Neolithic Mansion by Simon Christiansen

You can leave the house,
but no one does.
You can rebel,
but no one is in charge.
Doors are unlocked.
Unkempt rooms connect to
musty halls. Flies sleep on
pizza boxes. Hallways divide
spaces and people
into sections and groups.
Cobwebs are the cleanest homes,
twinkling in corners.
The gate could be opened
but remains closed.
Gargoyles, silent guardians.

Simon Christiansen is a writer, poet, and indie game designer living in Denmark. His poetry has been published in Neologism Poetry Journal, Dreams & Nightmares, and The Pierian. Simon has also written award-winning works of interactive fiction. His website is www.sichris.com.

Sunrise Trials of the Occupant by Ben Nardolilli

Waiting for a daybreak to remember,

the mornings that I’m waking up to now
are cold openings, and forgettable,
once, I could rise like a chinook,
to greet the day’s awaiting romance
but these matins, I slide out of the sheets,
like a snake made out of lead,
heavy, bulbous, and unable to see clear

The struggle afterwards brings no gift
or surprise behind the opening
and closing doors of apartment and train,
at work, coffee drips into waxy cups
with the same, unseasonal floral design,
at my desk I face an equilibrium
of paper piles, by nighttime, all I remember
is how the days have begun to rhyme.

Ben Nardolilli is a MFA candidate at Long Island University. His work has appeared in Perigee Magazine, Door Is a Jar, The Delmarva Review, Red Fez, The Oklahoma Review, Quail Bell Magazine, and Slab. Follow his publishing journey at mirrorsponge.blogspot.com.

Jack-O'-Lantern Eyes / The Night by Michael Pendragon

Jack-O'-Lantern Eyes

When night descends upon the land
And dresses Halloween in black,
A row of silent pumpkins stand
On front porch stairways, back-to-back,
With ancient faces carved from slabs of time.

From out the dark, their faces glow
Like demons from some warlock's spell,
They light the night for well they know
The secrets dead men never tell
When Hell's bells toll their long forgotten chime.

Tonight the veil twixt life and death
Is thinner than a baby's breath,
Owls chant their haunting shibboleth
And ghosts are on the prowl;
The black cats yowl and twitch their tails,
The stray dogs howl, the banshee wails,
The darkness of the night prevails
While jack-o'-lanterns scowl.

But look beyond their crooked grin
To see the fire that burns within
Behind their masks of pumpkin skin
Lie thoughts they can't disguise;
And years from now when I am dead
The myriad words I've left unsaid
On Hallows Eve can still be read
Deep in my jack-o'-lantern eyes.




The Night

"Do not go gentle into that good night…"

-- Dylan Thomas


When I, at length, confront that fearsome night
That waits us all when days draw to a close,
I shall not seek, nor go into, the light
That those who've gazed into its source suppose
The path and passage to some other clime.

When I, too soon, take to my final bed
To gather every moment that has passed,
I shall not wonder where the years have fled
Nor why my mayfly dreams were doomed to last
No longer than love's "Once upon a time…"

No, I shall pierce the darkness with my stare
Defiant as a dying candle's flame,
But in my heart I'll know no one is there
Nor any here to call upon my name.

Michael Pendragon's work has appeared in The Horror Zine, Terror Tales, Evernight, Masque Noir, Tales of the Grotesque & Arabesque, etc. From 1995-2005, he published the horror zine Penny Dreadful: Tales & Poems of Fantastic Terror.  Presently, Michael edits/publishes "A Year of Sundays," a monthly ezine and annual print anthology. He is currently nominated for the Rhysling award.

Breaking Our Past by Adam Levon Brown

Breaking our past never seemed so delicious,
The fires in our hands know of nothing but pain

We forgive as we forget, the emptiness inside
Is filled with love, and the sunsets of hope

We cry when we are lied to, we love when we are loved,
And we have faith in everything daily

We are the Sun, we are the Moon, we have faith
That everything will turn out in the end, and it usually does

The brokenness we once collected, cracked sunlight
Falling into begging eyes

We love our pasts, but getting caught in them is never wise.
We laugh with our sadness, and bleed with our happiness

There is love, there is life, and there is hope, the unending serendipity
that we all share, filling the emptiness inside

Adam Levon Brown is an Award-winning poet, Mental health advocate/sufferer, and published Artist. He is the author of six poetry books. He has had his work translated in Spanish, Albanian, Arabic, and Afrikaans. He won the 2019 Blue Nib Chapbook Award, and has been shortlisted for the Erbacce Prize for Poetry four times.

A Haunting by Jan Darrow

I know you’re here

sitting bedside while I sleep
you study my face
in the dark
you watch my breath
your expression fades

at 3 a.m.
the room is cold
you’re an empty feeling
I have when I wake
you disappear through doors
roam streets in the dark
you skulk in the rain
but you never go far

weary
time fuels eternity

Having grown up in the rural Midwest, Jan Darrow connected to the natural world at an early age. You can find more of her poetry and flash fiction available on Amazon and at jandarrow.blogspot.com

Riding Home by Margie Duncan

In the passenger seat,
held from the night
in the arms of Dad’s new Dodge,

I watch the electric blue hood
grow frost and turn
to powder gray.

The heater burns
the inside of my nose
and radiosongs tunnel

far inside my ears.
Tires whisper and tick
like white bread toasting.

What could happen, this night,
or any? The moon could lurch
above the horizon’s sweep

and swallow our headlights,
or we could skid on a shadow
into a ragged ditch, end up cold

and staring still, but those things
never happen. There’s only the car,
the universe outside, and no crossover.

Margie Duncan lives in NJ with her husband Brian, two tuxedo cats, and the ghosts of two dogs. When she is not looking out the window, she's hiking in the woods. Her poems have appeared in Thimble, Third Wednesday, Gyroscope Review, and Halfway Down the Stairs, among other places.

Follow the Footprints / Where the Shadows Go by Rick Hartwell

Follow the Footprints

With eyes only, I follow the tracery of tracks

across the overnight snow and into the woods.

Most footprints I know from the appearance

of their makers at my wife’s feeding stations:

squirrels, opossums, racoons, deer, and the

peace signs and tridents of birds; but some

tracks are unknown, hidden behind limited

knowledge and their owner’s secretive ways.

Occasionally I catch a glimpse of muted colored fur

as it disappears into the gnarled treeline, teasing me,

a fleeting flirtation, whetting my inquisitiveness.

It is only a narrow strip of woods behind our home,

but somehow the cagey visitor never seems to come

out the other side, but seems to vanish laterally until

darkening twilight summons another overnight stay

until lightening false dawn sounds a call of retreat.

I suppose I could contrive ways to unveil this

silent visitor and quench my curiosity, but such

satisfaction would cost me elusive enjoyment of

knowing the woods beyond contain an unknown.

I’ll venture into my own dark woods someday

in pursuit of the unrevealed, but like my friend,

not to pop out the other side, nor return, but

to travel obliquely after an obscure truth.

Where the Shadows Go

Leafless tree shadows cavort behind curtains,

drawn in defense of a harsh setting sun, and

dapper bird silhouettes dart to and from feeders,

ignoring collisions with naked black saplings,

so only in winter do the tree shadows dance.

With the greening of horizons in spring, with

the veil drawn back exposing the wonders of oz,

comatose trees leaf out and a settling sun makes

pinpricks of light stabbing through foliage and

shadows all hide in the dark of emerald city.

Rick Hartwell is a retired middle school teacher (remember the hormonally-challenged?) who just moved to northern Illinois from southern California (?) with his wife of fifty years, Sally Ann (upon whom he is emotionally, physically, and spiritually dependent), one grown daughter, and ten cats! Like Blake, Emerson, Thoreau, and Merton, he believes that the instant contains eternity.