Walking together along the Path, Sometimes, you walked ahead. Sometimes, I lingered. Sometimes we missed each other By seconds... Oftentimes, we have met Looked into each other's eyes. For a moment we connected Across centuries, across millennia Then our minds overtook all else... Travelling the Sands of Time, Souls searching for completion, My heart prays For that one spark That lasts across lifetimes...
Shivani Shrivastav is a a UK CGI Chartered Secretary and a Governance Professional/CS. She loves meditation, photography, writing, French and creating.
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The parried birds escape the sky and the splintering sun illumines the stained-glass windows of the church, breathing richness into all: busied heart, tasked hands, a man of unknown guides, come to things with eyes of marvelous child's zeal, for those colours that haunt as ghosts once did, brilliant blues and chasing yellows.
Ryan Quinn Flanagan is a Canadian-born author residing in Elliot Lake, Ontario, Canada with his wife and many bears that rifle through his garbage. His work can be found both in print and online in such places as: Evergreen Review, The New York Quarterly, Borderless Journal, GloMag, Red Fez, and Lothlorien Poetry Journal.
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There was a young ghost from the moon who said, “Too late is too soon!” On a spectral mandolin because he can’t sing he strums a phantasmic tune.
The skeleton sat down to dinner forgetting he had been a sinner in his former life when he berated his wife for not being fitter and slimmer.
The headless phantom was right to complain about electric light. Because of the glare on the highest stair his scares lack sufficient fright.
The werewolf was rarely hairy and this meant he wasn’t scary enough for the toughs in collars and cuffs he met on the moonlit prairie.
There was a zombie technician who lurched on one final mission to invent a reactor to power a tractor that relied on fusion, not fission.
The vampire was feeling quite batty because his cloak had grown tatty. So he remained at home at ease on his own wheezing the Gymnopédies of Satie.
A demon who newly adored tiramisu composed an ardent billet-doux to the pudding in question without any digression on his previous love for Vindaloo.
From Public Domain
Rhys Hughes has lived in many countries. He graduated as an engineer but currently works as a tutor of mathematics. Since his first book was published in 1995 he has had fifty other books published and his work has been translated into ten languages.
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Sujay Bose happened to read my poems somewhere online.
He asked, “Why do you often write about death? Why don’t you write about wandering among the clouds And things like that -- beautiful things?”
I was least offended. I replied, “Only upon death can I wander among clouds\ … Beautiful clouds, if you prefer. In death you can choose the clouds. They’d be so near.”
In a week’s time, I heard of Sujay Bose’s demise. I searched for Sujay sitting in my terrace With hot tea in hand, served in steel tumbler. The spongy white clouds look beautiful Moving in the train of time.
Saranyan BV is poet and short-story writer, now based out of Bangalore. He came into the realm of literature by mistake, but he loves being there. His works have been published in many Indian and Asian journals. He loves the works of Raymond Carver.
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It’s morning -- again. I couldn’t be happier. The birds are harvesting moths. Moths gathered around the night light Young birds are learning. Next, they will visit the feeder. It’s morning -- again. I couldn’t be happier. Black coffee starts every day. The steam, the aroma, the flavour. Familiar, but different every morning. This day is my day! It's morning -- again. I couldn’t be happier. How will I use it? What will I make of this day? What will make this day different, memorable? Words flow; warm sensations surround me. It’s the day I must make. It’s morning again, And I couldn’t be happier! How many more days do I have? Not many – even if I live to be a hundred. Not many, so use them well! I sense my surroundings. I taste my world. Touch the cloth, feel the surface. Enjoy, explore, engage. I control my day. It’s Morning again. And I could not be happier!
Ron Pickett is a retired naval aviator. His 90-plus articles have appeared in various publications. He has published five books: Perfect Crimes – I Got Away With It, Discovering Roots, Getting Published, 60 Odd Short Stories, and Empaths. Ron has had his poems published in Scarlet Leaf, Borderless Journal, and other periodicals.
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The coppery husk of a cicada clings to the neighbour’s concrete, pertinacious in its position, carapace, crust open to the air, denizen departed old long since
in summer’s singing night after seventeen years for this former flier, now a clawing remain that will in weeks, months crackle like a tasty treat needing only salt pinch,
at last falling under some casual foot encased whose owner will not distinguish exoskeleton from spent leaf—just another crunch punctuating the surface prone to popping
in the naked weather under seasoned time
SIEVE
I was carrying sand in plastic bags that weighed down the cousin plastic crate in which they, jumbled, sat—
for seconds after I lifted the frame
then splinter! crash!
the assemblage lay in shards and grains upon the sidewalk and adjacent grassy ground
except some bags in my suddenly relieved arms, which bled white quartz, slipping, slipping—
I was out of time with no hourglass’s pinched channel between now and the safe back then
below me the resting place not my choosing, the order now a sprawling mess
due to my underestimation of the desert’s weight in my charge—
or hubris at the thought of carrying what the wind will carry away to invisible
(How heavy could it be?)
unequal to the strength of my arms and back accustomed to gravity’s pull upon much more dense concerns
John Zedolik has published five collections of poetry: Lovers’ Progress, 2025; The Ramifications, 2024; Mother Mourning, 2023; When the Spirit Moves Me, 2021; and Salient Points and Sharp Angles, 2019.
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The kids in the seat behind me are already pushing and shoving each other. They’ll be bored out of their tiny skulls before the bus even gets to Worcester. We take Grand Street out of town, and pass an estate sale at one of the mansions that once housed prosperous mill-owners.
The sloping front lawn is like a giant green shelf piled with boxes and evening clothes, antique chairs and tables and, as a genuine gift to poets, an escritoire and an armoire. I didn’t need to see this to know it was time to leave this dying town. But the buyers sure do look like vultures as they pick among books and jewelry. My guess is they’re not from around here.
The kids, done fighting, are now whining to their parents, “We got nothing to do.” So take a bus out of here, I want to tell them. But wait – they’re already doing that.
NARRAGANSETT BEACH IN AUGUST
This is a town of seaside pleasure from barefoot steps on sand to flights of terns and shearwaters.
The beach is fragmented by waves coming and going, skittery sandpipers, darting sanderlings, but there’s enough wet and dry for all.
Here the world is bird-nesting cliff-face dunes that rise soft as clouds and rocks offshore that bear the brunt of brief battering.
Fun is democratic: old man and woman in chairs shaded by umbrella, young women on towels tanning gently, children splashing in shallows, older siblings bobbing in the deep.
The sky towers overall. The sun smells of salt. And, every now and then, somebody laughs for no reason.
Little used on the day, the mind doesn’t mind at all.
From Public Domain
John Grey is an Australian poet, US resident, recently published in New World Writing, River And South and The Alembic. His latest books, Bittersweet, Subject Matters and Between Two Fires are available through Amazon. He has upcoming work in Paterson Literary Review, White Wall Review and Flights.
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Wear your mother’s black velvet stole like an unruined autumn day sung of in poems — make them real. Wear your mother’s black velvet stole— It’s your turn, your spell to extoll to ward away work’s drudgery wear your mother’s black velvet stole like an unruined autumn day.
Jenny Middleton is a working mum and writes whenever she can amid the fun and chaos of family life. Her poetry is published in several printed anthologies, magazines and online poetry sites. Jenny lives in London with her husband, two children and two very lovely, crazy cats. You can read more of her poems at her website https://www.jmiddletonpoems.com.
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Nothing works in my small flat - it's a catastrophic habitat,
the key to the flat won't turn in the door, the sign says three but it's really number four,
the letterbox opening's a millimetre wide - the doorbell rings but only outside,
security was fitted with the burglar proof - so the thieves broke in through the leaking roof,
a fire broke out and the smoke alarm failed, the wall fell down when I pulled the curtain rail,
the power cuts are frequent so I'm often in the dark, the cat can't meow and the dog can't bark,
the stereo is broken and the bathroom mirror cracked, no signal on the wi-fi -- the extractor wont extract,
the microwave blew -- there's a hole in the bin, the ceiling fell through and the goldfish can't swim,
the fridge won't close and the cupboards don't fit -- like my wrong-sized clothes and the washing line split,
the rocking chair snapped and I landed on my head, I bounced into the bedroom and I broke the waterbed,
the toaster burns the bread when the settings on low -- the cork's stuck in the bottle and the plants won't grow,
the vacuum cleaner won't suck -- the light bulbs have popped, the superglue has never stuck and all the clocks have stopped,
they undercut the window panes -- they all have two inch gaps, the gas pipe burst -- I must be cursed -- the building just collapsed.
THEY'LL NEVER KNOW THE WAY WE FEEL
They'll never know the way we feel.
they'll know our names and what we earn -- our capital gains -- our tax return, and what we're worth -- our height and weight, our place of birth -- the time and date, our number flat -- our fixed abode, our habitat -- our postal code, our social links -- our network friends, the way we think -- how much we spend, our DNA -- the streets we go, our resume -- the bills we owe, our hidden scars -- our blood relation, where we are -- our information, star sign -- if our passport's real -- but they'll never know the way we feel.
From Public Domain
StephenPhilip Druce is based in Shrewsbury UK. He is published in the USA, India, the UK and Canada. He’s written for theatre plays in London and BBC 4 Extra.
Contact: Instagram – @StephenPhilipDruce
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Borderless 