Nancy Scott-McBride

Forty Three Years Together

When we met,
my love’s hands were
as small and soft as mine.
Across a kitchen table we
pressed them palm to palm

There’s a black smudgy print on
the kitchen door now,
made when he was fixing the lock.
A good housewife would wash it off,
but I don’t. I like to press my
still-small hand into his, huge now
from years in the carpentry trade.



The night unwinds you like a
knotted ball of wool.
I sit up, knitting you into
mittens and mufflers to warm me.

The day rolls you back into
the same tangled skein and
un-ravels all my handiwork.

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Bobbi Sinha-Morey Debuts

Off The Grid

The postal worker we once
knew sold her mobile home
to live in a cabin off the grid,
and now her perfect life was
just like this: a crowded firelit
kitchen, her face warmed by
a teacup’s steaming rim,
the world an utter comfort
and a balm, a quiet life with
her husband. Easy talk without
the TV on, windows etched
with soft rain. Raspberry pie
made from scratch, hazelnut
coffee in the morning hours
when she is all alone,
listening to Randy Travis on
the radio. In the den her
husband’s gleaming violin
sits cradled in its stand, and
in the shadows of her desk,
her laptop’s subdued pulsing
glow. She takes her daily walk
at four p.m. in the woods,
fresh mountain air all around
her, gathering and cleaning
mushrooms in her kitchen,
sensing a deep down symmetry
in every blessed thing.



The Scent Of Easter Lilies

Far back in her eyes there
will come a light, the fragrance
of candles, especially when
she comes to call on someone’s
doorstep, mostly out of loneliness.
She wears the scent of Easter lilies
on rare days, hoping the few people
she sees will breathe it in, a little
heaven in themselves. At the heart
of it she spins her wheels when
she’s at home, and she’s socially
inept when it comes to answering
the phone. Not that many people
come to see her, and she orders
her groceries from home. Tapioca
is the one delight she can afford;
she savors every spoonful before
bed, a globe of goodness in her
heart before she sleeps. One day
when cool rainwater doesn’t
wake her, tapping on the roof
of her brick house, she isn’t
discovered till three days later
and her dust is in an urn on
the shelf of the undertaker’s
house, never to be scattered,
never to be given away,
never given a prayer to reach
the open door of heaven.



For Rene

In the whole world, it is
a gift that wasn’t given to
everyone, and she’d found
it on her own: a gingerbread
like house surrounded by
a white picket fence tucked
away in a cul-de-sac on
Aspen Lane, and, in front
of it, a garden a Wiccan
would adore with a water
fountain, an old-fashioned
wishing well, a Japanese
stone lantern by the door.
A two-bedroom home just
the right size for her and
behind it a path that led to
where blackberries grow
and a small patio for visitors
who drink tea and like scones.
She moved in, a lady all alone,
her legs so skinny they remind
her of stringbeans, and she
wore high heels, even when
snow as on the ground.
Now wind murmured all
around her, and every morning
she’d let her circle open to let
love in, the sun waking her up
in her duvet, making her feel
she’s breathing in the glow
of heaven.


Bobbi Sinha-Morey lives in the peaceful city of
Brookings, Oregon. There she writes poetry in the morning and at night, always
at her leisure. Her work has appeared in a variety of places such as Plainsongs,
The Path, Taproot Literary Review, Pirene’s Fountain, Page & Spine, and Black
Fox Literary Magazine. Her books of poetry Crest Of Light, White Tail, and
others are available at In addition, her website is
located at, and her work has been
nominated for Best of the Net.



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John Garbanzo Debuts

John Garbanzo was born in San Francisco in 1968. He has worked as a fisherman, a bartender and a short-order cook along the way to writing the poems collected in When I Scream I Scream Of You. His mentor and friend was the Spanish-American poet and film-maker Jacques Corrida (the subject of this poem).


 Eating Jack Corrida

No not you, not you in fact Jacques, no
I mean your typewriter the Royal portable
you showed me when we were drunk on red wine
and grass together in your house in Venice Beach I
want to push it stuff it eat it choke on it
chew it crack it wash it down with Cal Tech crude I
yes that’s right Jacques (Call me Jack. Sure, Jack,
whatever you say) until the keys become
my teeth the cylinder my tongue the spools
my cheeks the black & red ribbon my Chinese
People’s Republic lips so I can write the poems you write
(that’s write, Jack) tender crazy surrealist magical odes
to us poor forlorn dreamers on Interstate Zero.
How was it you said? “We are all of us broken elevators
trapped between each other’s floors.” Oh you guys
had some good lines even back then I want to
eat your typewriter, eat you, tattoo Royal on my
forehead, spit out words like seeds.

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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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