​What do you see when you look at my face?
Do you see a human or something old?
Careful, though, soon you’ll be in my place.
 
I’m still me, more than a lingering trace
Of what I was before the years rolled,
What do you see when you look at my face?
 
Look at me here in this God-awful place,
Cramped, full of dust and dirt and mould,
Careful, though, soon you’ll be in my place.
 
Inside my aged body I’m still full of grace,
Why can’t you see that I’m not yet cold?
What do you see when you look at my face?
 
Though I’m lined with tissue and lace,
I’m still valuable, worth my weight in gold,
Careful, though, soon you’ll be in my place.
 
Hours are passing and I’m in a race
Against ticking time before my soul is sold,
What do you see when you look at my face?
Careful, though, soon you’ll be in my place.

​Catherine A. MacKenzie: Cathy’s writings are found in numerous print and online publications. She writes all genres but invariably veers toward the dark—so much so her late mother once asked, “Can’t you write anything happy?” (She can!) Check out her website for further information about her and/or her books: http://writingwicket.wordpress.com Cathy lives in Halifax, Nova Scotia, Canada.

My thoughts are raindrops.
Each drop on its own doesn't move me.
But as these raindrops collect
they form puffy clouds
full of potential.

Word clouds.

Getting bigger and denser and then
the
rain
falls

On the paper as I hold my pen.
First a trickle down the page,
...then a torrent.

Non-stop the words flow from my pen
till my raindrops ebb at the margins,
...I am drained.

My poem is written and the paper satisfied

till the next rainstorm comes.
​

Karl Kliparchuk is a wine writer at www.mywinepal.com and a retired teacher living in Burnaby, BC. In 2022, he had his free-verse poems published by winecellarpress.com, academyoftheheartandmind, the StrideFest Burnaby Arts Festival 2022 and 2023, Wingless Dreamer Publisher, and by Kind of A Hurricane Press. ​

The joys of corn bread, fish, and collard greens
That Sunday meal plate
having soul food after church
is totally worth the wait
or
maybe having it in a home
with family and friends
or
out to a soul food restaurant
that's high end.


On a real nice date
cultural diversity
cultural university and cultural soul food 
cultural church  
the joys of fried chicken, collard greens, and sweet yams
the one like your grandmother makes 


Having that is better than 
worth having anything that's in a can.
The soul food got me thinking
it's God’s plan.
Got me saying 
I’m going to have another helping and plate.


Collard greens, fried chicken, and mac and cheese.
Got me saying, can I have some more?
opening cultural diversity right through your door 
Saying yes, can I have some more?
Pass the plate please!
​

​Karl Nicholas Urso is a writer, artist, poet, and musician who performs locally at open mics and festivals around the Torrington and NW Connecticut area where he lives.

​I saw you in the future holding another woman’s baby.
I saw you talking to her.
You were making her happy--
You didn’t know I was watching. Please
do not refuse this to say I’m overreacting.
 
In the past you gave a banquet just for me
inviting everyone I ever knew,
even Shirley Temple was there.
You thought of everything. I didn’t lift a finger.
 
You had the broccoli and cauliflower shimmering
on each plate with a single slice of bread perfectly
designed with its spread
and more of everything in the kitchen.
 
Didn’t you know it was never that I wanted?
I wanted to take you in my arms and love you to death. 
I woke up hungry from that dinner. And now there is the future,
 no denying it.  I saw it distinctly in my bad dream.
 
I was on a trip lost in work writing on a cliff,
seven miles away from anyone and you were at home

with your new heart – and for this nightmare there is no defense. 
​

In the vast white of Antarctica,
We ventured, hearts entwined.
On the Endurance, echoes of past eras,
We sailed through the Drake Passage,
A journey through towering waves,
A prelude to our union.
Amidst the penguins – Adélies, Gentoos, Chinstraps –
Witnesses in their monochrome suits,
We exchanged vows.
Their curious eyes, our silent congregation,
On the ice shelf of Blind Bay,
Where icebergs carve sculptures from the deep.
The air, crisp and clean,
A canvas of purity,
Breathed into us a new beginning.
Sounds of the wilderness,
The crackling whispers of shifting ice,
The only symphony we needed.
Under the gaze of a sun that barely sleeps,
The colors of the ice –
Blues, whites, hints of green –
Painted a backdrop of surreal beauty.
Here, in this frozen sanctuary,
Life thrives in its resilient dance.
Penguin highways, well-trodden paths,
Etched in the snow,
A testament to survival and grace.
New life, in the form of fluffy chicks,
A continuation of cycles ancient and revered.
As whales and seals graced distant waves,
We felt the pulse of this wild place,
A rhythm that echoed our own.
Lectures and studies of penguin life,
Words of scientists and dreamers,
Added layers to our understanding.
This journey, more than a crossing,
A voyage into the depths of our souls,
Where love, like the Antarctic,
Is vast, mysterious, and awe-inspiring.
In the land of endless white and midnight sun,
We found a love as enduring as the ice itself.

​Behind my house a cock
crows, boisterous, proud;
hens cluck and peck, unfazed.
 
From the window I watch
A gaudy buoy bob, gamely
Marking its vacant anchor.
 
His wine glass, smudged and empty,
Leaves a pale ring
On mahogany.
 
Life, ardent and disorderly,
Stanches the hemorrhaging
Of my concave heart.
 
The cock crows;
The buoy bobs;
The glass dries.
​

​Janice F. Booth is a writer and teacher. Jan’s poetry is included in The Song In the Room: Six Women
Poets, The Antioch Poetry Retreat: a Gathering of Poets, The Road Beneath Our Feet and periodicals,
including S/He Speaks and Avocet. As a journalist she writes a monthly “Gardens” column.

Into an iron cauldron
Placed o’er a burning brand
She sprinkled ingredients.
 
Web of a wolf spider
Gathered at the dawn,
Ten crumbled Christmas cones… 
 
Intuitive spell craft
She practiced, but a child,
As she stirred the bubbling brew.
 
Fungus from the fairy ring
found beneath the oak
Dried and powdered to dust…
 
Seen only by the wild things
Deep in her family’s woods
Sheltered by tall timbers
 
Lucky four leafed clover,
Dandelion fluff,
A shedded serpent skin…
 
Her sweat and tears tumbled
Into the iron pot
Making wishes come true.
​

Kerry E.B. Black, author of TAZ Award Finalist Poetic Nightmares, four short story collections (Carousel of Nightmares, Fairy Herds and Mythscapes, Nightmares on Holidays, and the TAZ winning Herd of Nightmares), and two YA Paranormal Thrillers (Awakening at Equinox and Spring of Spirits), lives in a cottage sinking into a swamp situated along the Allegheny River. 
https://www.KerryEBBlack.com