Jonathan Rentler
battle for grace

the poor
tools to use
to build your towers
where you & yours sit
above the wars &

the world
filled with beasts
for you and yours to eat
& land to wholesale

by god
the crackerjack prize
you and yours summon
so sheeple baa baa below
the roar of private jets

Jonathan Rentler is the author of the chapbook Times Square Words# 1 (Yonkers International Press/Blurb 2017). His work has appeared in LOLA, Babbling of the Irrational, Fickle Muses, I-70, Ganymede, Unlikely Stories 2.0, and Midnight Muse.

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Sarah Caulfield
Service With a Smile

He comes by every afternoon on the dot. The clock turns three and he steps through the door.
He’s slow. We have his order ready by the time he makes it to the counter, but we listen to what
He says anyway. The electronic till beeps. Cash jingles. Exact change. Every time,
I wonder who else he has to talk to, as each day I watch him eat alone
Out of the corner of my eyes. Nearby, I clean tables. Wipe up salt. We never speak.
It’s been, what, five years? More?
I still can’t hear the sound of deep-fat fryers without imagining him —
The quiet of his silhouette, as though cut out of paper and pasted down. Years pass, and
Here I am, trying to write with the idea that no one is listening, even though
I still want them to be listening. I ache for regard. Ambition’s a bitch.
Words melt to putty in my mouth, pinned by my jawbone.
I am waiting to suit someone else. They’re just words.
Can I take your order, sir? I spit them up sour. We are all in the gutter.
I doze. Drowse. Repeat. Wait for morning.
I have fifteen minutes for break. In the car park, I turn my face up to the sky.
And I breathe. Take shape. Let fly.

Sarah Caulfield is the author of Spine (Headmistress Press, 2017). Her work has appeared in Lavender Review, Voicemail Poems, The Griffin, and The Mays (XXIV). She has lived in the UK, Poland and Germany, and currently lives in Japan.

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Robert Crisp
In Terms of Fighting and Protest

Can my guts expect anything solid
from me in terms of standing up to
squids who, by some insane stroke
of horror, become tentacled dictators
of the deep and unknowing green sea?
No more than a swallow may outwit
the wind, said the wiry fortune teller
on her wheezing deathbed, offering
her final augury for a sip of my clean
water and a promise to bury her on land.
Outfitted with my unstable nerves, I dove
into a watery grave and made my peace.

Robert Crisp currently hides out in Savannah, GA, where he teaches English. He writes poetry as often as he can. Learn more at www.writingforghosts.com

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Chris Lim
Parasites and Sins

down here
swimming in my bloodstream
wet sheets of newspaper from rain
come knocking
bulbous clouds split
in the vast orange skies
hints of cruel words
lurking behind a tree
the orange illumination fades
and darkness creeps up
watch as they flow out
a spillage of oil from which guilt oozes out
and disperses in our waters
outside the sun colors raindrops on windows
shafts of light carve dim yellow rings on
a woman’s face
miles away her lover rests
but where he sleeps
everything is quiet

Chris Lim is a 15-year-old high school student from the Philippines, who attends the British School of Manila, where he won the 2018 short story competition. He likes taking part in Math competitions and reading dystopian novels. His poetry has appeared in the journal K’in.

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Emily Vieweg
Welcome

You will either live within tulips or
chains. Both will wrap around your tongue
and bite your cheek – one will nip, feel warm
and smell of honey and sweetness – the other will gnaw and
claw and clamp and you will bleed from muscles
and places you never knew existed –
your body will belong to whomever is in power.
Perhaps rethink your journey.
Perhaps study our history.
It repeats…
It repeats…
It repeats…

Emily Vieweg is a poet originally from St. Louis, Missouri. Her work has been published in Soundings Review, Art Young’s Good Morning, Proximity Magazine, Spillwords.com and more. She lives in Fargo, North Dakota, where she is a mother of two, cat wrangler and office assistant.

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Marjorie Moorhead
Tragedy Triolet
where were you when the bombs dropped?

I was watching PBS, when the bombs were dropped.
A show about music, which spoke to my heart.
Little did I know, much-pried Pandora’s Box-lid had popped.
I was watching a tv show when the bombs were dropped.
Pillowed surroundings quiet, normal; nothing routine had stopped.
On the show, poet-singer protest-warriors strumming their art.
I danced; snapped fingers at my screen, not yet knowing bombs were dropped.
Marvin Gaye, Dylan, Garcia’s music spoke to my heart.

Marjorie Moorhead writes from the border of NH/VT where she tries for a daily observant walk. Her poetry can be seen in two anthologies: A Change of Climate (2017, edited by Sam Illingworth and Dan Simpson, benefitting the Environmental Justice Foundation), and Birchsong: Poetry Centered in VT, Vol.II (2018, edited by Alice Wolf Gilborn, et al., The Blueline Press). She’s had many poems online at sites from Indolent Books (What Rough Beast; HIV Here & Now), Rising Phoenix Review, to Sheila-Na-Gig. Forthcoming is a chapbook from Finishing Line Press.

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Amy Brewster
Sunday Lunch with My In-Laws

FOX NEWS blares from a flat screen
mounted on the living room wall
dominating everything around it.
I think of Orwell’s 1984, Big Brother, brainwashing.

Trump tweets fly from the screen’s mouth
like bats leave a cave swooping in high arcs
scooping insects with wide open mouths
high squeaks bouncing off the walls.

In the dining room where we gather for lunch
I think of the poster I carried in a demonstration.
“Trump Sandwich”
White bread, full of baloney, Russian dressing
and a small pickle…I smother a giggle.

We dutifully bow our heads in grace.
My father- in-law hands pressed in prayer:
Dear Lord, bless this food and family
Help my son and his wife open their hearts
to our President and embrace his goal
to make “America Great Again”.

We say Amen and nothing else.
Arguing causes hives and heartburn.
Besides there’s a loaded gun in a cabinet
sitting next to the King James Bible
and sometimes I wonder which one
he uses the most.

We talk about the weather, steering clear of climate change
the price of corn because my in-laws farm
and what will be planted in their backyard garden.
On the wall behind me hangs a print of the Last Supper.
I can’t help wondering what Jesus would do?

We say our goodbyes, walk down the drive
past my father-in-law’s Ford 250 truck
a red white and blue genuine
U.S.A flag mounted on the cab

We pull away in our Prius
they are on the porch shaking their heads
at our “Make America Think Again”
glow-in-the-dark bumper sticker.
Giving us the final word.

Amy Brewster writes: I am a semi-retired educator and now have more time to devote to writing and my other passions, including spending time hiking and traveling. In addition to poetry, I enjoy writing articles about history (local) and our natural world.

Jonathan Rentler
mow us down

or try
for your towers of power
are just quaking stocks
on land of the filched
& paved

& our crowns
lie close to the ground
fingers rooting deep
grasping till clasping
one & all
in the unseen below

for we know
who really holds earth
in their hands

Jonathan Rentler is the author of the chapbook Times Square Words# 1 (Yonkers International Press/Blurb 2017). His work has appeared in LOLA, Babbling of the Irrational, Fickle Muses, I-70, Ganymede, Unlikely Stories 2.0, and Midnight Muse.

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Malaika Favorite
The State of the Chicken Coop

The debate erupts in the chicken coop
Several hens clucking at once
Silenced by Lord Rooster
Pronouncing: Clucks are fake news

The sky is not falling
The dust we bathe in is clean
The water we drink
Is not polluted with nuclear waste

The symposium at one p.m.
Is not the conversation we had at Mar-a-Lago
Our table was in the center of the chicken coop
We roosters ate first; the hens followed

The other guest wore ear muffs
They heard nothing we assessed
We imported the wine from Russia
It was a deal made before the election

The corn was smuggled from Mexico
Blighted with disease
The cook was an illegal hen
With broken toes on crusty feet

She was deported
Before dinner was served
Nothing new happened that the media
Was able to report falsely

They repeated old news
One hundred times
In seventy-five ways
Of saying nothing

Did they read my morning tweet?
Did the sun arrive on time?
Don’t listen to green monkeys telling long tales
The wall will rise around the chicken coop

Malaika Favorite has received her BFA and MFA in art from LSU Baton Rouge, LA. Malaika won the 2016 Broadside Lotus Press Naomi Long Madgett Poetry Award for her collection of poems, ASCENSION, published in 2016 by Broadside Lotus Press. Her publications include: DREAMING AT THE MANOR, Finishing Line Press 2014, ILLUMINATED MANUSCRIPT, published by New Orleans Poetry Journal Press, 1991.

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Seungbihn Park
Bells

One stuck to the grey fridge
and one on the white side table
Painted ruby, glued with a pebble colored
magnet against the fridge
On the other hand
coated in gold with a hand
sewed holder
with the image of a skeleton of a cow
on black grass covered
with red, green, blue, and yellow wild flowers
On the edge,
the thin pieces of threads
were sinking out like fireworks

I remember,
when this strange carnival
in one of the villages of Lucerne
People dressed in sheep wool
and a wooden mask of kriens

Ringing Bells
“Ding Ding Ding”
til midnight
My roommate couldn’t force
herself to sleep
so she put on the mask of the old man
grieving, sorrowful
–trapped in a little girl’s body.

Seungbihn Park has been recognized by the Scholastic Art & Writing Awards at the National Level, and she is looking forward to participate in many more competitions as well as write for literary publications. Her poetry, short stories, and other works have been influenced by her diverse experiences in a variety of countries, such as Switzerland, South Korea, the Philippines, and the Dominican Republic. As a 12-year-old middle schooler at International School Manila, she has been subject to a plethora of cultural perspectives and aims to share these through her poems.

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