The Boys of Mount Baldy by Stephen N. Chaffee

in November of ‘58
three Boy Scouts
with elfin innocence
didn’t know
of an arctic-like storm
barreling hard and fast their way

Tucsonans David, Mike, and Michael
plodded up Old Baldy Trail
hopping over boulders
lungs on fire
racing for the summit

unprepared and lost
they slogged down Temporal Gulch
through waist-deep snowdrifts
daylight gone
life slipping

steep icy slopes
pulled them down
so cold
lost all feeling
went to sleep
didn’t wake up



* In memory of David Greenberg, 12; Mike Early, 16; and Michael J. LaNoue, 13.

Stephen N. Chaffee's poetry has appeared in Deep Wild Journal, Black Poppy Review, Eunoia Review, Florence Poets' Society Review and several anthologies.  His first book of poetry, The Arizona Trail: Passages in Poetry, was published by Wheatmark (2018).  Stephen likes to "exhale routine / inhale wildness."  He calls Arizona home.

Ashes by Cathy Joyce Lee

Windblown sand with wisps of my essence
that leave no footprints
for waves to erase.
Salty air kisses my spirit,
my arms reach out to hold the surf.
My eyes turn toward you and cry with blue tears
because you are sad.
Gently I fade, evanescing
blending into the earth, weathered pebbles
and coastal brush.
I do not choose
to chase the past,
to wander the shores
a restless traveler.

You set me free to the passage of time,
infinitely shifting ground.
An image of a dust devil
with the dreams of an angel.
I shed my burdens with each fragile step,
a pastel memory of what I once was.
You are not alone.
I am still present melding with the elements,
reborn of the ocean,
returning to life
with wisdom that flows
through continuous currents.
You hold my vessel,
the last of my being.
I am no longer contained.
My ashes dissolve
and merge with the sea
like those before me and you,
who will follow.

Cathy Joyce Lee can be found forest bathing at night and paddling the rivers by day. The connections she feels with the natural and supernatural worlds inspire her words. She has been published in several literary magazines to include 7th-Circle Pyrite, Prosetrics, Pure Slush, Four Tulips, the dionysian public library, NightWriter Review/The 805, Moonflake Press and Poetics.

Fall Thunder / Witchy Halloween by Michael Lee Johnson

Fall Thunder

There is power in the thunder tonight, kettledrums.

There is thunder in this power.

The powder blends white lightning

and flour sifters in masks and is tossed around.

Rain plunges on an October night, and dancers

crisscross the night sky in white gowns.

Tumble, turn, swirl the night away, around,

leaves tape-record over, over, pound,

pound, repeat, falling to the ground.

Halloween falls on the children's

knees and imagination.

Kettledrums.

Witchy Halloween

 

Inside this late October 31st night,

this poem turns into a pumpkin.

Animation, something has gone

devilishly wrong with my imagery.

I take the lid off the pumpkin's headlight

and the pink candles inside.

Demons cry, crawl, diverge, fly outside—

escape through the pumpkin's eyes.

I'm mixed in fear with this scary, strange creation.

Outside, quietly tapping Hazel, the witch's

broomstick against my windowpane rattles.

She says, "Nothing seems to rhyme anymore.

Nothing makes sense, but the night is young.

Give me back my magical bag of tricks.

As Robert Frost said:

"But I have promises to keep,  

And miles to go before I sleep."

Michael Lee Johnson lived in Canada for ten years during the Vietnam era. Today, he is a poet in the greater Chicago-land area, IL. He has 354-plus YouTube poetry videos. Michael Lee Johnson is an internationally published poet in 46 countries, a song lyricist with several published poetry books, and a nominee for 7 Pushcart Prize awards and 7 Best of the Net nominations. 

Midnight / Dry Grass by Jan Darrow

Midnight

From the fog
it rises
at the edge of town.
Autumn’s reappearing act.

Fog horns moan.
Cat tongues wail.
A carnival’s in town.
It’s in the air. The music
drifts,
a merry-go-round
twirls and shifts.

Side shows bloom
like funeral
dust.
Ticket takers
Step right up!





Dry Grass

The skeleton rubbed his bony fingers together
until a spark flashed and dropped onto the dry grass.
It was an old autumn night, and he was cold. And as
the fire spread along a fence into a farmer’s field,
he roasted his bones. The crackling spirited higher
when it hit the dry stalks of corn. Flames shot up under the
clear black sky. The heat felt good and the skeleton
chuckled as the entire field burned before him.
A dead carnival laid rusting along a row of trees just
out of reach. A corn dog trailer slept under the stars.
The carnival began devouring energy from the fire.
Slowly at first, then faster. A decayed carousel creaked
and cracked. It whirled. Music bled from its canopy.
The speared horses swerved up and down. They wore
terrified expressions. Eyes darting. Legs jumping. Around
it went faster and faster. Until one by one the horses jumped,
hooves flying away from the spinning mess and through
the flames across the orange lit field. They raced toward
the skeleton who now had a horrified look on his face.
His singed bones fell back as the horses trampled the earth
and knocked him to the ground, snorting and whinnying as they all
galloped together in unison away and down the gravel road.

Having grown up in the rural Midwest, Jan Darrow connected to the natural world at an early age. Ghost stories are her favorite. You can find more of her work at jandarrow.blogspot.com

Entremets Sans Subtleties by Pixie Bruner

We shall dine upon the bones,
the flesh, the fruits,
cherish even the gristle.
It shall be a pleasant meal.
The fruit of the womb
served cherubically dressed
and saffron, juniper and ginger
hide all unpleasant tastes of game notes.
There shall be rich red blood turned to wine
to wash down the unsavory gristle
we are too polite to spit out
on the finest linen napkins- always ivory.
We swallow the menus offerings.
The Invited guests. Fearful of indictment.
else we wind up upon the table—
dressed as a suckling pig
with a jousting scene of capons
and a headdress of swan feathers next fete.
We deny that the hosts are ghouls.
We categorically deny that we are doing.
We tell the host they are beautiful and always correct.
They are genius and handsome, oh so very clever.
We admire the cut of the suit, the drape of their dress,
looking them graciously in the eye.
We deny deny deny and deny
in the hope we leave the dinner alive.
We chew and chew, our mouths closed.
We place the silverware back just-so.
We smile and smile and compliment
every course, the table settings, the ghouls hospitality
And pray for the dessert course to be digested
it means just another meal we survived.

Pixie Bruner (HWA/SFPA) is a writer, editor, and cancer survivor. She is the 2025 Rhysling Award Chair. She lives in Atlanta, GA, with her doppelgänger. Her words are in the Elgin-nominated “The Body As Haunted” (Authortunities Press), Space & Time Magazine, Weird Fiction Quarterly, and many more.

My Mother's Ghost Started Dancing / Dracula Considers Writing a Memoir by LindaAnn LoSchiavo

My Mother’s Ghost Started Dancing

That year morphine became a minuet,
Sweet pianissimo. Its soft pedals stilled
Anguish, reproached relentless timekeeping —
Tick, tick — mortality’s metronome.

Before my mother died at home, she learned
That cancer’s like a Depression Era
Endurance contest: the dance marathon,
Odds stacked against her, swaying in slow mode.

Despite defiant hair, a plump physique
Deceiving guests, illness hokey-pokeyed
Her organs, shook breasts off, rhumbaed her cells,
Vitality an unremembered song,
Mere noise until sweet exhalations ceased.

Her corpse was wheeled away. The tempo changed.

Dynamic force reclaimed the rooms, infirm
No longer. Energy expressed intent
As if Mom were at a debutante’s ball,
Star of the floor show, sequined, applauded.

The mind’s embrasures, freed from pain’s embrace,
Seek entertainment, longing to erase
What’s real. Belonging to another realm —
Where everyone’s transparent — Mom’s got plans
She’s telepathed. But first she wants to dance.

A coldness sidles up to seize my hand.




Dracula Considers Writing a Memoir

His library contains expensive books,
Some autographed or leather-bound except
For his, whose memories are kept alive,
Poised on the empty dance floor of his mind.

The inkwell winks, inviting him to write
Without delay, lined paper his patient
Servant, recording wild deeds secretly.

Each season of the afterlife becomes
His outline, words like bones newly coffined.

Domestics unlock cobwebbed trunks, unpack
Undated mice-nipped letters, diaries,
Recalling sentences of women who
Kissed back, held hands, embraced in dark hallways,
Relationships creating lonelier
Nights after appetite had used them up.

Remorse nor pity rules his ragged realm,
Where he survives in sunless solitude.

Chapters completed, Dracula’s quill rests.

Indulging now in pleasure-crested pricks,
The Count reflects on boredom life-in-death
Inflicts on vampires. Had he known his fate,
He’d still prefer it to an early grave.

Native New Yorker. Poet. Writer. Dramatist. In 2024 LindaAnn LoSchiavo had three poetry books published in 3 different countries; two titles won multiple awards. 

In 2025-26 two titles are forthcoming: “Cancer Courts My Mother” and “Vampire Verses.”

BlueSky: @ghostlyverse.bsky.social

Part of the Beast by Brad Liening

from Part of the Beast

All these dead birds
What are we going to do with them all
Shovel them like snow to the edges of the parking lot
Great gray and brown feathery drifts
Spilling and feathering out again at the edges
Occasionally a cardinal like a splotch of bright blood
Among all the undifferentiated
Dead birds there’s so many
They ruffle and tumble in the wind
And there are fewer spaces now for parking
Where do we park among the dead birds
It used to be bees now it’s birds also maybe still bees
All these dead birds they weigh almost nothing
So why does my back hurt



from Part of the Beast

The latest invasive species isn’t so bad
Spiders the size of sedans
Webs big as apartment buildings
Like sharks they’ll eat the occasional person
But mostly it’s a case of mistaken identity
Mostly when we are drunk and surly
Throwing rocks
Enamored with our broken hearts
Lamenting a future we had failed to adequately imagine
Now it’s too late
There’s no getting rid of these spiders and in the sun
Their resting bodies look like dreams incarnated from brains
More gentle and loving than ours






Brad Liening is a poet living in Minneapolis and at bradliening.blogspot.com.