Tuesday, April 3, 2018

Moon Glow by Michael Keshigian

Every night a secret message.
Whisper tonight
about the translucent bones
of icicles on the gutter.
Their reflection is a disclosure
of your stalking.
You enter as a burglar
through a window of your choosing
upon the heels of darkness
and leave no fingerprints,
yet cleverly illuminate riddles
between the elusive shadows
you create,
some darker than others,
convoluted images
in the most remote corners
of the room.
The sleepless await an explanation
but your peering eyes slip away 
as the clouds make you blink.
When you steal away,
no one is the wiser.
The sand in your light
eventually blinds into submission
the most suspicious
who, in the morning, awake perplexed
and unaware of your intrusion,
until the icicles drip
in the rising sunlight.








Michael Keshigian, from New Hampshire, had his twelfth poetry collection, Into The Light, released in April, 2017 by Flutter Press. He has been published in numerous national and international journals including Oyez Review, Red River Review, Sierra Nevada College Review, Oklahoma Review, Chiron Review and has appeared as feature writer in over  twenty publications with 6 Pushcart Prize and 2 Best Of The Net nominations. (michaelkeshigian.com)

Monday, April 2, 2018

Into the Forest by Diane Jackman

.. the track stretches forward in an endless ribbon, 
dwindling into the future he may not see.

            Behind him the follower steps with care.  Schooled in silence, 
            he does not crack twigs or shiver leaves,  He steps like an Ojibwa, 
            feet straight, toe pointing.  He learned this trick many lifetimes ago.

The track narrows and he measures his pace.  
The air thickens.  His hackles rise. 
No. It is nothing.  
He knows this.  Doesn’t he? 
All the same, he cannot bring himself to turn, to look behind.
He moves forward.  Slowly now.
The hairs still ripple across his scalp and down his spine.
Black and gnarled the trees loom above him.  
Sentinels.  
Protective. 
Or menacing.

He hears a whistle of breath.
And turns to meet the arrow’s flight.








Diane Jackman’s poetry has appeared in many small press magazines and anthologies, and she has won several competitions. Starting out as a children’s writer she now concentrates on poetry.  With her late composer husband she wrote Pinocchio, a music theatre piece for the King’s Singers with the London Symphony Orchestra, and a number of works for choir. She has just completed a sequence, Lessons from the Orchard and is currently working on water poems. 

Wednesday, March 28, 2018

My Mother Reminds Me About Death by Copper Rose

My mother’s story reminds me of the time Neal and I went to Alaska, and the Beluga whales had got caught in the mud flats when the tide went out. They lay in the summer Alaskan sun, baking, dehydrating. It was the saddest thing I’d ever seen. You couldn’t go out there because the risk of getting caught in the mud and having it suck you in was just too great. No one could save them. In fact, if you tried and lived to tell about it, the local authorities would fine you for doing it.

My mother mentioned how she was coming home from Grandma Katink’s. There was a lot of snow on the ground and it had drifted high against the fence around the last curve before she reached the highway. 

While she was driving she noticed a bird flying and then it would stop short and fall. She slowed down so she could keep watching it. How odd, she thought.

It did it again and again, so she backed up and got out of her car. From the road she could see there was a string wrapped around the little bird’s leg. The string was caught in the snow fence.

Mother climbed through the deep snow in the roadside ditch and began making her way through the drifts, but with her weight on the fragile crust she kept breaking through. She tried to reach the little bird as he tried again and again to fly, only to be pulled back by the string. 

She was getting closer to the bird but still had a ways to go when the crows came. A small flock. They settled down around the little bird. 

Mother cried all the way home.






Copper Rose perforates the edges of the page while writing unusual stories from the heart of Wisconsin. Her work first appeared in FlashPoint: Inner Circle Writers’ Group Flash Fiction Anthology. She also understands there really is something about pie.

Tuesday, March 27, 2018

Fluorescent by Sandy Hiss

Spring rain taps the iron
covers of street lamps,
sending a morse code
only the dead understand.

Lovers huddle beneath 
black vinyl umbrellas.
Buzzing like anxious flies, 
seeking shelter  

from the icy water 
pelting frost into their pores.
They wander towards
the tease of light,

resembling delirious moths
oblivious to sudden movement.
Their hearts glowing steadily,
beacons guiding lost souls home.







Sandy Hiss writes poetry and fiction. Her first novel, a gothic fantasy, The Rosegiver, was republished in October 2017. Her paranormal novelette, The Haunting of Meredith, was published in August 2017. Sandy’s always been intrigued by haunted houses, ancient cemeteries, forests, gardens, and abandoned buildings. She currently resides in Southern California with her husband and two children. Sandy can be reached at her personal blog:  https://sandyhiss.blogspot.com, Twitter: @Sandy_Hiss, or on Goodreads.

Sunday, March 25, 2018

Little Girl in the Cemetery Garden by Ken Allan Dronsfield

On a Sunday evening in late spring
birds are at rest, and stars now shining
the full moon rises just over the hills
I sit on the granite bench in the garden
and reflect on burying Dad last week.
A little girl appeared by the fountain
and danced her little minuet in silence
white moon flowers began to open
her dress was white with red roses.
I knew that what I was seeing was a
little ghost girl, dancing to the full moon.
I started to speak, then thought better
and after she finished, she turned to me,
smiling, she looked me in the eyes but
melted away into the hazy mist in all about.
I was truly saddened to see her disappear
but realized, she had made me smile and I
felt a sense of tranquility during this great loss,
calming my wounded soul, a gifting of serenity.
I return, upon each night of the rising full moon
to talk to my Dad as he peacefully rests and
go to the stone bench to sit and relax in silence
and watch the little girl dance in the garden.








Ken Allan Dronsfield is a disabled veteran poet and fabulist. His work has been published world-wide in various publication venues. He loves writing, thunderstorms, walking in the woods and spending time with his cats Willa and Yumpy. His poetry books, "The Cellaring" and "A Taint of Pity" are on Amazon.

Thursday, March 22, 2018

Starlight and Frogs by Steve Klepetar

Here by the river we watch boats go down.
They are sailing through night, candle-lit, 

music welling toward us on the high banks.
Down on the water, boys row, 

girls in their dresses sing to starlight and frogs. 
Who are we, so close to this tattered veil, 

drifting in the wind? 
Along dark river skin, torchlight shines.

Who has called us here from a far country,
traveling all day through cities and grime?

We have come with our tongues buried in ice.
Who are we that our eyes must witness and burn?






Steve Klepetar has recently relocated to the Berkshires in Massachusetts after 36 years in Minnesota. His work has received several nominations for Best of the Net and the Pushcart Prize, including three in 2017. Recent collections include A Landscape in Hell (Flutter Press), How Fascism Comes to America (Locofo Chaps), and Why Glass Shatters (One Sentence Chaps).

Wednesday, March 21, 2018

In the Quiet of Darkness by Daginne Aignend

Some nights she leaves, 
levitates outside her body
A strange power gives her
the strength to float
in streams of cool blackness
Encounters with nocturnal 
animals, she talks with owls,
moths and toads, learn
from their wisdom, 
quenches their knowledge
She forces herself to get
back into her physical shell 
before the break of dawn

The craving for the night
becomes a grim obsession
She wishes she could stay
forever in the quiet of darkness
One night, she's drawn into
a magical conversation 
with a wise Eagle-Owl 
and forgets to watch
the uprising daylight
Suddenly afraid
of what might happen
she tries to rush back.
She visions herself in her bed,
no longer able to breathe 
or open her eyes again
Forever
in the quiet of darkness






Daginne Aignend is a pseudonym for the Dutch writer, poetess, photographic artist Inge Wesdijk. She likes hard rock music, fantasy books, and is a vegetarian who loves her animals. She's the Poetry Editor of Whispers and has been published in many journals, and anthologies She has a fun project website www.daginne.com