An Unexplored Energy by Sarah O’Brien

An Unexplored Energy


rip me open.

i’ve survived a few times so far.

i could handle it again.


although your arms stay crossed,

summer extends hers;

limitless possibilities tempt.


i could be Hemingway & hole up in Cuba.

my hands are bleeding from shards

of shattered expectations, so today i’m Sylvia.

my love has sent word of abandonment,

and only Whitney Houston could relate.


i’ll cut myself up for you.

want my arm? my elbow? take my pelvis…


yet, we’re rewriting history;

I’m the scribe of a version where Juliet

chooses life and longing over tragedy.

as the world awakes, i fall asleep.

your secret’s safe with me.


Sarah A. O’Brien enjoys dark chocolate and light wordplay. Sarah is a nomadic poet living in Nebraska. She is the founder and Editor-in-Chief of the online literary journal, Boston Accent Lit. She is currently pursuing her MFA in Writing at University of Nebraska Omaha, a dope program that all writers should check out. 


Division by Tatiaira Herndon


In a better world, I’d live a different life

With less crooked thoughts and a straighter spine

More optimism and a sharper mind

Less anxiously waiting and more time

In a better world, I’d have greater trust

A heart filled with love and a head lacking lust

Lifting others up without the fear of getting crushed

And ridding all dividers dividing us up

By our insignificant differences


She is merely a girl walking through life blinded by all the things she cannot control. She writes stories hoping that when the earth takes her body back, everyone will finally realize why she never felt the need to say much.




Sunday Morning After a Rain by Bill Vartnaw

Sunday Morning After a Rain


Sunday morning after a rain

a cup of coffee in a café


Monsanto is changing the seeds

claiming them as their own

they want to control

the food, the water, the air


I watch the birds

play/forage along the slough/river

this town’s connection

to the “Bay Area”


Louis Armstrong on the stereo

“the ambassador”

a quiet twenty-first century morning

with more than a touch of anger


Bill Vartnaw was born, raised & got old in California.  He is publisher of Taurean Horn Press, an independent poetry press started in San Francisco and celebrating its 43rd year.  He is the author of two books of poetry, In Concern: for Angels (THP, 1984); Suburbs of my Childhood (Beatitude Press, 2009) & 3 chapbooks.   He served as Sonoma County Poet Laureate from 2012-13.


Three Poems by Micellina Caporale

Selkie-Destiny’s Child (Raccontino Poem)


Where is your flame, you she-wolf animal

Don’t fit into the black box of feminist

A deer tick engorged in the rescue

How can you be a march-less activist

Oh, divine beauty, church-less wall that is

repressed out of the priestess atheist

What are you really? What, too, are you not?

Divided land, eternal terrorist

Sister, brother, father, mother-not my

family of forever chauvinist

Oh, God of divine mercy that’s calling

Free, reborn, spirit reclaimed anarchist


She Finally Went Home Into the Forest (Dorsimbra Poem)


She lost her life amongst the broken branches of the trees

The bread and wine and all of her was so holy and fine

A father, a priest, a dominant demon forced her onto her knees

Threatened her body to cover up the sin un-divine crossed the line

How did she uncover her true soul

Listening to her silenced voice

The thread unraveled and connected the dots

Of desire, bliss, peace, and echoes of satisfaction

In quiet contemplation the stars’ themes emerged

Until constellations of love shined through her eyes into the

Hearts of divinely angered Indian sisters

She lost her life amongst the broken branches of the trees


Instruments of Authority (Dodoitsu Poem)


Mind control patterned brain

Kaleidoscopic police force

Dancing in the streets of hell

Music, silence, voice


Micellina is a poetess, prophet, and healer whose writing reflects her belief in the goodness of this world and the greatness which is to come. Her work can be found within the realms of your own creative spirit and in the hands of giggling children.  She is inspired by the spontaneity and courage that youth bring to new moments and sees herself as a lifelong teacher and student. Micellina chooses to see the beauty in the brokenness, the lessons in the struggles, and the ultimate hope within the despair.


Kintsugi and Everyone’s a Moon by Tsuki San



transcends original

the broken cups

and the broken bowls

put together with tender love

and a golden joint

that breathes life

once broken

now anew


What of

things too broken

to be pieced back

part by part

do we now find the beauty

in the broken as aesthetic



we have to declare the death

of things too broken

and respectfully keep them

in a chest deep inside

safely, gently

never to see them again


Everyone’s a Moon

Everyone’s a moon,

each in a different phase

but all with a dark side

that we can’t see


Tsuki San is an artist, designer, and poet based in Singapore.

bin and staircase

Koi by Eileen Malone



On a dirty pond fermented

with tractor grease and oily

rainbow excrement


one extremely ornamental

carp breaks orangely the

surface tension of the pools’s

green glass surface


without apology or splash

it opens its mouth to gulp

whatever winged wasp, gnat

or midge that flies in


a butterfly flits between us


to turn into a butterfly

to emerge wet and new

from its own cocoon

a caterpillar must first

digest itself


when you come right

down to it, life is just a bunch

of stuff eating stuff.


Eileen Malone’s poetry has been published in over 500 literary journals and anthologies, a significant amount of which have earned awards, i.e., three Pushcart nominations. Her award winning collection Letters With Taloned Claws was published by Poets Corner Press (Sacramento) and her book I Should Have Given Them Water was published by Ragged Sky Press (Princeton).

Photo on 2011-11-03 at 16.52

Fences by Sarah Bigham





Sarah Bigham teaches, writes, and paints in Maryland where she lives with her kind chemist wife, their three independent cats, an unwieldy herb garden, and near-constant outrage at the general state of the world tempered with love for those doing their best to make a difference. Find her at

Photo - Bigham.jpg

Empty Spaces by Karlo Sevilla

Empty Spaces

That empty space is fine with and in itself; it has no need for or of us.
Or, it has emptied itself of its abundance, upon seeing us close the distance
(threatened of rape, plunder, and the other imperatives of colonization).
It is best if we just walk on the path that cruelly cuts through them,
and just let the sliced and side spaces breathe, and air to pass through
or settle in their emptiness. Our burdens are our own, our own crosses.
Spare the rest of the world the heavy load, as we proceed to our private Golgotha.
Let the empty spaces do nothing more than bear witness to our procession.
Or, nothing more than being or not being, as we plod on to our crucifixion.
Still, our declaration of faith steadfastly remains, “We believe in Resurrection.”
And soon we, who have been running empty, shall perish and ash —
neither in victory nor defeat — into the quiet brotherhood of empty spaces.


Karlo Sevilla is a freelance writer who lives in Quezon City, Philippines. His poems have appeared in Philippines Graphic, Radius, I am not a silent poet, Anti-Heroin Chic, Eunoia, Rat’s Ass Review, Wraith Infirmity Muses, an Origami Poems Project microchap, and elsewhere. He also volunteers for the labor group Bukluran ng Manggagawang Pilipino (Solidarity of Filipino Workers).

K. Sevilla photo

go through my pockets by Kyle Christopher

go through my pockets


i want to relapse today,

to plant some pills in the garden

and crash my car into it.


the cemetery lengthens,

climbing up the hills and into ditches

where the junkies scrape rain-

water into spoons,

as spring promised, it blooms

to blood in a syringe

like a flower in a jar.


the sun sinks like a push

into the inner city,

confusing the children that shoot

needles like squirt guns.


my eyes won’t stay open.

come back, come back my friend,

and go through my pockets.


i don’t want to be alone.

Kyle Christopher is a recovering poet residing on the west coast of Florida. He has dedicated his life to the arts, and studied creative writing at Florida State University. The message is hope and the promise is freedom.


At the Hands of Elisha by Ethan Cole

At the Hands of Elisha
In Lesotho, the land has turned to dust.
The endless seasons of corn
have ruined it.
With the rains
the Orange River
always runs brown.
I saw a preacher
on the banks
turbaned in a red tongue of flame,
robes as blue as the sky
as green as the dream of the barren earth,
calling out like Elisha to Naaman
wash seven times and be clean.
Black and white we entered the water—
with our AIDS and ennui,
leprosy and anxiety,
hunger and child support payments—
seven times submerged
at the hands of the prophet
who didn’t judge us by our ailments.
The water carried away our disease,
our pain and desolation,
that once fertile soil.

Ethan J. Cole is originally from western New York State, where he learned to love stories and magic by walking in the woods and talking to himself.  He continues this path in south west Florida where he lives with his dog Amos.