This is the fear of
This is the fear of
This is the fear of being hated.

Welcome to the death of Apollo.
The star shines down on Dionysus.
They have done their time here.
Paint your masks and watch them fall.

This is the end of
This is the end of
This is the end of complacency.

Wielded tongues meet their makers
at the arcane Hotel Eden.
Cut flesh with curiosity.
Screaming angels fall like sidereal awes.

This is the hope of
This is the hope of
This is the hope of a new era.

The sun will set in a fortnight.
Let us see these illegitimate jewels.
In between we shall give our thoughts.
How the prickly pear is the American Dream.

This is the love of
This is the love of
This is the love of ambiguity.

The wind blows as skins flow
away from their winter shells.
Life creeps as blood seeps
into the gaping earth.

This is the cost of
This is the cost of
This is the cost of one more season.

Concerning tastes it must not be disputed,
yet bones cry for a fight.
Plato slays for his maiden
Truth as the subjective beast-

This is the death of
This is the death of
This is the death of thy paradise.

Diamonds melt into tears
as lions run for cover.
Even legends tend to die
when fire comes to play.

This is the sense of
This is the sense of
This is the sense of a glorious end.


is the man who
cannot seem to face
his own anxiety.

Falls into
a bad state of a
How human

Is the one who
shall not attend
the party life
has to offer mankind.

How peachy.

Sophia Kelly is a recent graduate from The Vanguard School in Colorado. She has five published poems, and awards for two other poems in the Scholastic Art and Writing Competition. Her poems can be found in Haiku Journal, The America Library of Poetry, The Live Poets’ Society of New Jersey, and Poetry Nation. She has also written about four short stories, none of which have yet been published. Sophia strives to write in many different styles and genres. When she is not putting her pen to the paper, she crochets a wide variety of animals, where she then sells at her local artisan shop.

‘So what then do we do when the sea is boiling’ & ‘prayers’ by Ogunkoya Samuel


So what then do we do when the sea is boiling

Or how do words leap off our mouths
Like curses to the new gods for
Making delicate flower gardens become graveyards.
Or a plea of help to the old ones
While we expect them to reply
With a concerted silence
Like ever before.
Still, we prayed,
Till we fled from our burning houses.
We made worship out of war songs
By God, there is never a rhythm to being homeless
What lyrics are there in crying?
But what else can we do when they tell us
Asylums aren’t designed for couples.


every time there is a rain
it reminds you of the night your father drowned
and how he left ten blank pages for you
to write poems
bad poems.
shitty poems.
good poems. but never
love poems.
the sound of your back breaking drowned
in the hum of a road
into a bus filled with mothering women
into the cackles of a baby
into his mother’s thought
it found a home there
becoming a groan & blue prayers to the name of a faceless god.
and the memories of your father & you
is a street too wide for a city to swallow.

Ogunkoya Samuel is a Nigerian physiotherapist. His poems have been published in Kalahari Review, AfricanWriter and Best New African poets anthology 2017. He writes from Lagos.

‘The Next Day’ & ‘Eye Contact’ by J.L. Smith


The Next Day

I felt the bed sheets for the first time,
rough like the 100-count fibers they are,
made coarse like a cat’s tongue
on tender skin,
itchy on the naked hip.
Last night the sheets felt supple,
camel hair,
buttery suede,
when I was under you.
Burgundy in color,
not faded as they are now
with the sun penetrating
through cheap curtains,
squinting eyes.
Color fades,
like you from me.
A cheap imitation
that longed to be something
it will never be.

Eye Contact

He looks at her as he strokes her,
like a cat: good kitty, good kitty.
But, the blonde is a mixed signal:
part receptive to his cuddles,
wet kisses on the neck;
part not,
pulling back
as much as his grip
around her waist will allow.

She sees all around her
in the java line,
but dares not make eye contact,
does not ask him to stop either,
as he looks behind him
to you,
seeking eye contact,
a notice,
but you look at the gluten free cookies instead.

Coconut gluten free cookies.

You won’t give him the validation,
even as he smooths his hands
over the rear of her jeans,
to remove her cell phone,
so that she can pay with it.

As he walks away,
his eyes remain on you.
You stare at her back,
that she leaves him
and never looks back.

J.L. Smith has published two collections of poetry: Medusa, The Lost Daughter and Weathered Fragments, Weathered Souls. Her work has appeared in many literary journals and magazines. Follow her at her blog jlsmithwrites.com or Twitter @jennifersmithak.

Three Poems by Mugabi Byenkya



we’d been drinking

wind whipped up an icy frenzy around us
white icy sleet sheets sliced micro-tears in our unexposed skin
visibility was near zero
all I could see was your girthy billowing dark frame
amidst an off-white seething haze

we stumbled forward
my size ten boots
awkwardly landing into your size twelve boot-prints

trudging onwards through the blizzard
we approached closer and closer to home

the combination of:
– alcohol in my arteries
– adolescent angst
– and the assaulting air

uncorked the inhibitions off my repressed anger

“Where were you, when I needed you?”


She was always the tomboy
But what comes with the territory
doesn’t always come with joy

Raised by her Father
as the Boy he wanted
Who never realized
the extent this would damage

Older Brothers perpetuated Father’s wishes
Always one of the guys
she responds with –
to kisses

But that didn’t matter




the myth of cooties
Was lifted, do you see?

So she,
hung out with her group of guys
Always one of the guys
Never realized
the key difference

Times change
people change
people grow ambivalent

But she didn’t see it coming

Hormones started raging
boys started cuming

Realized the girl in their midst
was more than a friend
She was

all their lustful


In the flesh


To grope breasts


To mesh

With another human being


For meaning-
less physical pleasure

No justification here for violent measures
So they all came
to play a ‘game’

Quotation marks
harken the presence
Of ulterior motives,
as the moon slivers into a crescent

The game was 5 against 1

I cried the first time
I lied when I tried

Is there something wrong with me?

Is this what it’s supposed to be?


“So, like when was the first time you did it?”
“Haha, well, you know, there was this cute guy at the club”
“And, um”

what I’m about to say next is an utter fallacy
For you see
My lips lie
As my soul cries

Woke up the next morning in his bed

Mugabi Byenkya was born in Nigeria to Ugandan/Rwandan parents and is currently based between Kampala and Toronto. He spent his life across Africa, Asia and North America. Mugabi was longlisted for the Babishai Niwe Poetry Award in 2015, has been featured on Brittle Paper, The Good Men Project, African Writer, Arts and Africa and The Kalahari Review amongst others. His writing is used to teach international high school English reading comprehension. His debut novel, ‘Dear Philomena,’ was published in 2017 and he recently concluded a 30 city North America/East Africa tour in support of this. An advocate for the intersection of arts, chronic illness and social justice, and literacy, Mugabi leads workshops in effective writing, poetry, performance, vulnerability, mental illness and chronic illness for youth and adults.

Three Poems by A.E. Weisgerber



Those two square slants of roof, that wisp-of-smoke
chimney, that door with the window in it,
that shining window with the panes in it,
them geraniums and eyelet curtains,
winking me a welcome home but for this:

what are these hearts in the turf, these indents
in the yard, this moss, that memory stone
a poured concrete circle, a date drawn with
a stick, below it the impression of
a wife-sized hand and a cloven heart?
I’m fucking dead?


I dropped the call with a crisp acrylic tap, knowing exactly who waited for my arrival at Café La Croix. So, I called Chekr from my bedroom where I am allegedly getting ready to meet friends at a St. Tropez-style brunch, but really was going for, you know. While I practiced my shade-filled deadpan in the mirror, my Chekr arrived, and it waited outside, and I knew I was going to be, like, at least another fifteen minutes. I cancelled the Chekr. Maybe it was rude, a little, but I thought I am thoughtful. After another twenty minutes I was, you know, ready, so I called another Chekr and guess what? It was the same guy. He kept accepting my request and cancelling. I can’t get another car. I saw my Chekr idling under the maple across the street. How rude. By the way: My gel tips are fucking coming off in case anybody gives a rolling fuck. Chekr is soooooo much rudeness.


Hello. Very happy to meet you. Delighted. How is it going today? You are touring with your son. It is a pleasure to travel by car. How to say mine is with me and not here. What? I have a room downtown. What about you? Great, buddy. Thanks. When is your vacation? In July? Sun. Warm. Hot. Will you go to the beach? How do I say windows, or it doesn’t make one bit of difference? At home, everybody is all right? A son? Very good. Go to the door, please. I had one son, a boy. (He left a note, left it in his father’s office.) Excuse me, sir. Could you please help me? Can you help me please? Who is that guy? Do you know him? (How you say? Overdose. Easy. Peaceful.) Yes, I am from Barcelona. Is this a good idea? It’s not going too well, thanks. I I need helping.

A.E. Weisgerber is a 2018 Chesapeake Bay Writer and 2017 Frost Place Scholar. Stories in Heavy Feather, Alaska Star, SmokeLong, Essaying Daily, FLAPPERHOUSE, great weather for MEDIA, Matchbook, DIAGRAM, Collapsar, and Zoetrope Cafe’s Story Machine. Follow @aeweisgerber or visit anneweisgerber.com

Three Poems by Moinak Dutta


Last mermaid

She had been the last mermaid
She told me,
I did not believe her words,
Inebriated I must be,
Or she,

But then she had eyes emerald green
And she held me tight, like a seahorse,
My mane she tied by her ribbon red,
And into my ears she sang a lullaby,

Before I slept, she showed me how
In the depth of the ocean
Pearls are always kept under wraps of shells,
And how starfish always take rest on rocks.

A black gel pen

It was like an intricate doodle
Done by a simple black sharp pointed pen,
Having two distinct parts,
On the upper part
There were those musicians with shehnai and other musical instruments
They were surely creating a happy festive song,
On the lower part,
Before the fire sat the bride and the groom,
On their both sides had been their relatives,
Priests and brahmins,

And she wrote at one end of the sketchbook
‘ missing that black gel pen for ages,
Can someone lend me one?’

Letter from her

After twenty eight days and seven hours
Of her last call,
Received a letter from her,
She had reached a port town,
The weather there had been lovely,

All the day she spends watching seagulls
And in the evening she sits on the deck
And watches the sun coming to bathe naked
Like a child,

At night she becomes the mossy land
And dreams of horses and lambs grazing quiet.

Three Poems by Andrew Paul Wood



Where does the Red Brick Road go to?
The one in the Munchkin village in the ‘39
movie that swirls in sinister sympathy
with its yellow sister – where does it go?
Back to the small-town Kansas of the mind?
Had Dorothy followed that, would she
have been as friendless as the beautiful boys
strung up on wire fences and bleeding
in alleyways? Where did it lead to?
Streets of hisses and accusatory stares
far from the Emerald City’s understanding?
Does it lead out of the 1980s and the field
of Karposi’s red poppies? For millions
it didn’t, and they never got to Oz.


You were new to town, we met
for coffee, sight saw, then you wanted
to find a supermarket and I led
you to one close to my house so
you could get some things and I
never realised such a place,
bright and silent, could be beautiful.
The day before you left we went
to another supermarket to buy
fixings for the last supper, your hand
brushed mine on the cart and the
muzak was an orchestra, oranges
like suns, tomato hearts, that’s why
supermarkets always make me cry.


Surely your grey and sainted babushka
told you that the hardiest of flowers
is the perennial pansy, scorning powers
greater than yours, tsarevich Vovochka;
their small bruised faces purple, mascara
blurred running with the tears of wounded hours,
can’t be eradicated. Soft sun-showers
see them splitting asphalt as before.
Pale moth and puppet master doesn’t have
a fraction of their virtue in God’s eyes.
Louder than your prayers, Tchaikovsky’s sighs.
Pansies will spring up from your narrow grave,
higher than Saint Basil’s domes that gleam,
like the tuttifruttiest ice-cream.

Andrew Paul Wood is a writer and independent scholar based in Christchurch, New Zealand. His most recent books are Three Worlds / Drei Welten (with Friedrich Voit), a translated collection of selected poems by the German-Jewish poet Karl Wolfskehl (1869-1948) (Cold Hub Press, 2016) and Dunediniad: A Psychogeographical Ode (Kilmog Press, 2018). He is Art and Essays Editor for Takahē magazine.