Donal Mahoney Returns

Donal Mahoney lives in St. Louis, Missouri. His work has been nominated for Best of the Net and Pushcart Prize and has appeared in various publications, including The Wisconsin Review, The Kansas Quarterly, The South Carolina Review and in online journals in the United States and overseas.  Some of his online work can be found at


Wife After Showering

Niagara Falls
her silver hair

so long it
bounces off

the swan of her back

and off
her buttocks

as she laughs
and waves

a towel too long
saluting the sun

and us
who share

golden morning


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John Grey

John Grey is an Australian poet, US resident. Recently published in New Plains Review, South Carolina Review, Stillwater Review and Big Muddy Review with work upcoming in Louisiana Review, Cape Rock and Spoon River Poetry Review.


So I was told,
my duty…
stand here
with gun
pointed so…
if anyone approaches,
ask them to identify
if they refuse,
shoot them…
it was a simple approach,
easily understood,
impeccably carried out…
and yet,
here I am,
back in civilian clothes
with stuff to guard
but weaponless,
without clear orders,
and there’s a string
of potential intruders,
on the roads,
the sidewalks, at work,
in the bars, the stores,
aren’t these strangers aware
that if this was war
they’d all be dead…
even the people I know
can’t say who they are
and why they know me
when I put them on the spot.
I live among all kinds.
There’s no good answer to
who goes there?



My sister calls
reminding me that
today is the tenth anniversary

of our mother’s death —
I sit with her words
in my head

like discharged shotgun shells –
I feel the need for an old photograph
or a letter I’ve kept –

nothing revealing
unless handwriting itself
is a revelation
in these days of the internet,
email and social media –

ten years without —
just the sort of thing
time would say
as it counts its millions
and parcels out so little –

I’ve found the photograph –
it’s gray and fading
and the letter,
make that a postcard,
from the days,
late in her life,
when she treated herself
to more of the world
than just the one with us in it –

my sister calls
to remind me that we were young once
and where we are now
was as far ahead of us
as the possibility of her dying –

minus ten years of course –
minus a face and a hand
and a pen.



The world sees you coming.
It needs a fall guy
who crumples to the pavement
when all others walk briskly by.
It’s got more than enough men
in brown suits clutching briefcases,
swinging their umbrellas like pendulums
steering like clock-work
into front doors of skyscrapers
at 8.30 a.m, Monday through Friday.
But the world doesn’t run like
a well-oiled machine
otherwise it wouldn’t be the world.
Someone should clutch at their chest,
go pale in the skin,a
crumple at the knees,
totter, topple,
then smack face down into concrete.
And the world needs these others guys
stepping over or around you,
muttering “drunk” as they rush to the job.
The world rotates on an axis of indifference.
And without you,
it’ d have to stop and give a damn.Bio is as follows:

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Gareth Culshaw Debuts

Gareth lives in Wales. He hopes one day to achieve something special with the pen.



I was the seagull following
the trawler. The smell of life
Hooked my senses.

I took a journey for years.
Hoping to catch up,
become a part of the sentence.

But when I did I realised
The boat was full of rotting
Dead fish that said nothing.

Words that had been spoken
now lay dying. I had
missed the conversations.

I was always too late.
Following a story that I thought
I should be involved in.

But he was always pulling away
The boat. Keeping it to himself.
So I travelled the seas alone.



The night has taken away
The colour of the trees.
And the moon sits
Like a distant memory of the sun.

The mountains have lost
Their height. A coldness awakes.
My feet are tired but refreshed,
They are alive and unknowingly

Taken out of the coma
Of walking tarmac and carpet.
Stars candle flicker as a
Field of butterflies.

I should be alone but am
More aware of myself
Than ever. In this black

Ocean of passing time



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Lynn White Debuts

The Keys of the Kingdom

The kingdom had so many keys,
keys to its doors,
keys to its gold,
keys to its time,
keys to its secrets.
Nothing moved without a key.
Everything was controlled.
Nothing was free.
Then came the Great War of the Keys
and the kingdom collapsed.
Its doors stayed open,
its secrets exposed.
Its gold melted away.
Its locks grew rusty.
Time stood still.
All it had valued
rotted away,
into a heap
of useless keys.

First published in With Painted Words, February 2016


Turning to Ice

Snowflakes lit by sunbeams
blowing gently,
fragile as shadows
making rainbows in the sun.
Smiling in the soft light.
So soft.
So soft.
Catch them quickly in your hair
to melt them.
Time has past and
they’re already harder now,
even though the sun
is still shining and smiling.
Blindingly bright.
Crunchy crystals.
glistening still.
Shining like diamonds,
but harsh
in the sunlight
while it lasts
Cooler now as
the light starts fading.
The surface is melting.
Shiny where the sun
still catches,
but fading,
giving way to ice.
Losing it’s smile.
And we’re skidding, sliding
beyond control.
slipping away,
blinded by tears of ice.

First published in Metaphor Issue 4 2015


Lynn White lives in north Wales. Her work is influenced by issues of social justice and events, places and people she has known or imagined. She is especially interested in exploring the boundaries of dream, fantasy and reality. Her poem ‘A Rose For Gaza’ was shortlisted for the Theatre Cloud ‘War Poetry for Today’ competition 2014. This and many other poems, have been published in recent anthologies including – Stacey Savage’s ‘We Are Poetry, an Anthology of Love poems’; Community Arts Ink’s ‘Reclaiming Our Voices’; Vagabond Press’s, ‘The Border Crossed Us’; ‘Degenerates – Voices For Peace’, ‘Civilised Beasts’ and ‘Vagabonds: Anthology of the Mad Ones’ from Weasel Press; ‘Alice In Wonderland’ by Silver Birch Press, and many rather excellent  on line and print journals.

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Frank Adams


I fail at relationships.  It’s what I do, have always done.
I lack an explanation.  I have good intentions; I respond
promptly to telephone calls, e-mails and text messages.
I show-up for meetings on time, dressed appropriately,
and I pay my share.  I do not argue or make a fuss.
I mail out thank you notes, send condolences, follow
the rules of etiquette.  But, truth is, I am not good at
being with people, never have been.  I am now and have
forever been an outsider, an alien.  I believe I may be
from another planet.  Sent here as an observer, or as
an exile for reasons I can’t recall.  Either would be fine,
if only those who sent me, would check in once and a
while to let me know I am where I am supposed to be
and doing okay.


There Was No One There

I feel their hands on me.

they touch private places.
They hold me down
molest me and more.
Tears stream down my face.
My body burns red hot.
I want them to stop
and I want them to continue.

they say; don’t tell,
don’t say a word,
this is your fault,
you wanted this,
and I remained mute
at their command.

Frank Adams is a Lambda Literary Foundation Fellow in Poetry.  His poems have appeared in various on-line and print venues including: Down-go Sun; Iris; Glitterwolf; Chelsea Station; Q Review; Vox Poetica and in Between: New Gay Poetry.

Frank Adams

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Michael Ceraolo Returns with Haiku


Cleveland Haiku #413

Upward mobility—
have moved to the suburbs


Cleveland Haiku #415

A church—
lighted at night
with a neon cross


Cleveland Haiku #417

Morning dew—
automatic sprinklers
in the rain


Cleveland Haiku #420

Man on a park bench—
a dead ringer
for the Cowardly Lion

Michael Ceraolo is a 59-year-old retired firefighter/paramedic and active poet with a long list of credits he won’t bore you with at this time, though he makes no guarantees about not doing so in the future.

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Sunil Sharma Debuts

The city of dead lilacs
—Sunil Sharma

The lilacs are dead. They never get a chance here!
Every nook and corner, in Rochester, NY,
you find them in bloom, flooding the area
with the invigorating scent that uplifts.
But here, in this grey mega city
in the broad streets and narrow houses
the lilacs pink and white grow stunted
in the dainty corners—and then die fast
emitting a putrid air that puts the viewer off.
The global travelers find this fact— odd!
In this city of malls multiplexes international cuisines
fancy cars casinos call-girls packaged goods and exotic flowers
the lilacs in the yards, corners, the gardens or
graveyards—bloom not, ‘Coz, in the spring every year
frosty winds come unbidden from mountains far-off
turning the windows and hearts into a frozen state
and kill the tender lilacs that remain un-mourned
like the poor kids found dead in winter on the rough streets.


Mumbai-based, Sunil Sharma writes prose and poetry, apart from doing literary journalism and freelancing. A senior academic, he has been published in some of the leading international journals and anthologies. Sunil has got three collections of poetry, one collection of short fiction, one novel and co-edited five books of poetry, short fiction and literary criticism.
Recipient of the UK-based Destiny Poets’ inaugural Poet of the Year award—2012.
Another notable achievement is his select poems were published in the prestigious UN project: Happiness: The Delight-Tree-2015. He edits monthly Setu, a bilingual journal published from Pittsburgh, USA.

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