Of Reddened Apples.Poem. Richard Lloyd Cederberg

Protecting the wellness, accuracy, and sanctity of creative individualism
Being blessed
Abreast this advantage,
Perched upon a firm palisade
Within a sprawl of Malus laden,
Where, contemplating all
Comings and goings,
To some length,
Seemed a
(Of sorts)
Of the movement
Of others in the often
Mundane blur of surviving
Dour dominion
Suffered acute eyes in
Wonderment, streets moiling  
With rapacious squawking hawkers,
And all the grousing animations of escapade
Vendors plying the needy with homemade  
Food, tomfoolery, and the bric-a-brac
Of some faraway place,
And being
Aware that
Very morning of a
Shadowy tramp steamer
Offloading some unavowed booty
Into the hands of indurate panhandlers,
Whose ultimate survival rested,
At all costs,
In the next sale or
Satisfactory scheme  
(To ensnare
Those fleeceable
With the unnecessary)
He felt
Relieved for
The scant distance
Between THERE and THIS
Pleasant vantage so effectively
Set apart in rolling woodland hills,
A place where within his nostrils
Redolence brooded subtly
Of reddened apples,
The sweet
Beckoning him
Without peddler’s schemes or
An under-handed drama of strategies;
Smiling broadly he plucked one from where it dangled,
And, after consuming it, filled his haversack for
The continuing journey
richard lloyd cederberg


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Loch Ness Monster. Poem. Mitch Montagna


In darkest lakes where spirits swim –
beneath the depth where starlight dims
a shadow deepens midnight’s tone –
and drifts through water cold as bone.
As morning breaks a mist holds still –
above the lake that sunlight fills
to find a serpent rearing high –
like a rainbow toward the sky.
The creature almost caught the breeze –
that cooled the mist and swayed the trees
as its body shone in lovely light –
that made its ancient eyes go bright.
Alas, the spirits cut it down –
and morning went without a sound
but for the saddest cry you knew –
if you were underwater too.


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The Julianic Manifest.Sonnets Nos. 1,2,3,4. Poem. Frederick L Light.

Notes on the EmperorJulian:

About the year 310 the Emperor Constantine established Christianity as the state religion of the Roman Empire. Julian, who reigned from 361-363, reestablished paganism as the observed faith. He wrote a number of philosophic works in defense of the old religion and also confutations of certain Christian doctrines. After he perished in a battle in 363, the new religion was restored in state. During his reign large groups of monks attempted to ravage some pagan temples.


The Julianic Manifest No. 1

The Julianic Choir
“The best revival for the heart of Rome
Began with Julian, the most unbeguiled
Believer in the gods, fit to become
The world’s hieratic emperor, who smiled
With philolympian felicity
Before Homeric sculpture, fain to laud
Ideals. The strongest heart of justice he
Exerted in his cardiac urge for god,
From Christian hubris godly Hellas glad
To save. His orderly demeanor, mild
In dominance, with torrid monks, as mad
As dragons in the sun, irreconciled
Remained. Monastic ravagers he met,
Firmly repugning at this dismal threat.”
                                         The Julianic Manifest No. 2
The Julianic Choir
“Julian’s rejuvenated vision, near
In light to Zeus, relit devotion to
The gods and furthered (in propitious fear
Of them) Homeric guidance as the true
Religion. Reverence for sublimity
This tutelary monarch never lost.
His laws, as awesome as propriety,
Restored Olympian stature uppermost
In schools. This victor’s mandates, vanquishing
Fanatics, actuated tolerance
For mythic creeds of mickle gods. To bring
Minacious priests away and miscreants
Deter he practised the serene pursuits
Of restoration, who’d replant his roots.”
                                          The Julianic Manifest  No. 3
The Julianic Choir
“Lest over hellenismos hubris come
With aggravated ravages in kirks
Of Zeus, permitting bishops murdersome
To prove in sanctimonious riots and works
Of Christian breakage, Julian shall prevail,
Who as our raiment of defense remains,
Invested rigorously with the mail
Of God. More prowess rises from his brains
Than from the breast of Ares. He’d preserve
The gentlest heritage of happiness
In metre. Mythic precepts he’d observe
In statues, not Olympian stones suppress
Obtusely nor let master paradigms
Of mental peace be subject to these times.”
                                           The Julianic Manifest  No. 4
The Julianic Choir
“Not breaking heartfuls of regard, resolved
With Julianos on solicitude
For Rome, in renovation we’re involved,
As far as hellenismos is endued
With Zeus’s favor. If the heartiest care
Be not too careful, we’d assert his reign.
If cardiac approbation may declare
It, men resourcefully exploit again
Hellenic lore. A lucid war he’s waged,
Lest Galilean ignorance more toxic grow.
Against monastic criminals engaged,
Julian, the aptest guardian, shall outgo
Their prevalence. These Christians, prone to craze
Propriety, would right proportion raze.”
Frederick Light. 2013

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Shards.Poem.Gillian Stokes.

Hard words like bullets hit me

searing comments tear my skin

mute me , take away my power

your anger flails me.

With one word your scorn burns me

knocks me to the ground

wounds me deeply

searing my soul

killing me



and it never heals


I am wound upon wound

scar upon scar, building up

layer upon hurting layer


somewhere  inside deep inside

in a tiny dark little corner

my soul lies curled , furled

amoeba like


you say you know me , do you know me ?


I don’t know me,  I know  a thousand me’s

I act

every day I act out a thousand personas

trying to find the one that fits the moment

trying to find the one that pleases the world,

you, myself, friends


sometimes I reflect back what is shown to me, thrown at me

good or bad

aggressive or loud

weak, soft ,emotional

maybe it works better being …

if I reflect you then

maybe you will like it better

if I am more you than me


but these people aren’t me


they are all just shards of the mirror of me

that’s fracturing with the pain of my life

my hurt , my sorrows, my tears

my wastes, my losses, my losing

my cheating myself


she’s crying out that child, that soul

that me…

she’s not gone forever


I see glimpses of her all the time

when I push aside the debris


most times though I leave her be

maybe to protect  her 

maybe because she is so long gone

such a distant memory

that I am losing the reality of her



maybe cos I still don’t know who

I want to be when I grow up


maybe cos it’s easier to blitz out,

avoid, compartmentalize, be the me

I am in the given moment, just exist

respond / react, just do what is expected

damp down the little sparks, one moment, over-react the next

anesthetize, avoid , procrastinate,

be mundane

just exist

just be an amoeba


so who is the amoeba now, her or me


but she won’t leave me alone this soul

of mine

she has a siren’s  call, this Pandora soul of


She cries to me for release


do I let her out ?

do I dare


who will  love her, hate her the most

you or me?


will we

can we


accept her

allow her?


do you care?


Copyright  © Gillian Stokes  31 May 2009


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Haiku & Poetry. Poem. Joseph Randell Sherman

end of day
waves caressing shore
master artist painting sky
~ ocean sunset song

birds retire wings
fall asleep with setting sun
~ shadows disappear

child of autumn
an imaginer
contemplating vivid dreams
~turning painted leaves

until the sunset
i am but a shadow
dancing briefly
across the meadow
until the sunset
takes my hand

 Copyright Joseph Randell Sherman 2013

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Griefs Home. Poem. Amparo Arrospide


Perhaps grief is a home
with a haughty ceiling and a bolted door
where you feel so comfortable, sometimes,
that you do not hear the steel s edge
slashing the tapestries,
suspended on the scented air:
it is heliotrope blended with brimstone,
seeking to settle in the corners;

only the window stands
between the limit and you.

Arduous walk, in silence you listen to the ancient voices,
firewood for this grief
always starved of you,
as demanding as a newborn child
whom you already love.

The door opens ajar and you close it:
There is nothing to be afraid of.




Amparo Arrospide (Argentina) is a Spanish poet and translator. She has published four poetry collections, Mosaicos bajo la hiedra, Alucinación en dos actos y algunos poemas, Pañuelos de usar y tirar and Presencia en el Misterio as well as poems, short stories and articles on literary and film criticism in anthologies and both national and foreign magazines. She has received numerous awards. Together with Robin Ouzman Hislop, she worked as co-editor of Poetry Life and Times, an E-zine.

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Calligraphy. Poem. Martin Collins


In another life I was mute,

written words were my voice.

So I lay awake

sculpting them

into a script 

that could stain your mind.

I inked my history across my body

presenting myself as artefact

and all the stares, scorn

and petty human hatred

did not feel like trauma any more,

they felt like value.








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ASHES (to my mother).Poem.Barbara Crooker


When we brought your ashes to the beach

at the end of Pilgrim Road, I poured them out

as fast as I could, standing knee-deep

in the seaweedy shallows, because it had started

to rain, and I didn’t want you to get wet.

What was I thinking? You were returning

to our first mother, the sea. But all I wanted

to do was gather up every gritty particle,

every chip of bone, then mix them with my bare

hands, using sand and mud, saliva and tears,

and bring you back, my own personal golem.

How could I have let you sift out of my fingers,

grain by grain? The heavier bits sank, mixed

with the broken shells; the lighter ones blew

in the wind, stuck to the patches of foam.

How can you be gone?


first appeared in South Carolina Review, 2011, to appear in the forthcoming book Gold. Barbara Crooker (2013 or 2014) in the Poeima Poetry Series of Cascade Books, a division of Wipf & Stock. www.barbaracrooker.com


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