Bobbie Troy

I Do Not Mind

I do not mind
that you have forgotten
my name
I do not mind
your sleepiness and silence
I do not mind
that you cannot dance
as we used to
all those years ago
I do not mind
any of this
because you are still
here with me


Flowers Are for the Living

the church
and the graveside
were bedecked
with flower arrangements
that seemed
to vie with each other
for most important
the ones she liked best

when she
could no longer
appreciate them

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Richard King Perkins II Debuts

Twenty Thousand Skies

Twenty thousand skies
could have gone unnoticed

but from the warm shallows
an unintentional awakening—

air thickens with goodness
the land aches with philanthropy

a vivarium arises from lifelessness

handing itself over again and again
downward though time

unto my callous fingertips
and I would have never noticed

the intention of every previous sky
but for the happenstance of you.


Skinned Savanna

If I were younger,
than there would be a younger man
coming to find you
across the skinned savanna
and when he found you
he would stake his spear
in the ground outside your hut
and importune you with great magics
and togetherly you would
build tiny canopies of imago
across plains of dust and straw;
if I were only a younger man—
but before me now, yellowing,
is the fresh core of an apple
I don’t remember eating.


Richard King Perkins II is a state-sponsored advocate for residents in long-term care facilities. He lives in Crystal Lake, IL, USA with his wife, Vickie and daughter, Sage. He is a three-time Pushcart nominee and a Best of the Net nominee whose work has appeared in more than a thousand publications.

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Joe Russo Debuts

Actors –

We were,
Reading lines from a script,
Old lines,
We all knew the words,
Form the mouth,
Everyone claps you on,
You were great,
As always,
But me, background, OFFSTAGE RIGHT
You, the shining star, CENTER STAGE,
Had me,
That a little of your light,
Could shine

Joe Russo has been published in Linguistic Erosion, Farther Stars than These, Leaves of Ink, Typehouse Magazine, Door is A Jar Magazine, Spillwords and is included in Centum Press’s anthology “100 VOICES AT CENTUM.” Joe is currently working on his first chapbook collection called, “Manhat” about the greatest city in the world – New York. You can find more of his work over at his website –

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Issa Ruci Debuts

The melody in lines

The spirit’s melody inside
Is the recreation of the human is his art
The discreteness of the endless sight
Merged in sensations.

The wine’s taste like woman’s scent
Till the madness of thought
(…drink is consumed after you tried
the nectar of life
in sweetness of ever – ending moments!)

Lucid is the deepness of red, like the girlish virginity
In that body of dreams
Knitted with the strange
In the soft lip of a lady bug
Who gets drunk by wine drops.

They say that the best poems are written
When the foolish poets betray their lines
For a glass of wine…

© Irsa Ruçi

No words

You created the words and you put silence over it
Eloquency turned in the music of the soul
Where only the noise of the sights…
And the longing
And the being’s absence
Which melted through lines in bohemia!

You are the silhouette of stars on earth
Made by cheating, like an antique clock
Remained somewhere in nostalgy
Without expecting the future with fireworks
And half – drunk;
…that simply
That time is composed by oblivion!

© Irsa Ruçi

Irsa Ruçi is an Albanian Writer, Speechwriter and Lecturer. She was born in Tirana (Albania), in 1990. Her books of poetry include Trokas mbi ajër (poems and essays), 2008 and Pështjellim (poetry), 2010. She has been published in anthologies: Antologji, 2007; I kërkoj agimit vesën, 2008; Antologji poetike “Kushtuar dashurisë”, 2014; Antologji poetike “Udha”,

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If you want to see
a frown on a man’s face
give him power.
Take it away.
His smile will return.



Makers pushing up daisies
are prized. Vexed by volume
some don’t like my logorrhea,
sourness of similes: convinced
I cultivate an icky odor  and audit.
I’m as valuable as barometer of
the bazaar. In retentiveness I
breathe. A few own, others have
erased me. For several I don’t exist.
No one inspects fount of feelings.
Calvary must be spelled artistically:
sans aesthetics it doesn’t exist.

SANJEEV SETHI is the author of three well-received books of poetry. His most recent collection is This Summer and That Summer (Bloomsbury, 2015). His poems are in venues around the world: The Tower Journal, Peacock Journal, Ghost City Review, The Greensilk Journal, The Bond Street Review, Red Fez, ThePenwood Review, Novelmasters, 3:AM Magazine, Morphrog 14, Bindwind Magazine,  Poetry Pacific, Transnational Literature, Postcolonial Text, Otoliths,and elsewhere. He lives in Mumbai, India.

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Nancy Scott-McBride


After leaving his own wife and
fooling around with someone else’s;
after getting arrested on a DUI and
spending the night in jail,
my baby came home to me again.

He got a job and went back to
church, AA, and school again,
lost weight and started doing sit-ups,
had his teeth cleaned and his eyes fixed.
In short, he turned his life around.

Once a week we ate lunch out and
got to know each other again.
I asked pardon for my sins as a parent
and he admitted he’d been a sorry son.

At the end of the year,
driver’s license in hand again,
he moved out and on to other things.
I cried, wrung my hands and missed him,
but was glad he was out of the house and
out of my hair and finally on his own.


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Fabrice Poussin Debuts

Fabrice Poussin teaches French and English at Shorter University, Rome, Georgia. Author of novels and poetry, his work has appeared in Kestrel, Symposium, The Chimes. His photography has been published in The Front Porch Review, the San Pedro River magazine and more than fifty of other publications.


Against the backdrop of oranges, and purples,
three silhouettes hug in the bond
of life from a time neither of them really knew;
their heads touch barely, their hearts are one.

On the edge they sit, to the vanishing point,
running to a brave future, souls united,
their dreams, little sisters, little ladies;
so warm, they glow with the passion of a sun.

In their tummies butterflies flutter in electric sparks,
pulling them closer through their complete beings;
heads resting on one another as one;
yet three, and inseparable in loud silence.

One teaches love, the others smile in a sigh,
from the one they once were so much the same,
attached by distance, they will always overcome;
the murmurs of their selves speak the word.

Love floats nearby, living shroud against the end;
a fortress of centuries, of rivers, clouds and rainbows;
little models in the image of their father, flowery;
their scent of a spring eternal, travels unconquered.

Will one shift her gaze? Will she move a curl
of ebony silk to better capture the subtle disturbance?
will she detect the other presence in the mist?
or will it be the end of the possible dream?

Three, only sparkles of a lonely sky, so safe,
trembling in unison under the newborn dew;
their song, their story, their poem, their life,
unperturbed though aware of another gate.

Under the armor of lace and rose petals,
and the protecting eye of an all seeing lord,
in a castle of imaginary towers, motes, secret passages,
they sit in the coming mist of fairy dust.

No mirror to reveal the features of their angelic faces,
they remain facing the immensity calling their names;
the morrows for which they stand at ready,
forward they will march hand in hand, confident.

For, now that dawn has not yet come to be,
they must savor one last long embrace;
private, intimate, which to call their own,
only their own, where no stranger is welcome.

Love little girls, hold on firm;
your lives are one, not to ever let go,
love little darlings, simply love.

Sadness and wisdom

The wise sit quiet atop dear Mount Everest;
alone, they traveled against cold and death,
open folio in their laps frozen in reading.

Space is white beneath, powdery and pale
above, thin, icy, solid as the mountain below.

Squatting like the scribes of eternal scripture,
they have no need of social comforts, true to all,
enveloped in the aura of inquiries all resolved.

In the deep of the ocean, their brothers ape,
certain that they too found the ideal locale.

Theirs is the whole of all things, unknown to the rest,
slow beats of a relentless life machine inside,
guilty as charged of willed and complete isolation.

Be there one, be there many, the wise need no sleep;
their luxury lies in a misunderstood ability to be lonesome.

They have the unfathomed power of all that is,
the giants of the forest, the dwarves of creation,
sad, for abandoned by armies of jealous others.

Power of the tear

She walked in the middle of my life
with a suitcase full of hers;

I barely noticed
when she moved my things around;

and a drip in the bathroom,
drop in the kitchen,
flood into our lives.

So she walked out in the middle of my night
with her suitcase and one of mine.


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