To reflect on such a glorious life,
A life like vintage wine,
It has not always been easy
As the seasons came and went,
But one thing for sure
We can celebrate,
Is a life that was very well spent,
Spent loving a Catskills home so sweet
Replete with hummingbirds and bears,
Replete with loving friends and family
Who visited throughout the years,
This folk on the hill
This one of a kind
Would stand out in a crowd,
Yes sometimes not always appropriate
And maybe a bit too loud,
But lord knows always engaging
On topics of days gone by,
Like Hollywood celebrities
Or wars that made him cry,
His wife of more than 60 years
Always there like his Rock of Gibraltar,
Ready to catch him when he needs support
Making sure he doesn’t falter,
His children, his joy, his progeny
His greatest gift to this earth,
Adore his quirks, his good, his bad,
His passion and his mirth,
And mirth he has in buckets full
As laughter flows like rain,
His view of life unique, divine
And sometimes a bit insane,
And now each day for this glorious man
Comes with just a tad more pain,
Those eyes may need a bit more time
To communicate with his brain,
But rest assured well loved is he
And loved he’ll always be,
For 90 years well spent and shared
Is quite a legacy
Copyright 2021 by Gary Shulman.
About the Author
Gary Shulman’s poems have been published throughout the world. His second book of poetry is forthcoming. He is a lifelong advocate for families of children with disabilities as well and still supports vulnerable families while sharing his poetry as well.
Daniela Simona Temneanu
Paris Night Lights
Copyright © by Daniela Simona Temneanu.
Stuart Stromin The plan of Paris
for Katie There is no guidebook that can show you Paris so burn your list of tourist sites to check or you will miss it all. Paris will reveal what you need to see. The sudden rain forces you into a café. Mechanical problems jam the elevators on the Eiffel tower. The taxis are on strike. Someone recommends a cup of molten chocolate in the Luxembourg gardens. You get lost down the wrong street in the gray filigrees of drizzle and shelter in the church at Saint-Sulpice, where there is an oil painting of Jacob crossing paths with an angel. You need to go underground and through the tunnels of the dead, resist the temptation to steal a bone from the empire of skulls, and hear the screech and whoosh of trains that float on rubber tires along the tracks of the Metro. You need to fly in the high swings of a muddy funfair that you wander into pitched on the Rivoli side along the palace gardens of the Tuileries. Close buildings blur, but it is clear across the river as you whirl around and around, dangling in a damp metal seat. You need to find the same restaurant with the crabs and cockles, the pastry with apricot sprinkles, the crypts beneath the green leaves and the music-box of the wind, the drunken stumble home under an umbrella. Across the courtyard was where Picasso had his studio, and before that, Balzac lived here, marked by gold letters on a stone plaque. There is a code to open the heavy doors. The floral wallpaper camouflages the hidden closets, and the deco taps are shaped like mermaids. You fall into a conversation on the terrace with strangers who speak no language, and exchange numbers. You end up at the Dali museum on the poster instead, to discover swans inverted as elephants, melting timepieces and bronze eggs. Even the girl with the half-shaved head and bandaged wrist stares at the canvas like it was a mirror. I blindfold your eyes with my palms and walk you onto an island in squeaky traffic so that something inspired by Napoleon will be a surprise. Previously published in Sheila-Na-Gig, Winter 2017. Copyright © 2023 by Stuart Stromin.
Seascape The old boards creak on the pier. Barnacles hug each dark, wooden support. The bar-tops are stained with mustard and beer. Burnt-out seadogs on the railings watch the children cavort. You hang around until there is no enemy, and the salty wind blows off the endless sea. He walks the beach in the wrong shoes. He tries to count the gulls, but they refuse. And the full waves billow and fall. And the full waves billow and fall. Previously published in River River, Fall 2017. Copyright © 2023 by Stuart Stromin.
David by Moonlight The dry air murmurs with a distant malice, Light slides across flat rooftops like a sword. The king – awake – is pacing on the palace, Dreaming a hundred psalms to praise the Lord. Through all the metal stars on midnight duty, There is no way to see less than the light, The king is dazzled by your ruthless beauty, So silver-wet and naked in the night. I watch the wind – from my post on the tower – Rise like the moon across the groves and hills. Your curtains part, I see into your shower. One vision of your body, and it kills. David died for your love upon his broken throne. The strongest of us all falls like a stone.
Previously published in The Literary Hatchet, Winter 2021. Copyright © 2023 by Stuart Stromin.
About the Author
Stuart Stromin, an award-winning South African-American writer and filmmaker, lives in Los Angeles. He was educated at Rhodes University, South Africa on a creative writing scholarship, the Alliance Francaise de Paris, and UCLA. His poetry has been published in a number of journals and e-zines, including Sheila-Na-Gig online, River River, Plainsongs, Chicken Soup for the Soul, The Literary Hatchet, The Raven, 500 miles, Rigorous, Blood Puddles, Dissident Voice, etc. He most recently received First Honorable Mention (4th place) in the Traditional Sonnet category of the 2021 Helen Schaible International Sonnet Contest.