lone mockingbird

perches on oak branch

holds his early service




benevolent din

spreads her arms

around hushed church



wind whirls

whips crusty leaves at

anxious autumn



cloaked in mystery

harmonies brush callused fists

rub tear stained cheeks

tongues of light

dance radiant lament

through stained-glass



sudden quiet—

has earth stopped turning

all trees frozen, seas dried up?



Dies Irae wafts over

undulating shoulders

stooped in wooden pews

choir incants

endless tangle of Latin

sounds anguish me—numb



rain begins weeping—

aeternam, aeternam, aeternam

sobbing, bleeding onto fresh-dug grave


*Inspired by Mozart Requiem- Catholic Mass for the Dead
Dies Irae- Day of Wrath, Aeternam- Eternal


by Marianne Lyon

Marianne has been a music teacher for 43 years. After teaching in Hong Kong, she returned to the Napa Valley and has been published in various literary magazines and reviews including Ravens Perch, TWJM Magazine, Earth Daughters and Indiana Voice Journal. She was nominated for the Pushcart prize in 2017. She is a member of the California Writers Club and an Adjunct Professor at Touro University in California.

Meditation on the Nature of Reality

What’s here is here, almost none of the time—

no matter what clever slogan your coffee cup says,


no matter which way

the plastic flamingos are facing,


and even if there was a happy ending.


I’m nervous,

to the point of blurred vision.  My breathing feels

like a broken train of thought,


the actuality of my fears, derailed and spreading


small fires

all across town.


This realization that somewhere, far enough away,

those cataclysmic flames are just a distant light;


that even a mass extinction

is just a distant light.


Which is to say, somewhere else, half buried in the snow,


a dying coyote is hallucinating warmth

and maybe the Harvest moon,

hung by yellow rope

in a December sky.


Which is also to say,

despite our awareness of absent mercy,

every star is someone’s final illusion,


not a redeal,

but one last ember

of comfort.


by John Leonard

John Leonard is a substitute teacher and professor of composition. He holds an M.A. in English from Indiana University South Bend. His previous works have appeared in Twyckenham Notes, Poetry Quarterly, The Jawline Review, Fearsome Critters: A Millennial Arts Journal, and Up the Staircase Quarterly. He was the 2016 inaugural recipient of the Wolfson Poetry Award and 2018 recipient of the Josephine K. Piercy Memorial Award. John was recently appointed assistant editor of Twyckenham Notes. He lives in Elkhart, Indiana with his wife, three cats, and two dogs.

Lobster in Broth

One night, we don’t know how, he slips the bands

that bind his claws and sets to work.  If fast or slow,

it doesn’t matter—whether, in a rage

of thrashing action or, methodical

(the slow precision of a diver bent

on patient reclamation from the sea),

he stalks and disassembles each bound mate

he’s harbored with, and snaps off limbs and pries

between the overlapping plates their shells

can offer only for their weak defense.

He rips them up, thrusts toothed appendages

into the soft connective flesh, and feeds.


All through the night his work transpires until,

in morning’s white fluorescent light, he lies

revealed: an armored, glutted emperor,

a sated cannibal astir within

his muddied lair, his realm acloud with limbs

adrift and picked and gnawed to fringe along

the edges of their shells, and tissue ripped

to pennant threads and litter at his feet.


Consider how we care for him: the creature we’d

have eaten without thought, though he contrived

to feast before us, had he not consumed

the meat we’d meant to satiate ourselves.

And now, the empty tank near tenantless,

do we declare the victim we’d have made

our own a criminal among the just, or call

him reprehensible in spite of us?


by Gregory Loselle

Gregory Loselle has won four Hopwood Awards at The University of Michigan, where he earned an MFA. He has won The Academy of American Poets Prize, the William van Wert Fiction Award from Hidden River Arts, and The Ruby Lloyd Apsey Award for Playwriting. He was the winner of the 2009 Lorian Hemingway Short Story Competition, The Robert Frost Award of The Robert Frost Foundation, and the Rita Dove Prize for poetry (where he won both First Prize and an Honorable Mention) at Salem College. He has won multiple awards in the Poetry Society of Michigan’s Annual Awards Competition. His first chapbook, Phantom Limb, was published in 2008, and another, Our Parents Dancing, in 2010, both from Pudding House Press. Two more, The Whole of Him Collected, and About the House, were published by Finishing Line Press in 2012 and 2013 respectively. His short fiction has been featured in the Wordstock and Robert Olen Butler Competition anthologies, as well as in The Saturday Evening Post, and The Metro Times of Detroit, and his poetry has appeared in The Ledge, Oberon, The Comstock Review, Rattle, The Georgetown Review, River Styx, The Spoon River Poetry Review, The Pinch, Alehouse, Poetry Nook, Sow’s Ear, and online in The Ambassador Poetry Project, among others.


My own words ricochet

back into my face,

splintering flesh,

with the impact

of mindless syllables

muttered under my breath,

barely audible

but heard nonetheless.


Words spewed

into the atmosphere,

involuntary but vile,

words I should have vomited

into any empty vessel

and plugged with

a lead stopper.


Words spilled

onto sacred ground,

scattered in a garden

for the innocent

to find like tantalizing

red berries

on a poisonous bush.


by Gloria Heffernan 

Gloria Heffernan’s poetry collection, What the Gratitude List Said to the Bucket List, has been accepted for publication by New York Quarterly Books. Her chapbook, Some of Our Parts, was published by Finishing Line Press in 2018. In addition, her work has appeared in over fifty journals including Chautauqua Literary Journal, Stone Canoe, Main Street Rag, Columbia Review, Louisville Review, and The Healing Muse.

john sweet

in a room, blindly


Not lies, really,

but truths that can’t be proven.


The ghosts of Aztecs,

of Incas.


Parking lots.




Man rolls the dice to see which of

the children will starve,

and then the bomb goes off.


Seventeen dead, blood everywhere,

the pews of the church on fire.


The runoff from the mill

dumped into the river.


Close your eyes and picture it.


The first time we met and then,

two years later,

the first time we made love.


Oceans on every side of us,

wars to the south,

to the east,

and I told you you were beautiful.


Had no words beyond that,

only abstractions.


Only need.


Thirty seven years old and

suddenly no longer blind and,

in the mountains,

the killers were making new plans.


In town,

the streetlights were coming on.


It seemed almost possible

we would find our way home.


aesop’s blues


in the cold white light of

febuary mornings

in the shadows of obsolete monuments

where we no longer touch


this is the world defined by

indifference and rust


this is a handful of salt held out

to christ while he dies on the cross


a gift without meaning

or offered with nothing but malice


a man walking slowly across

the frozen river and

then gone


sends his love

which is worth nothing at all


by john sweet

john sweet, b 1968, still numbered among the living. A believer in writing as catharsis. Opposed to all organized religion and political parties. His latest collections include APPROXIMATE WILDERNESS (2016 Flutter Press) and the limited edition chapbooks HEATHEN TONGUE (2018 Kendra Steiner Editions) and A BASTARD CHILD IN THE KINGDOM OF NIL (2018 Analog Submission Press). All pertinent facts about his life are buried somewhere in his writing.


Fuck immobility.

Fuck politics and divisiveness and apologists dressed as peacekeepers.

Fuck the world of white men.


Fuck the need for Pride,

the need for a celebration so vibrant

erasure becomes impossible.


Fuck loaded arms, deathly, bragging,

the pathetic “I’ll fuck you up” of people wielding them.

Fuck empty arms,

mothers, babies, partners ripped out of reach.

Fuck prayers drafted like business letters.


Fuck bad luck, the wrong day or moment or side of the street.

Fuck luck and survivor’s guilt and the lingering curiosity

for whether tomorrow will look different.


Fuck therapy and the gods that make it necessary.


Fuck the brilliance of storms from a protected room.

Fuck the protected room and its confines.

Fuck those who, protected, engender storms and then sleep.


Fuck me, and this bitten-down tongue, swollen and resentful and silent.


And fuck you, by the way, reading this,

or maybe just fuck the miles between us.


by Chelsea Hansen


Chelsea Hansen is a freelance musician and English graduate residing in northern Colorado. She has poems forthcoming in early 2019 for Door is a Jar magazine. In between creative projects and an 8-to-5 day job, she spends her free time walking river trails and marveling at the wide expanse of the plains.

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