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Poem by Jade Blackmore – A Man of Some Renown July 24, 2022

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He was a man of some renown in certain circles. All the crusty bohemians, naïve wanna-bes, and adjuncts to the rich and famous crossed paths with him. You’d find him at blueblood soirees, art galleries, and biker bars.

“I met this guy in the Village,” someone would say, and add his name, with no description or story attached.  And their friends would chime in with unbridled enthusiasm.  “Yeah, I know, he’s an asshole” “He owes me money!” or “A girl I work with is his mistress. He treats her like shit.”

But when he died, everybody was ready with a sound bite.

“He was an outstanding guy, a real trailblazer” they all agreed, “We’ll miss him.

Poem- The Quiet World by Jade Blackmore April 14, 2022

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The Quiet World

Looking at the world from a window.

Apartment dwellers
laugh at the audacity of nature.
two raccoons overtake the parking garage
to make whoopee in plain sight.

The red finch at the feeder
thousands of butterflies skirting across stucco rooftops.

Then a phantasm shuttered the mountains, the planets, the movie scenes
with its’ money,
the lush green steppes only accessible
to the haughty and clueless.
The legacy friend who is quite sure she’s always right, the bluster, the vile and righteous path.

More sculpted glass in the sky,
a formula for escape or detention.
A squirrel scampers up the construction site fence,
another reminder
that the quiet world is out of reach.

Poem by John Grey – Coin in the Jukebox February 11, 2022

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Coin in the Jukebox

Put a coin in the jukebox
and remember what you wish to remember.
You half-smile when the needle hits shellac.
You can breathe without having to worry
whether or not your lungs are there to greet the air.
You don’t have people wary of you
as if your very touch is poison.

Put that coin in the jukebox.
The effort won’t be wasted.
You can spread your arms wide
or hug yourself tighter.
It doesn’t matter if strangers think you’re crazy.
Insanity has all the best tunes anyhow.
You can be yourself, by yourself,
with legs kicking up a storm
and hips swaying a hurricane.

Put that coin in the jukebox
and sing along with the best croak
your old frog throat can mister.
Show them how wild you can be
as song plops on top of song,
and the names get lost in the vinyl shuffle.
It’s all about the beat
and not the hens who cackle how
you should act your age.

Put that coin in the jukebox
for every old friend gone mute,
for the guys who’ve long hung up their dancing shoes.
Forget the time.
Raise the volume.
There’s nothing like a luminous wrinkled face.
Your withered legs could do this all night.

Put that coin in the jukebox.
A neglected high awaits.
Some singer, long dead,
will give you tips on how to stay alive.
So what if you don’t know the words to the song.
The ones you sing will be minted in the moment.

Put that coin in the jukebox.
Ignore the bartender, the other drinkers.
Leave them to their alcohol-powered disillusion.
Some guy has a trumpet in his mouth.
Another thrashes a willing kit of drums.
The singer unleashes a string of passionate half-sentences.
So much for the soft hue of memory.
It’s a blazing cauldron.

Put that coin in the jukebox.
You create an island for yourself
in waters of sneering and disgust.
With a healthy strut, you grant time permission
to take all those unwanted years back.
You want to be seventeen again.
So push that coin in the slot.
Increase the likelihood.

BIO: John Grey is an Australian poet, US resident, recently published in Sheepshead Review, Poetry Salzburg Review and Hollins Critic. Latest books, “Leaves On Pages” “Memory Outside The Head” and “Guest Of Myself” are available through Amazon. Work upcoming in Ellipsis, Blueline and International Poetry Review

Poem by Sushant Thapa – The Sky That Stopped Me July 25, 2021

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 The Sky that Stopped Me 

That late afternoon 
I saw the sun hiding behind the clouds. 
My eyes swept
from a green tree,
Swinging its arms in the slight breeze.

I stopped for a while that afternoon
To realize that soon evening would drop.
I stopped my walk and my eyes 
Stopped in the clouds, 
The yellow and the blue 
As if they are colours of my 
Life which has been too busy.

I rush to make a chapter of verses. 
That feeling and the strike 
From the clock tower,
Shaking me from the buzz,
A bee hovering, 
Flowers singing the tune of balance 
Gave me the rhythm 
Again and again. 

I have learnt to stop and 
Cherish life in the silver mirror of the clouds.

Words they help me to arrange the white clouds 
In my blue sky. 


Sushant Thapa is a Nepalese poet from Biratnagar, Nepal who holds a Master’s degree in English Literature from Jawaharlal Nehru University, New Delhi,India. Some of his publications include Trouvaille Review, The Piker Press, Lothlorien Poetry Journal, New York Parrot, Atunis Poetry, Visible Magazine, Litehouse exophonic Magazine, Impspired, EKL Review, The Kathmandu Post, My Republica and Harbinger Asylum. Sushant is the author of the poetry collection “The Poetic Burden and Other Poems” published by Authorspress, New Delhi, India.  

Poem by John Grey- The Flight Conundrum May 5, 2021

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The Flight Conundrum

Last night, I dreamed that I was flying.
As far as my subconscious is concerned,
there’s no such thing as gravity.
Waking, however, brings it back into play.
I can stand up straight
but that’s as far as it gets.

Yes, I admit, that I once got high 
on your sweetly passionate kisses.
But that was more of a sensibility thing.
In physical terms, my feet were firmly on the ground.

But, in that dream,
I was soaring over rooftops, 
lakes and forests.
And there seemed to be no reason for it.
Nothing was pulling at me from below.
Not mortgage payments.
Not a roof in need of repair.
No backpain.
Not even a slow night on TV.

I wonder if birds dream 
of having two legs, two arms,
no wings, no feathers,
and pushing a lawnmower 
up and down a backyard lawn.
I’d like it better if they did.


John Grey is an Australian poet, US resident, recently published in Orbis, Dalhousie Review and Connecticut River Review. Latest books, “Leaves On Pages” and “Memory Outside The Head” are available through Amazon.

Three Poems by Alan Britt – Zen, Swallowing a Wine Soaked Flea, and Salary Cap February 19, 2017

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One minute mullets slap my face,
slash my grin, & fill the boat,
next I’m chasing split fingers
in the dirt.

One minute folks beg photos
for basement mausoleums,
next I’m coughing steroids
in a pine-paneled dehumidified
definition of the Old Testament’s
Heaven & Hell.

One minute thunder plunders
the virgin lips of imagination,
next I’m waltzing the long
end off a short pier.

One minute I’m a saffron wasp
digesting the succulent underbelly
of a green leaf caterpillar hidden
beneath a July broccoli frond.

Unfortunately, he’s the one.



It tastes a little like pepper
if pepper didn’t taste like anything.



Stadiums shiver; knees knock;
knees not what they were
before that right field sprinkler—
then hips complain, & shakedown
of the skeletal system ensues,
& nobody wins.

So much for Cleveland quakes,
Baltimore tremors, Pittsburgh’s
yellow mud, Chicago elections
that don’t involve liquor. So much
for buying the World Series, Yankees
style, ubiquitous, nonetheless.



In August 2015 Alan Britt was invited by the Ecuadorian House of Culture Benjamín Carrión in Quito, Ecuador as part of the first cultural exchange of poets between Ecuador and the United States. In 2013 he served as judge for the TheBitter Oleander Press Library of Poetry Book Award. His interview at The Library of Congress for The Poet and the Poem aired on Pacifica Radio, January 2013. He has published 15 books of poetry, his latest being Violin Smoke (Translated into Hungarian by Paul Sohar and published in Romania: 2015). He teaches English/Creative Writing at Towson University.

Library of Congress interview at this link.


Poem – She is Sci-Fi by Stephen Philip Druce January 31, 2017

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She Is Sci-Fi

She stripped off her
retro boots – ripped up
her non-descript Sunday suits,
trashed her ugly
dresses – burnt
the dark cuttings from
her tresses – now short
dyed ocean blue –
in futuristic design she
put on some devil horns and
a wrought iron spine of
prickly thorns –
square shades and
silver-glittered roller blades,
giant collar and shoulder fakes,
face paint and wings of snakes –
open jawed,
she flew with higher birds, and
with her sabre sword she carved out
the words in the sky –
I am sci-fi.

BIO:  Stephen Philip Druce is a poet from Shrewsbury in the U.K.

Poems by Allison Grayhurst – Every Hope Inhaled and Through This Strand of Time January 10, 2017

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Every Hope Inhaled

Every day there is no day
where the fullness of his being
goes unhatched.
Not a day when I do not smell
his smell and hunger
for the rub of his lips.
Not a day when he stands so distant
I forget the kinship we share,
the mousey tide he sprung me from
and the ground of faith he thawed in my breast.

Here in July with my fishscope-view
and the shifting of circumstantial thorns,
when the tombstone tumbles and each handful
of hope has been hacksawed off,
he alone helps justify
and lamps my richest theme.


Through This Strand of Time

Breeze, I long to let lull
between my hairstrands
and move my heart to gentle sleep,
forgetting you and the reach of your
impulsive heart. Into my hands
the bit-bar of longing wanders, so that
my fingers scale the air in hopes of climbing
beyond this helpless loss.

Your primal vision is latched
to my own – I see you in dreams, with
your black eyes and unshifting devotion.
I see you when I walk, in crushed snails’ shells
and rainwater puddles.

Through the hours of morning,
the shrill of not-knowing burns like plastic
on my tongue. I am
not far from falling, not far
from letting a pale tear take my all.


Bio: Allison Grayhurst is a member of the League of Canadian Poets. Three times nominated for Sundress Publications “Best of the Net” 2015, she has over 880 poems published in over 390 international journals. She has twelve published books of poetry, seven collections, nine chapbooks, and a chapbook pending publication. She lives in Toronto with her family. She is a vegan. She also sculpts, working with clay; www.allisongrayhurst.com

Poem – Snowed In by Helen Burke December 29, 2016

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Snowed In
Helen Burke

And ..some people spend their whole lives , snowed in .
But we’ve been lucky , we have braved the blizzard
And gotten soaked through to the skin.
Do you remember the funny house in Wales
And waking to a prisoner level of the white stuff.
It felt like a weight had been lifted from me
I could just stay within the snow circle
And let the frost and the icicles do the rest.
Everything was white , my soul , my bones , my blood.
And yet I have never felt so alive.
As if a great drifting lay above and below me
And little particles of my small self dissolving
Into the December day .
From the top window I could still see the world ..just .
I could see the perfection of what might be achieved
If we could just hang on in there …
And a figure walking in the distance that I knew
To be myself.


Helen Burke has been writing poetry for 42 years she also writes short stories, plays, comedy sketches and does painting and visual art. She has a new collection called”Today the Birds Will Sing “ coming out with Valley Press in the next couple of months.

Her work has been widely published and anthologised.  She has won a number of competitions such as Manchester International, Norwich, Suffolk, the Yorkshire prize, Southport Comedy, Jersey, Devon & Dorset, Torbay and many others.

Her work has been published and distributed in America by www.origamipoems.com, based on Rhode Island, she has 15 chap books with them, having formerly read at Roots in Providence. She has recently been made an honorary member of Ocean State Poets.

She reads at many literature and music festivals in the UK and read with former Poet Laureate ,Andrew Motion.She is a regular host on E.L.F.M Radio in Leeds featuring many of her own poems and guest poets and musicians. Her work is described as witty, surreal, humane and accessible,commented on by Gillian Clark

Poem – Moontalk by John Grey December 20, 2016

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Moon sings out
any new sighting with feigned surprise.
As ever. Moon, the troop ship,
rampant and denied, its useless blessing secured
during my evening course. Left hip twinges
every step. Evenings are like this now,
my 4th decade backed into a corner,
for one more generation.
a hurricane aftermath piled atop me,
no surprise, barrier wobbling in the bay,
health services used for playmates,
greeting you, I grump, limping,
the end of the year hard upon us,
there it is still, between trees
through the old streets, fading further
on incomprehensible walks with you,
not the fifty seven years, just the voice.


John Grey is an Australian poet and US resident. He work has been recently published in New Plains Review, Stillwater Review and Big Muddy Review with work upcoming in Louisiana Review, Columbia College Literary Review and Spoon River Poetry Review.