Dr. Ralph Monday


Rounding the curve, halted by the SUV’s

emergency blinkers winking like some

Dis tower, I fell obediently in line as a

first grader in the cafeteria.

Head on collision, the officer said,

before directing me to the detour

ahead. Passing the crumpled car,

front shoved in like a monkey playing

accordion, I noticed the blanket covered

form loaded like a cord of wood

into an ambulance.

This one on a final detour from Sunday

morning church. But aren’t we all on

deviations, diversions?

Through the rain, the mist, the mountain

road, around one bend & an Amish

horse & buggy clattered on asphalt.

What detours awaited that black capsule?

Who could know. Detours.

Bypasses in time like a train switching


If I had detoured from the first love,

where would the train have taken me?

Not that moment, so not this minute.

Daughters instead of sons.

Dogs instead of cats.


What about your sidetrack?

you would have married

another & never went with

your wife to find her brother

three weeks dead sprawled in the

doorway halfway between the

bathroom & bedroom. You never

forgot the smell.

Or your sister who lost her rosary &

became a whore not a nun &

never met the suicide she would

have saved.


Like the Amish above who swerved

away from the 21st century, zigged instead

of zagged, found themselves in a 19th

century wormhole so that I would spy

them on this Sunday detour on a road with

many curves.

Ralph Monday is Professor of English at Roane State Community College in Harriman, TN., and has published hundreds of poems in over 100 journals. A chapbook, All American Girl and Other Poems, was published in July 2014. A book Empty Houses and American Renditions was published May 2015 by Aldrich Press. A Kindle chapbook Narcissus the Sorcerer was published June 2015 by Odin Hill Press. An e-book, Bergman’s Island & Other Poems was published by Poetry Repairs in March of 2017, and a humanities text was published by Kendall/Hunt in 2018.


Posted in Uncategorized | Leave a comment

Bobbie Troy

We Know Nothing

By Bobbie Troy

we are weak creatures

we are naïve

we think we know something

and sometimes everything

when we know nothing

the only way

to know something

is to get up in the morning

and acknowledge:

“I know nothing.

Let me begin learning today.”


In the End

By Bobbie Troy

in the end

we all want

the same thing

for someone to miss us

when we are gone

nothing more

nothing less

Posted in Uncategorized | Leave a comment


Our Waves

Write about our waves

How they crash and caress

Rocks, salt and red sand

Music and rhythm in your heart


Write about our waves

Winter days and windy waters

You almost fell asleep

Your skin cold and glowing


Write about our waves

As they chase each other

Children of a kinder world

We almost forgot


Write about our waves

Angry in stormy days

So white to blind you

And catch your breath away

Posted in Uncategorized | Leave a comment

Gwen Monohan

Finders Keepers

We climbed the steep granite trail

behind a ghost-train of others.

Lines of hikers from past years

or many decades gone before.

Receding far enough in time

to still feel rhythmic Native drums

and the drag of thin moccasins

by the same outcrops of stone.

Where our mountains were

weathered old even then.

Worn where we’ve rested

to view this break-of-day.

Finding tiny, shiny, mica flakes

glittering in mammoth rocks.

Left for all who wish to linger here

or even hurry past, find new paths.

Visual gifts to presently enjoy

or keep and savor later.


Posted in Uncategorized | Leave a comment

Pawel Markiewicz

A tribute to Anna Akhmatova   

By Pawel Markiewicz

We have given a mathematical sum; components are flowers or blossoms, namely: a lady’s slipper’ orchid as well as a bleeding-heart. The flowers of the the lady’s slipper’ orchid are in relation to St. Maria (also in the German name). However: blossoms of the bleeding-heart have the greek naming.

In each lady’s slipper’ orchid a primeval particle of being of Anna Akhmatova (as an Anti-Stalin) lives, whilst in bleeding-hearts my particle of being (of the poet Paweł Markiewicz who has been written in German as Anti-Hitler). These particles are unearthly beautiful, like a wonderful muse of the morning sun in the sky or an aurora at shooting stars. That are spiritualized such an ancient soul, but they are not molecules senso stricto, although they are of different colors. The Anna´s particle is yellow, like the lady’s slipper’ orchid, and Pawel´s particle is purple (or red).

Dye of molecules of both flowers would combine to form a two-color philosophical-poetic star. On earth under the star four beings are marching hand on hand Pawel with his blue soul and Anna with her yellow soul as spirit. Pawel is a human, because he lives. Pawel´s soul is blue, because his poetry ist a beautifying world of heaven. A few places behind them, Hitler and Stalin are walking shoulder to shoulder as black ghosts with gray hazy souls. The star for Paweł and Anna shines in a light and yellow colors and wants to shows them the place – the fairy cave with a Dionysite ambrosia. The same star – but red – blinds and burns Hitler and Stalin.

Hitler wants a treasure of nibelunges, and Stalin wants to have the treasure of the King Solomon. However, they will never win these treasures. 

Anna Akhmatova and Paweł Markiewicz will drink ambrosia before the rain of dreamy Erl-kings …And on the petals of flowers are the titles of the most beautiful poems written in tiny font by a ladybug on the orchid (poems of Anna) and by a firefly on the bleeding-heart (poems by Paweł).

The small poem

Anna, You were a flower

with your heart you looked

at the stars

at trees in the garden

you bathed in the dew

you have cuddled your

head so beautifully

like luck

Lady Gorienko, You were the


you liked everyone

You did not know suffering or regret

you died in the dark

trampled crushed destroyed

like the earth and a man

Posted in Uncategorized | Leave a comment

Bobbi Sinha-Morey

Trail To Your Heart

I thought I’d send an inspiring

message to you tonight so

when you wake up the next

day you’d see it on your

Facebook page in the morning,

and I’ll send you another one

this Tuesday knowing the grief

that must be in your heart.

I wish I were a fairy godmother

and could restore your home

that was lost in the fire.

I remember your cute home

so well–the pool where we

used to swim, your doll

collection, the love you and

your family put into every

inch of your home with your

own hands; a beautiful place

I loved to visit, one that will

stay with me forever and a day.

I hope you find the light in

heaven, let it lead you forward

from today. I’ll give you my

love, send you prayerful words.

Just think, I could beat a trail

to your heart at the touch of

my fingers on Facebook.



Bobbi Sinha-Morey’s poetry has appeared in a wide variety of places such

as Plainsongs, The Tau, Pirene’s Fountain, The Wayfarer, Helix

Magazine, Miller’s Pond, Fine Lines, and Old Red Kimono. Her

books of poetry are available at www.Amazon.com and her work

has been nominated for Best of the Net and the Best of the Net

2018 Anthology Awards hosted by Sundress Publications.


Posted in Uncategorized | Leave a comment

Harris Tobias

A Cold Beer In Hell

by Harris Tobias

There’s a story they tell in Killkenny

A story I think you should hear

It involves a young fellow named Murphy

A wager, the devil, and beer

One day down at Paddy’s a stranger came in

Old Murphy was already there

Murph said hello to the stranger

And offered to buy him a beer

You know who I am asked the stranger

I’m the devil and I’ve come here for you

Drink up because where you’re going

There ain’t gonna be any brew

Now if there’s one thing we know about Murphy,

Was that the man lived to only drink beer

And he’d taken the devil’s full measure

And knew he had nothing to fear

Old Murphy turned to the devil

He said I bet I could drink more than you

The devil said son, you’ve picked the wrong man

I’m the fella what invented the brew

But Murphy just laughed and ordered a draft

And agreed that probably was so

I suppose when I’m dead old Murphy said

There’s no drinking where I’m gonna go

That’s true said the devil there isn’t no beer

Not where you’re gonna go

We ain’t got no pubs just demons and grubs

It’s all fire and pain down below

No one had ever seen Murphy 

Without a mug in his fist

If there was only one thing that he lived for

Drinking was top of the list

Tell you what said Murph to the devil

As he hoisted a beer to his lips

Let us keep score and whoever drinks more

Has to grant the winner one wish

It’s a deal said the devil and held out his claw

Pour a pint for me and my mate

Paddy pulled on the lever

Then chalked a one on his slate

Now Murphy was known in the village

As a man who enjoyed drinking beer

And if some body else was buyin’ 

You can bet that old Murphy was there

A few hours later the tavern was packed

Every man woman and child in town

Murph and the devil were tied neck and neck

Each man was tossing them down

By evening it looked like Murphy was whipped

Paddy had chalked forty five

Murphy’s hand shook as he picked up his glass

No one thought that Murph would survive

When the folk began cheering and calling his name

Old Murphy seemed to revive

He tossed down the next two pints in a row

Now the devil had fear in his eyes

The devil hung on for couple a more rounds

Then he starting to wobble and sway

Then he slipped from his stool and looked like a fool

Old Murphy had carried the day

Great jubilation, people danced in the street

Old Murphy had done them all proud

The devil was faced with discrace and defeat

Everyone cheered long and loud

Well, said the devil, you won fair and square

And I guess I owe you a wish

So what’ll it be money or fame

That’s usually top of the list

Old Murphy just laughed and shook his grey head

And said this’ll probably sound queer

But the one thing I wish for the one thing I want

Is for hell to begin serving beer

So listen to me all you sinners

In a world filled with liars and cranks

In hell when they hand you a cold one

It’s Murph who deserves all the thanks


Some stories

My books 

My BlogHarris

Posted in Uncategorized