Cocktail By J.I. Kleinberg

In winter’s last rationing of light

set out your implements of alchemy,

your snug utensils of conjury,

your beakers and powders, glass

wands and amulets. Wipe dust

and stain from your table, carve

a block of ice from the glacier’s lip.

Drop it in a tall glass.

Before it begins to melt, whisper

an incantation of constellations 

in a language you do not speak. 

Take a small scoop from the moon

with a long-handled silver spoon. 

Gather fog from the horizon 

or from a cleft of pine-clad hills. 

Drizzle it into the glass.

Do not be alarmed if the moon 

begins to shiver. 

At midnight local time

fill a small vial with darkness.

Tip it so the darkness streaks the fog

and stains a bit of the moon.

On a scrap of paper from the pocket

of a coat long-unworn

write seven questions.

Murmur the questions into the glass

only until it is full.

Do not allow the contents to spill over.

Crumple the paper and bury it

in your garden. Slip a hollow reed

into the glass and sip slowly 

as you ponder the answers.

J.I. Kleinberg lives in Bellingham, Washington, and on Instagram @jikleinberg. She is the author of The Word for Standing Alone in a Field (Bottlecap, 2023), How to pronounce the wind (Paper View, 2023), Desire’s Authority (Ravenna Press Triple No. 23, 2023), She needs the river (Poem Atlas, 2024), and Sleeping Lessons (Milk & Cake, 2025). All of We is forthcoming from Anhinga Press.

Bride of the Black Creek By John Swain

The wind twists the vines,

the night crushes grapes

where I married you

wading in the black creek,

I jumped from a rock,

we washed in the source,

you set fire to the trees,

the sky rises

from the honeysuckle

of your sweat,

you cover me with rain,

we drink the wine you bleed.

John Swain lives in Le Perreux-sur-Marne, France. His work has recently appeared in Wild Winds, an anthology published by Borderless Journal. 

Little Head By Katie Barnett

He was a thimble of a man

He came into our bar, The People’s Choice, daily

We lived in Hegins, Pennsylvania   

He spoke but wasn’t understood

Pennsylvania Dutch, like a foreign language

He was suspect

Odd in every flavor

A smarmy fellow

Shaved head

Hunter’s cap

White T-shirt

They called him Little Head

He sat at the bar unaccompanied

Then played cards with my grandmother, Euchre

They relished this past time

I watched but had no interest

He drank shots as she delt

They smoked in tandem

I never liked him

I found nothing redeeming in him

We took him home one night

His house fell in on itself

He knew little, he had little

He found companionship with my grandmother

She gave him something no one else had, a chance

 

Katie Barnett is a speech-language pathologist in Alabama who works with students on the Autism spectrum. Katie is passionate about writing and reading poetry, it is one of the many “silver linings” in her life. She finds poetry compelling and exhilarating. She ventures into topics related to nature, sorrow, joy and mental illness. She attends a local poetry club weekly.  Publications: Allen Ginsburg’s 100th Anniversary Anthology, June 2026 and Rue Scribe.

 

 

 

drinking white wine By John Grochalski

drinking white wine

instead of vodka

stone cold sober tonight

watching sitcoms on the couch

the world seems

so goddamned funny to me

that i want to reach out

and strangle it

until it hacks up a lung.

John Grochalski is the author of the poetry collections, The Noose Doesn’t Get Any Looser After You Punch Out (Six Gallery Press 2008), Glass City (Low Ghost Press, 2010), In The Year of Everything Dying (Camel Saloon, 2012), Starting with the Last Name Grochalski (Coleridge Street Books, 2014), and The Philosopher’s Ship (Alien Buddha Press, 2018). He is also the author of the novels, The Librarian (Six Gallery Press 2013), and Wine Clerk (Six Gallery Press 2016).  Grochalski currently lives in Brooklyn, New York, where the garbage can smell like roses if you wish on it hard enough.

Front Row By Jake St. John

I was in Deadwood, South Dakota 

an old mining town

famous for its gold rush

and like most of the prospectors there

I'd busted flat.

I was staying at the oldest hotel in town 

or at least that's what I was told

and to add to my luck

I’d gotten into yet another fight 

with the girl I was traveling with.

So as I learned to do 

in grim times such as these

I took myself down to the hotel saloon 

which seemed like a good place to fall apart

I had a few drinks and between sips 

I noticed the bar was nearly as empty

as my wallet.

I asked the bartender what the deal was

she told me that Merle Haggard 

was playing a show at the amphitheater 

on the other side of the ridge 

and everyone in town had tickets. 

I lowered my head defeated 

knowing with a little preparation 

I could  have been in attendance

rather than sitting here alone 

on a barstool again.

I finished my beer

headed to the elevator 

closed the rattling gate 

in front of me and realized

that these iron bars 

seemed more like jail cell doors

than safety equipment 

that were now slamming shut on my evening.

I finally made my way back to my room 

on the top floor

hoping to salvage whatever fun 

I could have for the night. 

Opening the door 

and receiving the silent treatment 

I grabbed a bottle of whiskey 

and made my way to the rooftop

which had a makeshift patio,

the kind you’d see in a hobo camp

down by the rails.

There was a wobbly table 

and two of those old 1980’s

metal folding chairs 

that would stick to your back

in the heat of summer days. 

As I sat in the darkness 

like a lonesome fugitive

reevaluating some of my life choices 

that now stung like misery and cheap gin.

Suddenly 

as if someone had plugged in the jukebox

came that unmistakable 

gravel road voice of Ol Hag

rising up and over the ridge!

The tunes spilled out 

through the shadows

like yesterday’s wine

and at this very moment

he was singing directly to me. 

One hit after another 

filled the night air

of what was becoming

my own personal

honky tonk heaven

and I thought to myself 

as I raised the bottle 

one more time

I think I'll just stay here and drink.

Jake St. John has been referred to as “a neo-beat adventurer” who spends his time scratching down poems from aloft barstools and tree stumps scattered around New England. He is the author of several collections of poetry, including his latest, The 13th Round (Six Foot Swells Press, 2025). He is the editor of Elephant and is considered an original member of the New London School of Poets. His poems have appeared in print and online journals around the world.

His current book, The 13th Round is published through Six Ft. Swells Press and is available everywhere please pick yourself up a copy today.

https://www.amazon.com/13th-Round-Jake-St-John/dp/B0F2KBGR8M

Denial By Jenna Restel

I can't dream anymore-

there's a face I cannot make out

or that I don't want to

I have another coffee 

at 9pm, and he asks what I'm doing

but this pain is mine

so I can't explain

I'm left alone 

again

the way I like to be

Laid out on the couch

background noise

a game on my phone

distracted

But I hear a word

I smell a reminder

I brew another cup

Now I'm wide awake

I see without question

So I take melatonin

and something PM

I pop open a beer

I need to sleep

because now it's too clear

In my dream it's distorted

and I can pretend 

that I don't recognize it

But no matter where

or who I'm with

My heart says

Liar

Jenna Restel is a New Jersey based writer. She explores grief, memory, trauma and bad habits. You may find her published poetry in Keeping the Flame Alive, Bionik Pu$$y, Rust Belt Press, Crying Heart Press, and more. 

Days By David L Painter

It makes no difference as I unscrewed the cap.

It could be any day of the week for all I care.

I watched the amber liquid fall

and kiss the ice in the bottom of the glass,

clacking some with its sudden warmth.

Looking down, I thought, Is two fingers enough? 

My mind shot back the answer as I continued to pour.

It is early morning, but already it’s hot.

Most days start like this,

even the sun makes a bee-line for the ice,

no drought to cool itself off.

I pour another, hoping that this one will last longer.

The mailman drops off the mail a few read, past due

then he melts into the heat of the day.

Sitting on the front porch, even the

occasional breeze is warm.

I pour another just to cool off.

So it goes most days,the sun eating my ice

and me trying to stay ahead of it.

David is an International published poet.He is a member of the Inner city writers’ group and penned in the city.His works have been published in Sweetycat Press,Piker press, Rye Whiskey Review,Clarendon House, Spillwords Press,The Writers’ Club,and Dyst Literary Journal.as well as The World of Myth,Every Writer,Ohio Bards and Academy of the Heart. He is a member of Ohio Writers Group and West Virginia Writers Group. His book of poems Thoughts Alone the Way is available on Amazon