906Blue~ By Tracey Sivek

Countless moments have been spent in separation, defining my role in this life in a singular way.  

Divine caught me off guard. I found myself falling into the vision, the view of someone else’s dream.

It was exciting and accelerating to think someone could see the world the same way that I see it from that quiet space never talked about.  

To feel that combined interest in energy as it developed through the simplicity and rage of the blue.

The depths of currents and chaos.

This was an unexpected journey, one that asks only to be lived.. I want to simply sit in this and let it be the organic unfolding, but there’s a child like interest…a spark that has been lit in the voided layers of the dark. A flame has been ignited.

Wanderer, I see the shadows that placed you into these moments of beauty. Seeking redemption, seeking healing on all levels. 

Your essence, your light was created from this space.. the peaceful warrior. 

 

Perhaps this is a thread from another lifetime, remembering itself through us. It feels too ancient to dismiss.

I want to acknowledge it for the layers of mystical that it holds. The way that nature speaks to us in divine ways. From the peace of the crystalline core of the Earth to the soothing depths of the healing waters. Then, the fire, searing through your life, letting us burn entwined for a moment.

If this is where our paths were meant to meet, then I am grateful for the blue… for the healing waters… for the fire that remembered our names. I ask for nothing more than this…that wherever the universe carries you next, it is with peace through the vast Wilds of the universe. 

I see you.

Tracey is a native of Northern Michigan. 

 She has work on Writerscafe and Cosmofunnel. She is also the Author of "Zero Evidence of Life" found on lulu.com.

Her publications include .

The Abyss, Under The Bleachers , The Rye Whiskey Review and The Dope Fiend Daily.

Her latest book For The Love Of Lily  is currently available on Amazon.

https://a.co/d/0hSH9eG9

Drifting Wine Cup By Ma Yongbo

In late spring, the water filtered through sand and stone grows loud again.

The stream leaves huge boulders on the shallows, pale grey like skulls.

We sit facing downstream, tucked in a mountain hollow.

Behind us the grass grows taller and denser,

tall enough to hide our feet, to hide tangled roots within it.

Once, across the stream we could pass wine cups and strawberries,

pass the shadow of trees, pass a single yellow leaf newly shed from last autumn.

With a light touch upon the water, we too sent the tremors from upstream

all the way downriver, through pebbles and dark mud on the riverbed,

to the soft bank, the willows along the bank, the wings resting on the willow branches.

We turn our backs on the source,

on the high mountains beyond the source, the dwelling place of clouds.

We know not what drifts over from behind us.

We have forgotten the path we came by.

Facing away from the future, we sit quiet and still,

waiting for the breath of widening waters drifting from afar,

waiting for the whole world to swirl past us and flow downstream.

Ma Yongbo was born in 1964, Ph.D, representative of Chinese avant-garde poetry, and a leading scholar in Anglo-American poetry. He is the founder of Difficult writing and objectified poetics. He is also the first translator to introduce American postmodern poetry into Chinese.

He has published over eighty original works and translations since 1986 included 9 poetry collections.He focused on translating and teaching Anglo-American poetry and prose including the work of Dickinson, Whitman, Stevens, Pound, Amy Lowell,Williams, Ashbery and Rosanna Warren. His complete translation of Moby Dick has sold over 600,000 copies. He teaches at Nanjing University of Science and Technology. 

https://www.facebook.com/yongbo.ma.2025/

Rainbow Obsidian By Juliet Cook

This poem began in a dream state

in which I was forced to dive

myself into

oblivion.

I woke up guilty

for being me, sometimes

not in the mood for interruption

or an eruption inside my brain.

My brain is a terrible rainbow 

obsidian with cracked edges

covered up by dark glass.

A strange combination

of natural and unnatural 

elements fused together.

When spiraling down,

I don't want to be

a broken canine tooth

growling, shoved inside 

someone else's throat or eyes or ears.

A synaptic middle of another 

crash. Vehicle smashed against another

wall then suddenly waking up underwater,

confused about what happened when.

Is this the beginning or the end or

somewhere in between again?

I move towards the underground mirror,

unsure if I'll see myself or a swordfish or

a mermaid looking back at me. 

Is a sword penetrating

one part of my brain?

Some of my words are little fish

swimming around in circles

inside me, unable to fully emerge.

Stuck in my gushing head,

one small part of myself

longing to be luminous and

maybe I am...

Juliet Cook doesn't fit inside an Easy-Bake Oven and rarely cooks. Her poetry has appeared in a peculiar multitude of literary publications. She is the author of numerous poetry chapbooks, most recently including "red flames burning out" (Grey Book Press, 2023), "Contorted Doom Conveyor" (Gutter Snob Books, 2023), "Your Mouth is Moving Backwards" (Ethel Zine & Micro Press, 2023), "REVOLTING" (Cul-de-sac of Blood, 2024), and "Blue Stingers Instead of Wings" (Pure Sleeze Press, 2025). Her most recent full-length poetry book, "Malformed Confetti" was published by Crisis Chronicles Press. You can find out more at https://julietcook.weebly.com/.

ROADS By Dr. Roger Singer

traveling

this place

and the next

feeling lost

while running

out of shadows

in the chest

of night

remembering

unfinished fires

and tattooed

broken hearts

covering imperfections

while learning

from wounds

knowing finally

jazz is a gift

and every town

looks the same

after midnight

 

 

Dr. Singer has had over 1,200 poems published on the internet, magazines and in books and is a Pushcart Award Nominee.  Some of the magazines that have accepted his poems for publication are:  Westward Quarterly, Jerry Jazz, SP Quill, Avocet, Underground Voices, Outlaw Poetry, Literary Fever, Dance of my Hands, Language & Culture, The Stray Branch, Tipton Poetry Indigo Rising, Down in the Dirt, Fullosia Press, Orbis, Penwood Review, Subtle Tea, Ambassador Poetry Award, Massachusetts State Poetry Society.  Louisiana State Poetry Society Award.  Readers Award Orbis Magazine 2019.  Arizona State Poetry Award 2020.

Mad Swirl Anthology 2018, 2019.

 

 

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.