October 2024 | poetry
my mother dreams of taking off
in a hot air balloon, not exactly flying
but rising, a slow-motion escape
fueled by the hiss of flame
parachute silk and her breath-
held longing to be lifted
from ground
she collects postcards and prints
of antique airships and dirigibles
turn-of-the-century flying machines
captained by men in waistcoats
and bowler hats – she has a flight
plan of her own, a Magritte fantasy
to disappear
from suburbia to surreal
in a swirl of sun and fringed scarf
glinting spyglass held to her eye
she will launch in a basket
packed up like a picnic
rainbow canopy overhead
she will ascend with a whoosh
and a wave from bumpy field
tedium to aerial parade – high-stepping
above trees and cow leas into clouds
as the earth below grows as small
as she knows it to be
grasslands and cul-de-sac
homes, cars ferrying families
to church, bridge games
and laundry days, blackberry
bushes to pluck, gardens to weed –
and we three
watching her float in the gondola
of a full-moon balloon, circled by birds
bon voyage cries and those on the ground
clapping leaping reaching –
‘til all that remains is shadow
big and round as a basilica crown
Lucinda Trew
Lucinda Trew lives and writes in North Carolina with her jazz musician husband, two dogs, one cat, and far too many (or never enough?) books to count. Her work has been featured in Bloodroot Literary Magazine, Cathexis Northwest, Mockingheart Review, storySouth, Eastern Iowa Review, and other journals and anthologies. She is a two-time Pushcart Prize nominee, Best of the Net nominee, and Boulevard’s 2023 Emerging Poet Award recipient.
October 2024 | poetry
The day as white as snow reversed
The gash in the boy’s chin-flesh reknit
The starling sucks its song back into its head
The fire net door quiets to static nothing
The moth rises from dust toward the turncoat beacon
A spark flies away
Alto notes return to brass the bell replaced in its glass
And the phone calling from the next room cuts out
Like a false alarm the clock windmills counterclockwise
Days grow long
Father walks through the door with his back turned
In every direction the family waits for him to come home.
Nick Visconti
Nick Visconti is a writer living in Brooklyn with an artist and a cat. He plays softball most weekends.
October 2024 | poetry
Bells clanging clang clang,
crunching rocks underneath these feet,
chirping birds
chirping crickets,
silence masks its own noise, a white noise,
hostile eggshell cream colored-noise
There are so many subjects
that are Difficult to talk about.
Focus on the sunrise shining, glinting off
diamond rings, trespassing through windows,
windows of houses, quiet, early, early like
the railroad workers, the airline service desk,
screaming babies, diner cooks
Different people will find some subjects
more difficult to talk about than others.
And our edges are eventually eroded by the
onslaught of unpredictable weather patterns
and we all eventually disappear,
though we never entirely leave our guises
behind, our treasure troves six feet under
the ground and thousands of feet above
All that I care about is the memories.
Samantha Moya
Samantha Moya is a data specialist with a Ph.D. in Political Science from the University of Colorado Boulder. She does her own writing and arts on the side. Her work has been featured in Serotonin Poetry, The Raven Review, Epoch Press, Tension Literary, and The Poetry Question. She is originally from Albuquerque, New Mexico and currently resides in Denver, Colorado with her husband and two dogs. She can be found at Twitter/X and Instagram @samanthalmoya.
October 2024 | poetry
You mourn yesterday’s bare branches when
not a single cherry blossom was
on them. The silent neighbor who takes
slow walks, where is he? You can’t get over
their absence, how they settled into your
invisible calendar, tracked life
so you didn’t have to ponder life’s
unanswerable questions when
3:00 in the morning haunts and acts your
nag. There is no present, only was.
You don’t want to know this play is over
so decades of scenes come back, take
you on journeys the future would take
you on, if you believed in it. You guess life’s
mysteries have answered themselves over
time—Who are your loves? Your friends? When
your brother-in-law died young–wasn’t
that day the most tragic? A late baby–your
happiest? Done. You walk past the house your
mother lived in, relive all the outtakes
of the movie that starred only you, was
boys, tears, edge-of-your-seat drama, life
that was always about to happen when
the sun rose. She watched. And it’s over.
Even your father’s judgments are over.
That report card he frowned at, that boy you’re
still wild about, the career you’d start when
you got real, the money he’d say it takes
to survive in the world, make a full life.
You didn’t know all those strictures were
your spine. You Google old boyfriends, always
a bad idea. Most are dead and over
you. Actors alive during your whole life
slip away. Why do you care? But losing your
touchstones means finding new ones. That takes
an open heart. Living backwards started when?
Dreams are no better. They take over
where the day left off, flashing their childhood
pictures when your life was going to be.
Rosanne Singer
Rosanne Singer is a poet and memoirist living in Baltimore and just about to finish an MFA at the University of Baltimore. For 25 years, she was a teaching artist in the Maryland schools and also part of small arts teams working with wounded warriors and their families at Walter Reed National Military Medical Center in Bethesda, MD, and with pediatric patients at Georgetown Hospital in Washington, DC. Her recent poetry appears in Allium Journal and 1-70 Review, and her recent memoir appears in The Baltimore Fishbowl and Fatal Flaw Literary Magazine.
October 2024 | poetry
Keeping Score
The score 983 to 735
he’s quite a bit ahead
(as you can see)
46 points for washing my car
52 for buying me flowers
minus 10 because slightly wilted
I lost 66 points when I called him fuck face
after he watched four hours of women’s
beach volleyball, focused on barely-there bikinis
and 358 when I dropped our tax return in the toilet
but wait, just in
579 points for fixing his phlegmatic computer
saving us a small fortune
I gloat and glee around the room
eternally grateful to You Tube
the god of Fixing All Things
I love this game
but the score suddenly shifts
I lose 937 points for flouncing & swaggering
I collapse on the sofa & swig straight gin
(lose 88 more points)
who cares
stupid ledger
stupid game
Cutting Onions
My husband is cutting an onion with a spoon,
an almost impossible task. I notice
there’s a lock on the drawer with knives,
the first drawer on the left, under the counter.
Is he slow-sliding into dementia? Our kids
are long gone, no need to hide knives, especially
since I just sharpened my Kyoku carving knife
to slice tonight’s roast chicken. What of the row
of wine bottles lined up like empty soldiers?
Did he pour out all that expensive chardonnay?
And where is the thick cotton clothes line
that just arrived from Amazon,
the god of Good Things? I watched
a YouTube video on how to make a clove hitch
that won’t come untied, even under the weight of wet sheets.
Is it time to call Dr. Campbell? Am I losing my husband
to a one-way disease? Could Aricept help?
What of coconut oil or Coral calcium
or maybe twenty jumping jacks a day?
The onion is reduced to a soggy goo.
My husband frowns and tosses it in the trash.
For sure a call to Dr. Campbell first thing in the morning.
Tonight I will drive across the Golden Gate Bridge
and gaze down at the currents of swirling water.
If only I could find my car keys.
Claire Scott
Claire Scott is an award-winning poet who has received multiple Pushcart Prize nominations. Her work has appeared in the Atlanta Review, Bellevue Literary Review, New Ohio Review, and Healing Muse, among others. Claire is the author of Waiting to be Called and Until I Couldn’t. She is the co-author of Unfolding in Light: A Sisters’ Journey in Photography and Poetry.
October 2024 | poetry
When I turn 70, I am embracing vices
like a newly-discovered, long-lost twin,
like an adolescent puppy love,
vices I avoided all my life out of fear,
abundant caution and good common sense.
I will smoke cigarettes like Bogart and Garbo—
seriously, mysteriously, sexily,
and casually. I will smoke cigars
and pipes. I will dare cancer to catch me.
I will dabble in recreational drugs,
will sample ecstasy, hallucinogens,
and, of course, marijuana. I will eat
the whole brownie, maybe two, and will sleep
the deep and blissful sleep of the stoned
and will laugh myself silly
at ordinary wonders of the world.
I will mix myself boozy drinks with names
like Moscow Mule or White Russian or Sex
on the Beach or Mai Tai. I will go nude
at nude beaches and stare unabashedly
at naked splendors there displayed. I will.
I will hire expensive companions
and have unwise, illicit, unsafe sex.
I will gamble. I will ride in helicopters
and bi-planes, on backs of motorcycles,
my arms around the supple, sinuous waists
of younger daredevils. I will be
a daredevil. I will eat like Anthony Bourdain.
When I turn 70, I will explore
all the vices, including the one
my parents thought the worst of all
the others, the biggest sin: indolence.
Cecil Morris
Cecil Morris has been nominated for a Pushcart in 2021, 2022, and 2023. He and his indulgent partner, the mother of their children, divide their year between the central valley of California and the Oregon coast. He has poems appearing or forthcoming in The Ekphrastic Review, English Journal, Hole in the Head Review; Rust + Moth, Sugar House Review, Willawaw Journal, and other literary magazines.
