Pawel Markiewicz



the May has come

with it the green

and the birds

and I am sitting

in the midst of charming meadows

listening to sounds

as well as a nice twittering


I think –

about different May flowers

and about the sun

and about the rain

and abour the smile

and about the sadness

about yearning

about myself

and I write

just write poetries


those which smell

and that shine

raging streams

the words of the springtide



how can one understand you?

how can one recognize your thought? –

banned in the

yellow butterfly

in the green frog

in the red flower

in the middle – in You

oh my may


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Harris Tobias (A short story)


     Once there was a man who had no joy. One day he said to himself, “I have no joy.” So he set out on a journey to find some. He traveled for a day and a night before he came to a small village. He stopped the first person he saw. It was an old woman. The man asked her, “where can I find joy?”

     The old woman shook her head and sighed, “I have been looking for joy ever since I was a young girl but have never found any.”

     The man continued on his way until he came upon an inn. He asked the innkeeper where he might find joy. “She’s upstairs,” said the innkeeper, “It will cost you a silver coin to see her.” So the man dug into his purse and gave the innkeeper a silver coin and the innkeeper showed him up the stairs to a door and left. The man knocked gently on the door. “Come in,” said a voice. The man was about to turn the door knob and enter when he thought, “what if I find joy and am disappointed?” And so he hesitated and then he thought, “what if joy doesn’t care for me?”

     So he left the door unopened and went back downstairs. “Well,” said the innkeeper, “did you find joy?” The man had to confess that he didn’t and asked the innkeeper for his coin back. The innkeeper shook his head and pointed to a sign behind the bar. The sign said, “No refunds. Life is your responsibility.” The man had to agree that was so. He turned and continued on his way.

Some stories

My books 

My Blog

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Harris Tobias

Crave the Star

There are those who say

that man is god with smaller hands

our cities but inept mountain ranges

and our dreams the shoddy sweepings from god’s floor

I am one of those

I crave the stars and the spaces between

I have never seen a plastic flower I liked

Sunset and television set are in no way the same 


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Mitchell Grabois


By Mitchell Grabois

Valencia puts on 

her little black dress

She takes on its mythic power

as soon as she dons it

transforms from a pharmacy tech

to a Carlos Santana riff

on a hot night

Her little nothing

brings out her sublime sexiness

It’s not harsh black

or dead black

It is electrifying black

and I am transported

back in time to the back seat

of a Chevy low rider

where we ingested horse tranquilizers

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Christine Tabaka

Words Spill Out 


Torn open,

words spill from the wound,

leaping off the paper,

cascading to the floor.

Chasing them,

they tumble out the door.

Reaching out, they elude my grasp.

Following I become lost.


An empty ache torments my mind,

wondering where they vanished to.

Capturing one,

then another,

but there is no cohesion.

Phrases running amok in my head,

drift slowly to my pen.


But alas, there is no tale to tell,

only words stacked up one

against the other.

They will not align themselves

to paint the image that I hold within.

No panacea for my plight.

Another day,

another week,

and words spill out again.

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Laura Zucca-Scott



Invisible whispers in the stadium

The rhythm of footsteps on the track

A bitter winter day

When the cold freezes your thoughts

But not your heart


Another step, don’t stop

Tomorrow will be a better day

We will celebrate our victories together

We will find other challenges

Tomorrow, we will cross a new finish line

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Harris Tobias

Harris Tobias  returns with a flash


     When the angel of death knocked on Mrs Kaminsky’s door, her reaction was not at all what he was expecting. “Come in, sit down. Can I get you something to eat?”

     “No,” said the specter.

     “Are you sure? You’re looking gaunt.” She ushered the visitor to a chair saying, “You’re in luck. I just baked a babka. It’s still warm. People say I make a really good babka. What’s your hurry, it’s not like you’re going anywhere.” 

     “Well, okay,” said the angel pulling his seat closer to the round oak table. The table with the oil cloth cover. The very table where Ida Kaminsky had served thousands of meals to her children, her husband. Meals all served with such love and devotion it almost made the angel feel ashamed.

     Death propped his scythe against the wall and waited as Ida cut a generous slice of the fresh pastry. And it was by far the best babka the angel had ever tasted. One slice led to another until the angel groaned with contentment.

     “If you like, I can wrap up a piece for later,” Ida Kaminsky said.

     “Sure,” said Death, “Later.” And he took the piece of cake wrapped in aluminum foil from the old woman’s hand and left.

Some stories

Some stories

My books 



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