Archive for December, 2018

in the pale moon light by J.J. Campbell

Posted in J.J. Campbell with tags on December 10, 2018 by Scot

an evening of
stilettos and

demons laughing
in the pale moon

love dancing naked
while angels cry
the sweet loss of
any sense of reality

visions of an
old muse

laughing at what
misery you brought
into the world

her soft brown skin
in that hot summer

there’s a lost beach
on the other side
of the world that
remembers that


Posted in LYNNE SAVITT with tags on December 4, 2018 by Scot



of two little girls about 8 & 5 years old
wearing matching striped bathing caps
between them stands a man in a dark suit
his eyes so ice blue you can tell even in a
colorless photo his hands on their tiny heads
like a magician pulling them out of a top hat

in late afternoon he draws the shades un
dresses himself one by one he tells the
children to come & nap their bare backs
spooning into him who pinches their arms
shoulders buttocks instructs them to put
their spidery legs between his thighs

decades later after their father’s funeral
sisters remember those times in the four
poster bed on top of the slick quilt with
grandpa never tell anyone & they didn’t
for over 50 years until that rainy night
finishing each others’ sentences identical

memories stunned at exactness of twin
detail flashbulb goes off their own father
never hugged or kissed or touched them
grandpa who always wore a suit & tie even
in hundred degree weather buttoned up
tight except those late summer afternoons

with his two little discreet rabbits
& their secret blue thighs

Three poems by Bobbi Sinha-Morey

Posted in Bobbi Sinha-Morey with tags on December 4, 2018 by Scot

The Letter

I saw the familiar handwriting
on the envelope, hearts above
every “i” in the address, and
the feather of a shadow passed
into my head. After more than
fifteen years I never thought
I’d see her handwriting again,
addressed not to me but my
husband, and I wondered what
could be inside; how she eclipsed
the blue marble sky. Alone I
watched him open the letter from
his ex-wife, a long one about his
down-and-out son, and I saw
the agony sweep into his eyes.
Way back she was the crow
thrown out in winter dawn from
early heaven and this time she’d
found something new to darken
our lives again. All this time we’d
been on the coast living such
a peaceful life and now it felt
as if she were after us, a mentally
imbalanced person with a strange
logic all her own. We’d thought
we were so far away from her
that she couldn’t bother us, and
now we were willing to move
once more to where she’d never
find us. He’d hidden her letter
away and for two months there
wasn’t a word more. So much
time had comfortably passed
til we had gone to our favorite
shop round the corner, and we
had to rush out without looking
back. Her replica or she herself,
had long ugly dreadlocks, and
it looked like she had weathered
the elements.


The Weight of My Memories

The doctor won’t listen, he’s
rented out his ears when I tell
him the only family I had stole
the tiny golden cross my mother
had given me, written obscenities
in my bible, torn pages out of my
diary. Treated me as a slave till
I finally ran away, nearly robbed
me of every cent I’d made. My
poetry they couldn’t touch because
I kept it locked away; they
thought I had a legacy. Before
I’d left they’d stolen a part of
myself. The sorrow I’ve lived
with in my one bedroom apartment
visited me every day, and I wrote
sonatas for roses in their mournful
dresses, the weight of my memories
spinning their images of what life
used to be by day and when I dream;
and, before they’d leave, I’d see an
angel’s feathers black as a raven’s
wings. Slowly I’d pour my soul in
a heart of glass over the years, my
prayers in the sky nearing heaven,
the light from a dying star blessing
me in the end.



Cloud Pulled Over The Sun

A dreamless three nights
sleep, my heart half empty;
the cold, hard porcelain
bathtub against my back
my only tie to reality.
It really did happen. Inside
a room in Motel 6, a visitor
in a cold, windy city, far
away from my home,
clinging to a pair of friends
I knew I shouldn’t have
trusted who I knew I should’ve
just let them go, let them
forget about me while the
years pass on by. My thought
is to leave unscathed while
I can, reaching for a tranquilizer
inside my stash, getting up to
stare at the electronic alarm
clock that reads three fifteen
a.m., its red glow the only
source of light in the room.
My thought is that I’ll never
be able to fall asleep, but my
pill is strong. My eyes close,
and my mind slows to a
sluggish crawl before gently
fading to black, bundled
up like a small child under
bleach-stiff sheets. I haven’t
had a decent sleep in days,
and the first ray of light is
no better. I see the hush of
dawn vanish, a cloud pulled
over the sun.


Bobbi Sinha-Morey’s poetry has appeared in a wide
variety of places such as Plainsongs, Pirene’s Fountain, The
Wayfarer, Helix Magazine, Miller’s Pond, and Old Red Kimono.
Her books of poetry are available at and her
work has been nominated for Best of the Net and the Best of
the Net 2018 Anthology Awards hosted by Sundress Pubications.

Sharkbait by Henry Stanton

Posted in Henry Stanton on December 4, 2018 by Scot


i first met this woman i don’t know where she could be many women in my life my mother my wife myself she is a shy woman prone to stay in doors likes her own bed clean sheets down pillows likes to shower for hours in the morning fix her hair doesn’t like to go out loves the natural but doesn’t get in it i met this girl and pushed hard to get her to come out we went places she had never been before i was enthusiastic zealous energetic impatient even aggressive i am prone to be she came because we were new and she was sure she would love me we went to the marshes a sea side town in new england and first watched birds at the national wetlands preserve in late fall when it was cold there were tens of thousands of snow geese it was chaotic beautiful unlike anything she had seen but she had seen in her heart she was delighted next we went clamming in the marsh she wouldn’t take her shoes off and get in the mud the first day but the second she did there were bodies brushing our legs in the shallow water but we didn’t notice i stayed in longer the first day not the second though i almost couldn’t get her out with the sun just set and the short trees the marsh grasses jet black against the redorange lingering sun light i had to practically pull her into the boat with force the next day we went blue fishing out into the ocean far she had always been afraid of boats the rocking and the ocean the deepness “that oh-oh feeling” the deepness not so much what could be down there but the bigness of it the unfathomable quality the “so-deepness” I got her out on the boat and she had her arms wrapped around her knees and asked me over and over again if she looked pale and I said no you look lovely and she did her smooth skin was rosy like the setting sun when she pulled the first fish in she was lost to me pulling blues in with such zeal really putting heart into loving it grabbing and hugging me but being off somewhere in the joy and excitement it was very late when we came to the inn we had been drinking wine she had never had a drink she was afraid of vomiting but that night she did and it was a very new high for her later we put away bottles and neither of us vomited we made love in a kind of trance it was very exciting but distant in the morning like a trip into a dream place when we woke she was alive immediately full of energy scary really wanting to go she said let’s do something really exciting let’s push it something dangerous let’s go let’s go and that’s where i am now looking in on myself i watched her wake not knowing all this we were sleeping on the ground behind this fisherwoman’s shack weathered place really salty and old the fisherwoman had a tool shed out back yelled off the back porch hey honey get up look again at that fish you beat the hell out of its hanging off the side of the shed and she went and looked with her eyes fiery full of glee and power she was still drunk from the whiskey we had in the morning out on the ocean into the night I stopped remembering before we even saw a shark she went to the shed and hanging on the side in a net was a whipped shark in shreds almost dead and open wounds still moist but blue and purple not red and she grabbed the net down off the shed and held that huge shark in the net with her left hand full of triumph and then she noticed her right hand her writing hand and she looked at it only with fascination all four fingers bitten off down to the fist a ball really a fist ball and she stared at it and then i stopped looking at all this with her eyes and my heart sank i had this huge fear in me my sight walked itself around the corner where i new i would be hurt and there i was just as i thought sharkbait on the ground in pieces my right leg sheared off laying on my slashed back other parts hanging on to my crumpled beaten lacerated torso i lay on my stomach my face torn off hardest to see my face torn off hanging by a tube or rope of some kind of flesh turned around looking at the head from which it came looking into the head from which it came looking looking help me help me looking




Henry Stanton’s fiction, poetry and paintings appear in 2River, The A3 Review, Avatar, The Baltimore City Paper, The Baltimore Sun Magazine, Kestrel, Outlaw Poetry, PCC Inscape, Pindeldyboz,  Salt & Syntax, SmokeLong Quarterly, The William and Mary Review, Word Riot, and The Write Launch among other publications.                              

His poetry was selected for the A3 Review Poetry Prize  and was shortlisted for the Eyewear 9th Fortnight Prize for Poetry.  His fiction received an Honorable Mention acceptance for the Salt & Syntax Fiction Contest and was selected as a finalist for the Pen 2 Paper Annual Writing Contest. 

A selection of Henry Stanton’s paintings are currently on show at Atwater’s Catonsville and can be viewed at the following website

Two Poems by Luis Cuauhtémoc Berriozábal

Posted in Luis Cuauhtémoc Berriozábal with tags on December 4, 2018 by Scot

What I Dream About

My visions are for me to keep.
You do not have permission
to ask me about what I see
or about what I dream about.

Do I look like I have schizophrenia?
I can do anything you can do
and probably better. I can work.
I block out what the voices say.

I am going to miss out on going
to the beach again this summer
by being in this place. I don’t know
why they do not take my word

over the word of people that have
sent me here. If I had a piece, I
don’t think I could kill myself or
anyone else. I say things sometimes

that I do not really mean. I do things
that I do not really mean to do.
The time I took all those pills to kill
myself was just my gift to those

that I hurt over the years. I did not
want them worrying about me.
I feel sad in the hospital. I should
not have been brought back to life.

I like the medicine despite what
others say that I do not like them.
They help me sleep and dream.
Please do not ask me questions

about what I dream about. Those
questions are too personal. If you
want to help me, tell the doctor
to look into his heart and let me go.



The Night Winds

It swirls around and around,
the night winds, words from
nature. How I would die to know
what it says? It is madness
seeing it swirling around and
having fun at my expense. The
nights winds howl and cackle,
galloping like a headless horse
at the witching hour. I want to
swirl like the wind and argue with
it. I need to stand up for myself.

Poem by Kristina Krumova

Posted in Kristina Krumova with tags on December 4, 2018 by Scot

A man fell in my soup
of tears and death
Evolution turned on heels, disgusted
and returned to where it had come from.



Kristina Krumova is 29 years old and she lives in Sofia, Bulgaria. She has a Master’s Degree in “Contemporary history” from Sofia University and she was an Editor at New Social Poetry Magazine, Bulgaria. Her work is forthcoming in North of Oxford and The Pangolin Review. Kristina Krumova works as a freelance editor and she’s preparing her first poetry manuscript. 

Bertie by Ian Copestick

Posted in Ian Lewis Copestick with tags on December 4, 2018 by Scot

Well, I’ve just heard that another
One has gone, to drugs. an old
Friend that I grew up with. Now I’m
Not saying that he was in any way
Special or remarkable, he wasn’t.
If anything he was a shady,
Thieving little prick. The type
That if you shook his hand, you’d
Better count your fingers afterwards
But still, when it’s someone
Who you’ve known all of your
Life, been through times both
Good and bad with, it still
Hits home.
It’s not like I ever wanted to
Meet him again, but now that
I know that I will never again see
His gormless grin……….
No !
I am not being honest here
After all of the stunts he
Pulled on me, I could have
Quite easily killed him myself.
But still
It’s one more gone
Another piece of my past
That has been erased
And that’s
I feel


Ian Lewis Copestick is a 46 year old writer from Stoke on Trent England. He has published 40 poems in 10 different Zi and plans to keep on doing it and hopefully out a book.

Touche de Tea by Andrew Taylor

Posted in Andrew Taylor with tags on December 4, 2018 by Scot


gather roundels
fresh bakery
bread strong black

the basics of a European

International editions

arrive on the early train
like the stage

take the fast train
to Paris

take tea in standard
it’s the English way