Artemis By Shannon O’Connor

When I was young, my family had

a 3-D image of the Apollo 11 landing

on top of the ledge of the doorway,

the first man on the moon.

I asked my father why the craft was named

Apollo,

not Artemis,

since she was the goddess of the moon,

and Apollo, the god of the sun.

He didn’t have a good answer,

I think he muttered the sun reflects

on the moon, and that’s where its

light comes from.

I didn’t buy it.

I believe the ship was named 

Apollo because he was a man,

and Artemis, a woman.

Even in space, men made the rules.

Fast forward to now.

Artemis 2 went around the moon.

Was she named 

Artemis

because all the little girls like me had

the same question? Because the ship that goes

to the moon should be named

after the goddess of the moon.

We are living in a time where human beings have gone where

no one has gone before, and it’s bewildering to think

the world still turns, we have the same

issues, not everyone has enough, 

people die senselessly every day,

are born every minute,

some have no purpose and want

to end their lives, wars rage and children

are murdered, 

but the Earth still floats

in space

It will continue until no more humans are here.

But we could go out there.

To see if we’re alone, to possibly

find a magnanimous culture to smack some

sense into the beings on this planet

to tell us we deserve the peace

universally sought,

to dream a dream

of the goddess of the moon,

going further and further,

than anyone else in the history

of this planet we call home.

Shannon O'Connor lives in the Boston area where she works and writes. She travels when she can, in order to find inspiration and worlds outside her sphere. She is the chairperson of the Boston Chapter of the National Writers Union. She can be found on her Substack, Ms. Hen's World.

No Right in This Passage By Ken Gierke

driven by a need for acceptance

fueled by a desire for an identity

too young to know the difference

too old to be excused for his folly

swept up in the urgency of the moment

grasping the one solid object in his possession

he enters the store, gun drawn

too young no more

too old, too soon

fueled by the power at his command

driven by the fear of discovery

taking the life held in his hand

gathering his meager bounty

he flees from the scene

once a warmth in his hand

now a burning in his mind

this cold realization

life taken from another

does not add to his own

a life of little prospect

stares him in the face

sixteen, sitting on a curb

beneath a streetlight

bottle unopened by his side

not worth the price

gun lying at his feet

head held in his hands

wrong turn in this rite of passage

Ken Gierke is retired and lives in Missouri. His poetry has been published or is forthcoming both in print and online in such places as The Rye Whiskey Review, Poetry Breakfast, Amethyst Review, Silver Birch Press, Rusty Truck, Trailer Park Quarterly, The Gasconade Review, and River Dog Zine. He is a Pushcart Prize nominee, and his poetry collections, Glass Awash in 2022, Heron Spirit in 2024, Random Riffs in 2025, and The Long Haul in 2026 have been published by Spartan Press. His website: https://rivrvlogr.com/

if you really must know by keith pearson

without asking i know

it is the solitude

i remember most.

after a good meal.

after a storm had passed.

after our argument

about the poetry

of wallace stevens.

after sex.

and how the solitude

born in the intensity

of the moment

ran down like some

antique clock wound tight

and put aside to slowly

tick the quiet moments down.

to when words became

necessary again whether

we wanted to speak them

or not or even needed to.

but they were just words

and meant nothing.

why else are they the thing

i cannot remember.

keith pearson was born and raised in new hampshire and works at a local high school in the math department.

 

Drink Together By Paul Moore

The sun dips low,

a syrupy amber.

We're down here,

swimming lazy laps

in the sweet liquor

of a shared dream.

The bottle curves,

our world a tight embrace.

You exhale bubbles of laughter,

I chase them with my eyes.

Each sip from the top

pulls us closer,

warmer,

we understand

that this tiny, bottled ocean

is big enough

for just us.

message.

Paul Moore is a North Carolina–based Black poet who channels family, ancestry, and memory into reflective verse, honoring resilience, lineage, and the shared journeys that shape identity and strength.

 

It's Never Magic By John Patrick Robbins

Only a craft I forged through sacrifice.

Sustained is the note until perfection, leaving little regard for the host,

whose hands bleed to remain largely unheard, as is the way of art.

Empty as love and twice as destructive.

Pain is a consequence of masked intentions.

A devilish smile is the wolf's allure.

Please ignore the scars if they do so bother you, my dear.

I sold it eagerly, only to come to the realization.

Empty truths and false promises are but the nature of the beast.

I have evolved with loss

and disregarded my humanity along the way.

May I make you bleed to view what it is to once again feel?

Do you desire something in return?

Please allow me to poison your dreams so we may cast nightmares together.

Please, my love, just welcome my chaos within.

For once you have embraced this damnation's splendor,

you will realize there is no turning back.

All demons once knew light,

as in your death or your acceptance.

I once knew you.

JPR, is a Southern Gothic writer.

His work has appeared in Lothlorien Poetry Journal, Cold Rambler, A Thin Slice Of Anxiety, Spill The Words Press, Fixator Press, Disturb The Universe, Horror Sleaze Trash and The Dope Fiend Daily.

His work is often dark and always unfiltered.

It’s All Kinda Blue By Renee Williams

Prussian blue, deep and dark, is desired

but if the image comes through

even a lighter blue makes my heart dance.

As I wash the cyanotype beneath the shower,

tiger stripes in my photo sneak through

in blue, blue, glorious blue! 

I dream in blue

get lost in blue

find myself in blue

blue days become blue nights

blue ocean waves wash away

the blues that will not leave me

blue skies illuminate horses

blue clouds brood above the dunes

blue on the beach is better

than the Blue Ridge Mountains.

My art moved to blue

reflected the blue inside me

the blues, the blues, the blues

the blame, the blame, the blame,

You’re becoming more Catholic

every day, my husband tells me. 

My father’s eyes were light blue, 

aqua blue, sparking blue, twinkling blue

but his eyes are shut now forever.

I still hear him, talk to him more now

that he’s dead than when he was alive.

This house, soon to be sided midnight blue,

like sea water, coastal waves.

The ocean calls to me, wants me home,

and I want to be there 

and go to the Blue Crab Tavern, 

best dive bar on the beach, 

where nobody knows

the blues I run from.

Renee Williams is a retired English instructor, who has written for ONE Art, Alien Buddha Press and Pine Mountain Sand and Gravel. 

 

Off The Beaten Path / Hank's Pub

 

Hank's motto is, "You're always welcome until you're not," Being the writer I am, that caught me from the very first time I walked into this bar 2138 S. Military Hwy., Chesapeake, VA.

Hank's, from the outside, is deceptive. Located in a little strip mall, she could easily make some feel she could be a rough gal, and nothing could be further from the truth. Hank's is what I love about bars and what, in my opinion, is something that lacks in these overpriced franchise bars that have as much appeal as a Starbucks on acid.

Hank's is a hole in the wall with character. Its beauty is its charm, and it caters to customers and staff alike. It's the kind of place that doesn't look at you and question whether you're lost.

It's a place that looks at you and asks,

"Hey, where the hell have you been!?"

The name drew me in for obvious reasons, as any writer would get, but that's just an odd coincidence.

The faces may change, but one thing that remains consistent with any top-shelf bar is the feeling that it's your own. Rebecca Nisbet, the former co-owner and the creator of the tagline that I truly admire, has a zero tolerance for bullshit, and honestly, the place is just warm and inviting. It's what a good bar or tavern should be and what too many places try to erase: true character.

Quirky and truly unique, with great prices, good food, and a welcoming environment.

And unique is definitely one thing Hank's is, without a doubt.

From my first walk through the doors, I was served by the singing bartender himself, Trevor Nisbet, on karaoke night as I was handed a Jack and Coke while the room was being serenaded with a rendition of "New York State of Mind."

The guy is working the bar, singing to customers, and practically sweeping the floor, then looks at me and says,

"Male bartender, gotta have a gimmick."

Which you just can't make this shit up. It cracked me up, and being a total recluse who, on his best days, avoids most of humanity, when you make me want to return just to hang out, you're doing something right.

Trevor, along with his wife, may be moving on, but the place holds a bevy of characters, and no matter who is there, its vibe is always welcoming.

It's not one person's place. When you're there, it's your own and the perfect backdrop for some great future memories of your own.

Hank's is real and shares what all the best bars have in common: a place that makes you always want to return, myself included.

If you're ever in town, check it out. I promise you it's worth a visit.

Cheers, and as always, the next round's on me.

John Patrick Robbins

Editor in Chief of The Rye Whiskey Review

If interested here's a link to their Facebook page.

https://www.facebook.com/share/1G1o7AFNvj/