Still life with Hyde Park By Dennis Moriarty

Mid day mid week and the park is peopled

by office workers and city gents

with mobile phones glued to their ears, leaches

sucking the life from their boredom.

There are ladies that lunch on salad leaves and

sparkling wine, their voices loud

and shrill as geese that strut the shore and shit

all day on the grass.

Designer dogs with designer owners, pugs and

bulldogs with heads too big

and tails too small, their ears erect and quivering

like antenna searching for

calm among the crackling static of chaos,

mothers with babies and toddlers with fathers, stay

at home parents in a play away world,

tourists with cameras like a spare appendage, clicking

and snapping still life with Hyde park.

And then there are those that come from nowhere,

street dwellers without identity,

without a voice seeking refuge from the everyday

madness of their everyday lives.

They sit here from early morning through until dusk

when they scurry away like ants

back to their hills on the streets, the lost and the lonely,

the half alive half dead and the long time forgotten.

Dennis Moriarty was born in London, England and now lives in Wales. Married with five grown up offspring Dennis likes walking the dog in the mountains, reading and writing.

In 2017 he won the Blackwater poetry competition and went to county Cork in Ireland to read his work at the international poetry festival. Dennis has had poems featured in many publications including Blue nib, Our poetry archive, Setu bilingual, The passage between and others.

Breakfast of Champions at the Pittsburgh Airport in Early Morning By Joan Leotta

To sustain me for my super early morning

round of flights to reach rural North Carolina

from Pittsburgh, (city of champions,

and my childhood stomping grounds),

I sought out a touted

airport  bagel shop.

HOWEVER, their counter staff was

resisting the advertised  

five am opening on my travel day.

“Closed until ten” the sign said.

Wandering down the hallway,

surprisingly (to me) I found

an active bar, complete with 

sports on two television screens,

terrible towel banners, and

people perched on tall stools 

the curved Formica bar,

some at tables, all with drinks. 

I hoisted my short self onto

a barstool and asked the lone server

“Do you have coffee?”

 “Yes, but no milk.”  

So, I took it black, moderating

its bitterness with sugar

instead of whisky. 

Menu food categories boasted

“Breakfast of Champions,”

(Toast, eggs, and a Bloody Mary)

and a list of side dishes.

I chose to supplement

my caffeine infusion with

toasted plain bagel, cream cheese.

While waiting for my order, 

at least fifteen folks of various ages, 

dress, stages of wakefulness,

stepped up to the counter, 

requesting bar or table service

Bloody Marys, Long Island iced teas, 

beer, and/or espresso martinis. 

Most requested open tabs.

While I was there, no one

ordered any food. 

It seems in my hometown,

Breakfast of Champions

has become a liquid ritual. 

Does black coffee count?

Joan Leotta plays with words on page and stage. She writes and performs tales of food, family, strong women and has a one woman show as Louisa May Alcott. Internationally published as an essayist, poet, short story writer, and novelist,  she’s a two-time Pushcart and Best of the Net nominee and was a 2022 runner-up in Robert Frost Competition. Her two chapbooks are “Languid Lusciousness with Lemon”  and "Feathers on Stone." 

Joan Leotta
Author, Story Performer
“Encouraging words through Pen and Performance”

Twice Nominated for Pushcart and Best of Net 

"Feathers on Stone" poetry chapbook available from me and at

https://mainstreetragbookstore.com/product/feathers-on-stone-joan-leotta/

Other Joan Leotta Books

Languid Lusciousness with Lemon, Finishing Line Press (Amazon)

Morning by Morning and Dancing Under the Moon, two free mini-chapbooks are at https://www.origamipoems.com/poets/257-joan-leotta 

in dreams all things are weightless by keith pearson

1

i have fallen down

half man half memory

curled in the corner

nursing at your breast

your hands so small

fitting easily at my throat.

2

my dreams shed their skin

again last night

crawling from my dark sleep

reaching for your clenched fist

touching instead your soft stomach

your hourglass shaped scar.

 

3

stuck deep in black water

having forgotten how to swim

trapped inside a padlocked box

you have carefully stored away

your finger on the switch of

the machine that keeps me alive.

 

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

When Soda Was Medicine By Robert Donohue

One time, while entering a subway train,

There was a passenger who would repeat

What he believed as we all took a seat:

When Coca-Cola really had cocaine

Was when America was truly sane.

Chanting this slogan, crazy and complete,

He proselytized, like nothing could compete

With what his message then was making plain.

His troubles I’m not fit to diagnose

Yet can’t imagine doing otherwise.

I was no help to him, however close,

And you might think I’m only cracking wise

To say his sermon had some merit, but

The lithium was in the 7-Up.

Robert Donohue's poetry has appeared in Apocalypse Confidential, Pulsebeat, and The Road Not Taken, among others. He lives on Long Island, NY.

Sometimes By Jake St. John

On days when 

an unprompted 

sadness 

creeps in 

right after 

a morning dream 

sneaks away 

like a one night stand

you're left laying there 

wrapped in sorrow 

and you look

out the window

and realize 

it's raining 

and you take that 

as a sign 

whatever that means.

   

Jake St. John lives in the woods on the edge of the Salmon River. He is the author of several collections of poetry including Lips Leave Scars (with Jenn Knickerbocker, Whiskey City Press, 2023) Ring of Fog (Holy and Intoxicated Publications, 2022), Night Full of Diamonds (Whiskey City Press, 2021), and Lost City Highway (A Jabber Publication, 2019). He is the editor of Elephant and is considered an original member of the New London School of poetry. His poems have appeared in print and online journals around the world."

After Hours By Barry Basden

The Katy Did closed and we followed two girls in a red Chevy, flirting at stoplights until we scared them home.

A man in a bathrobe stepped into the yard. “You boys go on now. There’s nothing here for you.”

I moved toward him and his hand lifted. When I saw the gun, I forgot everything else.

Barry Basden lives in the Texas hill country with Bean, his little rescue terrier. He reads a lot and occasionally writes.

For The Mourner By Alec Solomita

For the mourner

only one thing is:

things like business,

cooking, seeing

birds stir the spring air,

falling snow, even

watching the home team

as it falters once again,

all vanished.

For the mourner 

only two things help: 

a martini’s olives at the

bottom of the blue-hued

glass, and sleep. Deep

sleep and streaming dreams

that terrify enough to wake

you to another Klonopin, ushering

you back into a wild, uncertain dark:

anywhere to douse the dying spark.

Alec Solomita is a writer working in Massachusetts. His poetry has appeared in many journals, including Poetica, Lothlorien Poetry Journal, The Galway Review, The Lake, The Rye Whiskey Review, and several anthologies. His chapbook “Do Not Forsake Me,” was published in 2017 by Finishing Line Press. His full-length poetry book, “Hard To Be a Hero,” was released by Kelsay Books in the spring of 2021. He’s just finished another, “Small Change.”