Night Black – Lynn White

It may be morning
but I bring you
a touch of the night.
The night black night
that I will unfold
and bequeath to you,
whatever you may do.
There is nothing
you can do.

Only wait.

Lynn White lives in north Wales. Her work is influenced by issues of social justice and events, places and people she has known or imagined. She is especially interested in exploring the boundaries of dream, fantasy and reality. Find Lynn on Facebook or visit her blog here.




Photo by Danielle Dolson on Unsplash

Poem Written While Listening to Brett Kavanaugh – Terri Muuss

Looking back, it felt brave 
to have touched
any man, like beating
a train across the rails.

He told me I was off mine–
conjured the words 
testimony, veracity and sides.
Rain and all the days made us

hostages. The animals boys
become. My blood
drying in the banks 
of bent grass, their tips,

pins inside pores,
blades, a stray cat’s 
mouth. The silent 
rivers and ghosts— 

disturbed fever sleep.
My dreams are green 
branches for whipping, 
an exorcism of cells.

Terri Muuss is a social worker, director, performer, speaker & author whose poetry has received three Pushcart nominations. Her first book, Over Exposed, was released in 2013 and in 2016 Terri co-edited an anthology of NY women poets entitled Grabbing the Apple. Terri has performed her one-woman show, Anatomy of a Doll, around the US and Canada since 1998. Her second book, Godspine, is forthcoming through 3:A Taos Press.





Feature Image by Priscilla Du Preez

2 Poems – Abigail George

I am fossil, flesh and bone
(for the Dutch poet Joop Bersee)

Didn’t eat bread today so that was a
good thing. Full of sleep. Full of winter
the poetry was enough. The basil leaves
were enough. His voice is like clay in
my hands. I make animals out of the clay.
So the gin remained on the table. I tell
myself to wait for the lines burning-bright
to come to me to go into my future.


life through a bipolar lens is a mosaic
(for the Dutch poet Joop Bersee)

you mother are living in my bones again
this is my love story for her i never wanted
to have those children during that phase
of autumn in rehearsal mother you were a
difficult woman to love a woman with her
own issues and secrets you’re the fallen
kingdom you’re mine you’re mine but not
mine not mine all at the same time it came
too late her love came too late i am master-
chef life with father is my vanishing tribe
i send her all my love in my rice and meat

Pushcart Prize nominated Abigail George is a South African writer. Her writing has appeared numerous times in various anthologies and online in e-zines across Africa, Australia, Asia, Europe, and the United States.


photo by Annie Spratt 

Sex With You is a Strange Violin – Erin Wilson

It is not to lower the pail
to steal a sloppy drop of water.
It’s not geometry to want.
Not controls to fiddle.
Not to lift.
Not aerodynamics.
Not control tower.
Not diving beneath.
No subterfuge.
Not to cram air into the vial
nor to trace the outer cast.
Not braille.
Not sonic.
Certainly not ergonomic.

But to bend the violin,
to feel through the body its curved harrow.


Erin Wilson has contributed poems to West Texas Literary Review, San Pedro River Review, Minola Review, and Split Rock Review, with work forthcoming from The American Journal of Poetry. She lives and writes in a small town in northern Ontario, Canada.



Photo by Johanna Vogt on Unsplash



Insanity Clicks – Devika Mathur

Ambivalent my throat shouts your name, mama
to see you breathing and breathing more
and the circle of killings and abusing entices again.
I heard my dad straddling and maintaining whisky
Burned Pale Chipped
You had it all mama, you had the walnut voluble mouth
speaking iterative hollows of time and its bent motion

You had the emporium of statues and movements.
Life existed in your eyes, and I saw it sincerely
with a callow foot, you walked and created squares
I cursed the moment, life played you
I cursed the moment father abused you
Unruffled Oblique Esurient

Mother, I faded myself to colour your skin
burying myself each day to provide you faint candlelight
Behind the shadows of blasphemous engine sounds
I knitted pillows and dreams
This moment is insane now I might lose myself
mama, hold on… I will knit my skin once again
to catch your life and slumber of peace.

Hold on, mama.

Devika Mathur, an emerging poetess from the country of love India is a published poet and her work has been published in Visual Verse, Thistle mag, Indian Periodicals, and is upcoming in among others.



Feature Image by Claudia Soraya