One poem by Todd Mercer

Note to Ingenue, Near North Side

I’ll see you at the Water Tower,

when you’re feeling better than me,

down with winter heaviness, and a squeeze

of angina. What are ya gonna do? I’ll look out

for you, where the enormous straw draws

all of the city’s supply. So much it seems endless.

Isn’t. That’s another day’s issue. Come see me

outside St. James chapel, in the shade

of the John Hancock, ticker ticking better

than it has in a while. Drop that pointless malaise

off the Skyway Bridge on the inbound trip.

Think Spring, see me North of the river.

Remember who you are.

I’ll take your picture at the Tower,

an icon in front of another icon. My view.

Meet me when the winter’s over, or it’s in retreat.

TODD MERCER won the Dyer-Ives Kent County Prize for Poetry (2016), the National Writers Series Poetry Prize (2016) and the Grand Rapids Festival Flash Fiction Award (2015). His digital chapbook, Life-wish Maintenance, appeared at Right Hand Pointing. Mercer's recent poetry and fiction appear in The Drabble, Eunoia Review, The Lake, Peacock Journal, and Vending Machine Press.

Poets of Issue Eleven 

(In alphabetical order)


Gordon Hilgers
James G. Piatt
Jason Galloway
John Grey
John Kropf
Margarita Serafimova
Michael C. Seeger
Michael Lee Johnson
Pat M. Kuras
Robert Beveridge
Sanjeev Sethi

One poem by Gordon Hilgers

Keep it short

You worked for the paper awhile, but your
sweeter, driftwood flourishes would never hit
either print or fruition.  You would pen them,
book reviews, you all of twenty-six, but Bob
sat behind his smile to inform you that, no way,
not enough room.  Word count is important,
he said, more important than content.  Outside,
you sometimes watched the bevies of them,
pigeons, how the birds wheeled.  Some danger,
possibly a red-tailed hawk, had alerted them,
their scavenger ways interrupted, an editorial,
yes, there on the walkway, now bloody feathers
to be lifted, ghosts, wind their final breath, not
one word about it.  Stiller afternoons, you see,
when you can go no farther, you sit right here--
crazed creatures, beasts, sky bluer, no clouds,
only wings, the maw of moments memorized.

GORDON HILGERS lives in Dallas, Texas, in an area The Los Angeles Times calls "the Ellis Island of Texas" because no less than 30 languages are spoken in the neighborhood.  The Chiron Review, Edgar Allan Poet Journal, Texas Observer, Sequestrum, Deathlist 5, as well as several anthologies, including Fresh Cuts 2: The Skinning Volume and The Art To Be Human, also have published his poetry and stories.  

One poem by James G. Piatt

A Mother

Her hands reach out to 

Soothe the weighty 

Sorrows on a small 

Quivering brow; her smile 

Fills a sad heart with hope, 

Her love covers times of 

Gloom with optimism, and 

her continence covers the 

Sad hours with a joyful 

Glow when the day 

Appears dreary, and lost.

JAMES, a retired professor and octogenarian, is a pushcart and best of web nominee, and his poems were selected for inclusion in The 100 Best Poems of 2016, 2015 & 2014 Anthologies. He has published 3 collections of poetry, “The Silent Pond” (2012), “Ancient Rhythms,” (2014), and “LIGHT,” (2016), and over 960 poems, in over 135 magazines, anthologies and books. His fourth collection of poetry will be released this year. He earned his BS and MA from California State Polytechnic University, and his doctorate from BYU.

One poem by Jason Galloway

Sitting at a Table at Sunset

The last effort of light outside the glass—

empty glass, blank pages 

                                         in the darkening room

                                         in the company of empty chairs

& this dark gold candlestick tarnish

this thumbprint & these ovals of beeswax gold

teardrop pendants, the tip of this pen

                                                           not yet lit

JASON GALLOWAY is a poetry student in the MFA Program for Writers at Warren Wilson College, and he lives in the foothills of the Appalachian mountains in Greenville, South Carolina. He has published work in Right Hand Pointing, The Enlightentment Projects, and has participated twice in Tupelo Press' 30/30 Project.

One poem by John Grey

Slow Passage of Time

sweet fluted winds
blown by
the near-dark forest

steadfast live oak
presses its case
to glades of deep shadow

leaves flutter
simulate
the whisper of vows

sleepy down day
and no watch
worth looking at

JOHN GREY is an Australian poet, US resident. Recently published in New Plains Review, Stillwater Review and Big Muddy Review with work upcoming in Louisiana Review, Columbia College Literary Review and Spoon River Poetry Review.  

Two poems by John Kropf

Not myself

I’ve been put in this position before

waking up in the middle of the night

to utter phrases

not my own (and with no one to hear them).

Plastic grocery bag

Is the tumbleweed of the urban landscape

and sometimes

an undulating jellyfish in a sea of trees.

JOHN KROPF is a Washington area attorney and writer who has written a travel-adventure book, Unknown Sands: Journeys Around the World's Most Isolated Country, and a legal reference book, Guide to U.S. Government Practices on Global Sharing of Personal Information. He has also contributed to Verse-Virtual, Burningword LIterary Journal and a regular reader at the Iota Poetry series. John was awarded a Certificate in Laughter from the DC Improv Club and keeps a blog on books and poems on an unscheduled basis at http://compulsivelyaimless.blogspot.com  

One poem by Margarita Serafimova

If it were possible …

If it were possible for me to be there, I would be fingers

and nails of impetuous dark, and I would lightly cleave to you,

and leaning over you, I would let you drink my throat.

Fury and sand, quick, count down your desert.

MARGARITA SERAFIMOVA has contributed to Outsider Poetry, Heavy Athletics, Anti-Heroin Chic, the Peacock Journal, Noble/ Gas Quarterly, In Between Hangovers, Window Quarterly/ Patient Sounds. Pieces of hers are forthcoming in The Voices Project, Obra/ Artifact, MockingHeart Review, London Grip New Poetry, The Birds We Piled Loosely. She has two books of poetry in the Bulgarian. 

Two poems by Michael C. Seeger

I Wait

It’s heavier here now

Since you left.

Like a miracle; Wow!

See: Bereft.

I have in my hand words

From a book;

An empty sky holds birds

As I look.

Slowly the past recedes,

Timelessly

Emptied, as the mind reads

Watchfully.

Hardened understanding

Changes us

In our views; Birds landing

Make a fuss.

It’s dark where sunlight fell;

You are late.

Silent as a cancer cell,

I wait.

Transience

I found in a book some leaves

I had picked up from a road

one rainy day last fall. I could

not bear to let their beauty lie

there on the cold, wet ground,

waiting to disintegrate under

the wheels of oblivious drivers.

I tried to save them from their

transience,

             as we all have tried

in similar ways to save ourselves

from time. It is nearly Spring,

but these leaves, like memories, 

say to me, again, how fleeting

everything is.

                   And that no one

can stop, not for a moment, the

constant flow and inexorable

passage of life.

MICHAEL C. SEEGER is a poet and educator residing in the Coachella Valley near Palm Springs, California. Prior to his life as a middle school English instructor, he worked as a technical writer for a baseball card company and served as a Marine infantry officer during Desert Storm.  He considers poetry a passion and writing generally a way of life. Michael’s poems have only recently been published, though he’s written many and stands ready to embrace the opportunity of being so honored.

One poem by Michael Lee Johnson

Sing it Frank, Physical Therapy

Sing it Frank

I'm busy at physical therapy

struggling with back spasms

looking out this window, these clouds

this rain, slice this thunder,

listening to your songs over again

on the Muzak for this 6th week in a row,

peddling this mechanical bike,

might as well be a mechanical bull

with a heat pad on my spinal cord.

I'm deep inside your larynx 10 minutes

3 times a week tickling it back and forth,

jousting and reviewing those playgrounds

of all your illicit affairs.  With a few shots of vodka

peddling these wheels with intensified pressure

I can appreciate Lana Turner, Judy Garland,

Lauren Bacall, even Marilyn Monroe.

"This is my kind of town Chicago is,

my kind of town Chicago is."

MICHAEL LEE JOHNSON lived ten years in Canada during the Vietnam era: now known as the Illinois poet, from Itasca, IL. Today he is a poet, freelance writer, photographer who experiments with poetography (blending poetry with photography), and small business owner in Itasca, Illinois, who has been published in more than 875 small press magazines in 27 countries. He edits 10 poetry sites. Michael is the author of The Lost American: "From Exile to Freedom", several chapbooks of poetry, including "From Which Place the Morning Rises" and "Challenge of Night and Day", and "Chicago Poems". He also has over 74 poetry videos on YouTube.

One poem by Pat M. Kuras

Glory and Honor

When she gets

the high score

on pinball and

video games,

she sets her name 

as G-O-D,

not because she

thinks she's God

but because

it says in the Bible

all glory and honor

belong to God.

PAT M. KURAS has published poems in CRAB CREEK REVIEW, LAVENDER REVIEW and NERVE COWBOY. She has two poetry chapbooks: HOPE: NEWFOUND CLARITY (2015) and INSOMNIAC BLISS (2017), both from IWA Publishing.

One poem by Robert Beveridge

Blossom

You've opened to me, flower.

I suck your sweetness, store

it in the pouch of my cheek

to bring back memories

at inappropriate times.

ROBERT BEVERIDGE makes noise (xterminal.bandcamp.com) and writes poetry just outside Cleveland, OH. Recent/upcoming appearances in CircleShow, The Literateur, and Vanilla Sex, among others.

One poem by Sanjeev Sethi

Lucky Stars

Augured by awnings of birth

preparation for benedictions

starts at parturition.

Cradlesongs in clover

are favors of filiations.

In an unsigned mise

there is lifelong

guarantee of guardrails.

Pickets are within purview.

Ownership is an ally.

A few still nix it.

Garlanding lotus-eaters

is an insult to marigolds.

SANJEEV SETHI is the author of three well-received books of poetry. His most recent collection is This Summer and That Summer (Bloomsbury, 2015). His poems are in venues around the world: The Tower Journal, Peacock Journal, Boston Accent Lit, Red Fez, One Sentence Poems, Cavalcade of Stars, The Greensilk Journal, The Bond Street Review, PoetryMagazine.com, Ink Sweat & Tears, 3:AM Magazine, Morphrog 14, Poetry Pacific, Transnational Literature, Otoliths, and elsewhere. He lives in Mumbai, India. 

Poets of Issue Ten 

W H A T ' S  B E Y O N D  T H E   B E N D ? 

(In alphabetical order)

Aremu Adams Adebisi
David Tuvell
Gary Beck
Hem Raj Bastola
James G. Piatt
John Grey
Lee Evans
Michael Lee Johnson
Richard Luftig
Saloni Kaul
Sudeep Adhikari
Todd Mercer

One poem by Aremu Adams Adebisi

Book and Love

We started our love with prefaces
without a table where contentment
could be listed with priorities —
a table of contents

we love in crystal leaves,
white as delight, transparent,
bound together with a hard cover —
the shell of our hearts

we put love into action
in the chasms betwixt parallel lines
as she moans in sprawled alphabets
and in knotted contextual meanings

we smile in acts and fight in sequels
to be seen as the cast in scenes
at the end of every chapter

as each page flips and drags
till the antagonist is the protagonist
and the latter soon is the former,
we take the climax for a coin;
a head or a tail —
a comedy or a tragedy

and when it ends with a tail
we'd see it to be a drama
written by our hearts
with a beginning
and an end

AREMU ADAMS ADEBISI is an undergraduate of Economics at the University of Ilorin. He is a poet whose works are in varying poetical outlets. He blogs at artmosterrific.wordpress.com

One poem by David Tuvell

12th Round Boxing Theory

So you started drinking

again? Well, I started writing, and one 

of us is a fool. So according to 

the best laid plans of mousy men, 

and for all intensive purposes, 

I write our requiem.

Summer slips away this time, all mimosas 

on idle noons. The sun boils fight and desire to a syrup. 

Carpenter bees bump into us, fat on porch wood, 

ignoring or ignorant of our rocking in blue, weathered chairs. 

Squash grows shoulder-high, and the fridge is flush 

with Jamaican Red Stripe. Locusts never haunt us.

“Your invention doesn't do anything,” we complain.

“It's as if death is to be mankind's achievement.

Plus, death’s visage seems severe, like a scorned

drug dealer, or a home ec. teacher,

and everyone's left with the composer's tragedy:

a lifetime of would-be speech muffled into Einstein on the Beach.”

We're in the market for muscle memory, for days 

we can figure out purely from context. We want to hear that punk 

band Degenerate that we never started with that beautiful boy 

whose Escher tattoo was drawing itself, to drink

all that wine. But no, you can never find the lovely ones

the day after, when you remember to remember.

We have to hear Karen's words forever:

Feeling froggy? 

Shh. C'mere. 

Dismantle and 

devour. 

You might need me tomorrow.

And we know that her poetry is the final band 

playing the Titanic, 

and that everything’s fine

until dignity becomes a luxury. 

She was just a Vietnam. 

We were an American Embassy.

There's nothing for you here, Karen. It's amazing 

what can end up as okay. One day we'll all get fresh

tattoos. We'll steal time to read each other's minds in silence. 

Then you can drink all the wine. It was never up to us. 

Something did happen. It left marks, bestial and copper.

Somewhere there's a dartboard scored with dreams and hypodermic needles.

You’ll find that here it's easier to be a criminal than a victim, 

and easier still to be both. You’ll find us talking about doing 

something---self-indulgent, and sad all the time.

So cheer when we die, because we're the bad guys.

With no time, no idea, and no excuse,

we're the excitable morons who loudly misspell salvation.

DAVID TUVELL has written poems for the /New Orleans Review/, /The Steel Toe Review/, NYU's /Minetta Review/, KSU’s /Share/, /Eyedrum Periodically/, and other publications. His English B.A. comes from Kennesaw State University, and he studied substantially at the University of Florida. Outside of poetry, his path has been quite various, and he's made his way through things like software engineering, information science, and labor.