Thursday, June 22, 2017

Shadow Man by Michael Keshigian

His life was about darkness, 
occupying a home with dim lights,
rooms with curtains closed,
in the company of people 
who dissolved into the 
embracing fingers of night 
even as he observed.
His voice projected a guttural timbre, 
his dilemmas as black as the holes 
that perplexed space.
The leaves on the trees, 
spotting his yard,
were covered with soot,
he mowed decaying grass.
Friends that visited 
drove black limousines
and parked them, after dusk,
in front of his secluded house.
Coins turned to creosote 
when he kept them in his pocket
and he would dream of ocean depths,
where no sunlight penetrated 
to illuminate a path of hope.
Even the coffins in the storage area
with their fancy trim,
spoke in undertones
and buried themselves continually
in patches of black dirt.

Michael Keshigian 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 a twenty publications with 6 Pushcart Prize and 2 Best Of The Net nominations. (

Tuesday, June 20, 2017

Nightmare, Implanted by Tamara L. Panici

The duende came to me in a dream
I can no longer remember and

left behind a luminescent orb. 

The glazed globe still glows 
somewhere in the tendrils
of my mind like the shine from

a flickering lighthouse. Twinkle, 

twinkle, the pulsing flash lulls me
to sleep. I can no longer close my eyes
without it.

Fueled by dreams, the orb
gains lumens, almost catches fire, forces me 
to open my eyes mid-dream. 

I wonder if it’s a symbiotic curse. My body 
is useless in finding the globe—real hands
could never pick it up

and lucidity is no help. The orb is always 
worlds ahead of me,

a nightmare implanted.

The light, I fear, is a beacon
calling the duende home.

Tamara L. Panici is constantly scribbling on scraps of paper. When she is not reading or writing, she can be found eating bizarre foods or lifting heavy weights. She has work forthcoming in Fjords Review, Flash Fiction Magazine, and Abyss & Apex.

Monday, June 19, 2017

Visitors by Jan Darrow

in the middle of the night
they wake her

she remembers pieces
of her past
tall grass
in the yard
a house
full of light
the somber sounds
through transom
and her mother's
garden dress

how they wander
through her world
when they get up from 
their bleak beds
and allow
her to surface

how they never
they are dead

Jan Darrow is a graduate of the University of Michigan and currently lives in Michigan with her husband and daughter.  She has always been interested in the paranormal and finds abandoned places utterly beautiful.  You can view more of her work at:

Friday, June 16, 2017

Wrath of the Siren by Linda M. Crate

i was a fish out of water
when i laid in your arms
mistaking your love for lust,
but you're the one that
mistook a siren for a mermaid;
i haven't forgotten my song
so come, elf, to my cold and distant
ocean for i have shed the mermaid
in my fury and remembered my crueler 
sisters and every sinister fang will
be made clear in my lyric of erosion
as i rip sinew from bone.

Linda M. Crate's works have appeared in numerous publications and anthologies both online and in print. She is the author of the novels in the Magic Series and the forthcoming Phoenix Tears. She has always found beauty and depth in things that both know light and darkness.

Wednesday, June 14, 2017

Distance Moves Away by Martin Willitts Jr.

My son tried to convince me 
he could see deer eyes in the dark
by the way light glanced off their pupils, 
and while we were driving 
over the rise, a deer was in our lane, 
head down, no flare in its eyes —
the thing we want most to avoid 
is exactly the one we cannot escape.
Each night, the dead would enter me, 
a cloud of blue moths 
with roughness of a harsh tongue.
A single deer can go in many directions at once —
thoughts, apologies, stars furthering away.
Distance is a child growing up, moving away.
Stars are eyes in the middle of the road. 
A deer can vanish, leaving a thump, a dent, 
a spider web of glass, brown fur on the fender, 
and the body is nowhere or elsewhere,
and for an hour, our hearts raced, dilated 
like pupils, having no idea what we had avoided,
our mouths flapping moths in startled light,
suddenly, there is no rush to go home, our road
is dark and sharp as flint, my son’s face flush
as the whitetail. I noticed my eyes were closed
the entire time, but I saw everything I needed to see.

Martin Willitts Jr won the 2014 Dylan Thomas International Poetry Contest; Rattle Ekphrastic Challenge, June 2015Editor’s ChoiceRattle Ekphrastic Challenge, Artist’s Choice, November 2016, and a Central New York Individual Artist Award for "Poetry On The Bus". 

Monday, June 12, 2017

Wisp of Love by Ken Allan Dronsfield

My spirit is one with yours; since
burning times and zealot's reign.
We have walked, talked, made love,
made war lived and died together.
I have burned at the stake with you,
and with rising smoke and ashes, our
souls flew together into the night sky.
Now, finally being reunited with you
after what has seemed an eternity,
I find myself back there once again,
thrown onto the fiery flaming pyre,
my soul slowly burned to oblivion.
You haven't the strength to fight
these overly pious tormentors, or
put out the flames about me; so
once again I burn, my essence rises,
a wisp of love bequeathed ... I burn.

Ken Allan Dronsfield is a disabled veteran and poet from New Hampshire and now resides on the southern plains in Oklahoma. He loves thunderstorms and time with his cat Willa.  His poetry has been nominated for two Pushcart Prize Awards and the Best of the Net for 2016.

Friday, June 9, 2017

How Come by Bruce Mundhenke

Who made the birds fly to their nests
And sing to the evening sun?
And who made the stars in the night to appear,
After the darkness comes?
Who made the creatures of night
Sing their song?
An endless invisible choir.
And when all of them at once
Cease to sing,
And a very loud silence is heard,
Who stopped their song?
Did you think it was you?
Then tell me,
How did you come?

Bruce Mundhenke has worked as a laborer and a registered nurse. He enjoys nature, reading, and writing poetry. He lives in Illinois with his wife Mary, Their dog Max, and their cat Gracie.