Chandra Alderman

Mountain Ash

Outside the snow thick as fog.
A mountain ash in the distance.
Its branches shaking from the wind
and robins feeding on the berries.
Crimson beads falling on snow.
I think of your back,
as we stand in the shower
after untangling from the sheets.
Everything reminds me of you.
A snow plow passes by,
robins scatter, autumn leaves
caught in an updraft.
They vanish in the snow.
I close my eyes and blush
remembering our warm bodies,
damp from the shower,
lightly touching on the bed
by the window.


Stanley Kubrick

I’m driving home
lowering sun over my left shoulder.
It casts shadows of the bare trees,
guitar strings pulled taut
across the road. The rhythm of the car
moving over the shadows
takes me back to your attic.
We are piled on blankets, holding each other,
listening to Stanley Kubrick by Mogwai.
It might have been the drugs
or your gentle hands but every note
whispers love in my ear. These moments,
they come and find me, even in this desolate
salt-crusted winter landscape. The orange
lowering sun, the trees’ shadows
playing a song just for me.

Chandra Alderman lives in Northeast Ohio where she writes mostly letters and sometimes poetry. She is often seen out in the wild with a camera, spying on nature, everyday life, and writers. Her photography has been featured on chapbooks published by Nightballet Press and Crisis Chronicles Press, and also online at Thirteen Myna Birds, The City Poetry and The Octopus Review. Her poetry has appeared in Trailer Park Quarterly. More than all of this, she is trying to compose the perfect bowl of soup.

Ken Gosse

Petered Out

In Neverland, they say the story’s true
that Tink became outraged and very vexed
when Peter whispered to a boy named Sue,
“Can’t tell one fairy tail from the next.”

Admittedly, the joke was very crass
but told as they were exiting the can.
She overheard and soon would kick his ass
from Netherlands, a consequential ban.

Clap all you want, poor Pete cannot return
to southern comforts of her promised land.
He took with him a lesson hard to learn.
No fairy tale—he’s permanently banned.

A pirate now, whose bitterness belays,
he’ll hook and heave each ho, for false love weighs.

Ken Gosse usually writes humorous, rhymed verse with traditional form and meter. First published in First Literary Review–East in November 2016, he is also in Lothlorien Poetry Journal, Academy of the Heart and Mind, The Writers Club, Pure Slush, and others. He and his wife were raised in the Chicago suburbs. Since then, they’ve lived in Indiana, Texas, Oklahoma, Germany, and Virginia. Now retired, they’ve lived in Mesa, AZ, over 25 years, with rescue dogs and cats underfoot.

John Tustin

My Day

I was at a diner and after I affirmed my order
I saw from the corner of my eye
Something on the floor
To the right of my booth.

It seemed someone
Shit their pants and it fell loose
Over and over again
As they were on their way
To the shitter

And it was a trail Hansel and Gretel
Could easily follow,
Right down the center.

I saw the quick movements of the manager
And the hurried movements of the employees
To rectify this moment, this movement,
As the smell began to come to me
And I couldn’t help but begin to notice
What had happened.

I licked my fingers and put them to my nose
And then the coffee came
And I smelled that deep and true
And then they cleaned up the mess
Made by some poor soul in what is most certainly
In worse a state than me

And then all I smelled was disinfectant
And bacon
As I ate my omelet and my toast
And my bacon.
I had two cups of coffee,

Stood up, paid the bill at the register,
Walked back and left a two dollar tip.

This was the second best and the second worst part of my day.
The worst was not much worse
And the better just better marginally.

I would put myself in the majority class.
Nothing gets much better
Or worse.

Now you know.

John Tustin’s poetry has appeared in many disparate literary journals since 2009. fritzware.com/johntustinpoetry contains links to his published poetry online.