Los Angeles

The holiness of sunrise

trampled down

by people in cars

rushing to work


In cracks of roads

plants shoot up

grasping the air

without certainty of survival



DAH’s ninth poetry collection is SPHERICAL (Argotist Press, 2019), and his poems have been published by editors from the US, UK, Ireland, Germany, Italy, Canada, Spain, Poland, Philippines, Singapore, Australia, Africa, and India. He is a Pushcart nominee, Best Of The Net nominee, and the lead editor for the poetry critique group, The Lounge. DAH lives in Berkeley, California where he teaches yoga to children in public and private schools while working on the manuscript for his tenth poetry collection. His eighth book is Full Life In The Day Of A Poet, selected poems (Cyberwit Publishing, 2019). Visit: www.dahlusion.wordpress.com

Era Not of War

We’ve come out of the dust

in our mother tongue

not to praise the people

with astronomical hoards of bucks

and numbers, but those who’ve risen

out of volcanic ashes, those pushed

into labors for biddings not theirs,

who’re capable of envisioning peace

between nations when negotiations

take work with credible research

and willingness to hear clearly,

while a missile fires off at the twitch

of a ring finger. We’re here to give

our piece to the masters of war

who may be disinterested in seeing

what’s before them, as they duck

responsibility for the consequences

of their acts just to maximize profit.

Every day the masters of war fight

the human consensus, masters who,

stumbling upon disputes, provide

not wisdom but lethal arms to every

side, who in the face of Earth’s limits

of materials wage their public war

for control and to gut education.

And yet we’re here to recognize

those who’ve stood for peaceful

coexistence, who understand links

of firing off a missile to destruction

on the ground, who can envision

many years of peace, with altruism

toward those in need, and not forget

that war is a catastrophic collapse.


James Grabill

James Grabill’s work appears in Caliban, Harvard Review, Terrain, Mobius, Shenandoah, Seattle Review, Stand, and many others. Books – Poem Rising Out of the Earth (1994), An Indigo Scent after the Rain (2003), Lynx House Press. Environmental prose poems, Sea-Level Nerve: Books One (2014), Two (2015), Wordcraft of Oregon. For many years, he taught all kinds of writing as well as “systems thinking” and global issues relative to sustainability.

Charles Springer

Inauguration Day

Wife calls me from her cell, says all the way to work whitetails lined the roadway, four and five deep in places, says they looked like passengers behind the line to board a train. I remind her that today’s the day the governor comes to town with his entourage and motorcade. I ask her if she saw the rabbits. Come to think of it, she says, it did look like the doe were wearing fuzzy slippers. And were there birds perched atop bucks’ antlers? Hundreds, maybe thousands, in the voice she gathers for amazement. She asks if they’ve all left their nests to greet the governor as he passes. I tell her each and every creature have been summoned for extinction. Did you not see the front end loaders, dump trucks in the background? Silly me, she says, you’re right, always with a new administration.



First Friday, and I am only visually deconstructing a mixed medium while sipping a snappy little chardonnay and blowing foam through my minced bologna when I trip over my own two feet and slice a piece of thigh on the slivers, squirt blood floor to ceiling on a new white wall and spectators gather while I text for an Uber to Urgent Care to get stitched up, then return to where everyone surrounds me like iron filings on a north magnetic pole, not out of concern for my accident but in awe of it although Pollock would deny the accident and I am gracious and even a bit proud yet properly acknowledge the on-call physician’s assistant, the glassblower, the grape stomper, the casing stuffer skyping from a range of locations and of course, my parents in assisted living for their feet in this.


Charles Springer

Charles Springer has degrees in anthropology and is an award-winning painter. A Pushcart Prize nominee, he is published in over seventy journals including The Cincinnati Review, Faultline, Windsor Review, Packingtown Review and Tar River Poetry, among others. His first collection of poems entitled Juice is forthcoming from Regal House Publishing. He writes from Pennsylvania.


my clock of you seems to have stopped

I imagine you‘ve moved the furniture.  erased the place.

I’ve been reading rilke about loss.  he speaks of meeting the pain.

finding a place for it.  inside.

what does it mean that words take so long to generate?


nothing and nothing and


then up from the belly through the chest out the throat

on to the page.

mouth wet to the page.

maybe it’s me.  moving the furniture.


Ditta Baron Hoeber

Ditta Baron Hoeber is an artist and a poet. Her recent poetry publications have been in Windowcat, Contemporary American Voices, the American Journal of Poetry, the American Poetry Review, Construction Magazine, New American Writing and Per Contra along with a suite of her photographs. In 2018 she received a nomination for the Pushcart Prize. Her photographs, drawings and book works have been exhibited nationally and have been acquired by several artist book and photography collections, including those at the Philadelphia Museum of Art, the University of Pennsylvania, MOMA’s Franklin Furnace Artist Book Collection, Oberlin College and Chelsea College of Art and Design in London.





A Sound of Wings

We pretend having our life,

even world’s life, always under control,

from past generations to present days.

Sometimes we feel close to that certainty,

and it is good that this should happen,

giving us some encouragement on the route.

We work with the mind and the heart,

science and desire, on outlining the future,

which we anticipate promising and happy.

Skirting around life’s corners, every so often,

we are faced with frightening facts,

perhaps echoes of ancient Greek tragedies,

poor of hope in the human renaissance.

Wars, revolutions, tyrannies and persecutions,

born on the drumming of soulless men,

have delayed landing in the promised land,

where milk and honey spur and light reigns,

preventing all evil once sown.

But we are already listening

the beating of the wings of the dove’s return,

like those of Noah, bringing in its beak

the green branch of the olive tree.


Edilson Afonso Ferreira

Edilson Afonso Ferreira, 75 years, is a Brazilian poet who writes in English rather than in Portuguese. Largely published in international journals in print and online, he began writing at age 67, after retirement as a bank employee. Nominated for The Pushcart Prize 2017, his first Poetry Collection, Lonely Sailor, One Hundred Poems, was launched in London, November 2018. He is always updating his works at www.edilsonmeloferreira.com.

The Names Have Been Changed to Protect the Idiots

this quaint little town

is seedy as fuck

behind the Jackson Park ball fields

where the women pill up

and drink Marshmallow Cokes

at the Saturday Afternoon

Little League Games

and the men get drunk

and smoke dirt weed in the dug out

at the softball games

on Saturday Night

and across the parking lots

of second tier chain restaurants


where teenage hopefuls

dip dreams into bowls of alfredo

and those who’ve lost hope

dote on their husbands

who still wonder how a fuck

led to a family

so Jack Tanner

a prominent lawyer

uses his wife

to lure other women

married or not

to impress them

by getting them drunk

and hanging things off of his penis

and the judge Davey Richards

just takes drunk girls

from bar to car

and then swerves himself home

because who really cares

it’s a joke among

The Good Ole Boys

who sit laughing at round tables

of gin games and vodka drinks

in the stag lounge of

the country club

where women

are still not welcome

they make deals over pretzels

afraid of being anything else

and the two empty chairs

are from Walter and Frank

who need to be home with their kids

but wanted to stop by the Cozy

where the north end comes alive

and smells like ash trays and onion rings

and Bobby stabbed his cousin again

so no one can use the pool table

whatever you would use it for

as its two-dollar pints of PBR

and a buck for a shot of well whisky

until Phil gets back from an errand

with Bobby’s cousin’s wife

in the apartment next door

owned by the county treasurer

who watches behind a two way mirror

with his dick in his hand

as the bars close down

and Sunday brings the baptism of dawn

and church parking lots fill

with the faithful, the hungover, and the guilty

and baskets get passed

through toll-booth pews

of naively obedient servants

facing Pastor Best

who has lead them in prayer

and warned of the dangers

of Muslims and Homosexuals

but will get caught tonight

by his wife

writing letters to his old friend in Leeds

about the time they stuck it in each other’s ass

and called it male bonding

in the eyes of the Lord



Chad Kebrdle

Chad Kebrdle is an English Professor at Ancilla College and an MFA student at The Jack Kerouac School of Disembodied Poetics at Naropa University. He finds both frustration and pleasure from residing in the cornfields of Indiana, where he draws inspiration for his work.

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