 Scott Thomas Outlar hosts the site 17Numa.wordpress.com where links to his published poetry, fiction, essays, and interviews can be found. He is a Best of the Net nominee whose words have appeared recently in venues such as Eunoia Review, Your One Phone Call, Visual Verse, The Literary Nest, and Green Panda Press. Scott's chapbook "Songs of a Dissident" was released in 2015 through Transcendent Zero Press and is available on Amazon. Conversation Killer It’s a bit strange how the mind works sometimes Sitting here on the front porch when for a split second it feels as if Dad is there in the chair beside me and we’re about to discuss any old thing in the world But the sensation is gone as soon as it arrived and all that remains is the sad thought that it has been nearly two damned years at this point since the last time we talked Wind, Rain, Shiver I don’t always preach about love because I am not a charlatan I save such words for when I truly mean them Silverfish Away from the light, dancing antennae scutter past spiders to hide in the shadows where silvery scales can wait in the bathtub for the house to fall silent. Creeping and crawling while the world is asleep the pests of the night head to the bookshelf for a feast. With the dawn in the morning we are early to rise, and head to the office to wake up our minds… only to find that the words which our eyes seek to read have been devoured in full by our foul enemy… that has slipped away without a trace, leaving only torn and shredded pages in its wake – Beyond Comprehension Love is a spasmodic explosion Love is a tidal wave of passion Love is a womb bursting open Love is a scream across the void Love is an aching in the bones Love is a fire deep in the marrow Love is an agony without satiation Love is the electric pulse of skin friction Love is the tip of the tongue tasting center Love is hot flesh pressed tightly against hot flesh Love is a stain found between bedsheets Love is a wild dance in the midnight hour Love is the first sip of wine in a new day Love is the seed shooting out its first sprout Love is the dirt into which roots burrow Love is the evolutionary fervor of mutating genes Love is the unstoppable swarm of progressive adaptation Love is a widow weeping in despair Love is the sorrow of existential desolation Love is the pain of seeking perfection Love is trying again when rejection strikes Love is the thunderclap of gods in the sky Love is the rumbling storm of righteousness Love is a fat wad of cash filling up pockets Love is a space of shelter in the midst of chaos Love is the entropy that wails and gnashes Love is a tooth being cut on hardships Love is getting back up after failure Love is the new dawn rising above far horizon Love is a truth that cannot be rationalized Love is a force beyond all comprehension Love is justified violence against atrocity Love is blood, sweat, sex, cum, and tears Love is war, baby… Come and get some –
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 Peauladd Huy was born in Phnom Penh. Her latest work, published by Connotation Press: An Online Artifact was nominated for the Sundress "Best of the Net," the Dzanc "Best of the Net," and the Pushcart Prize. And with deep gratitude to Connotation Press she’ll have a book, forthcoming soon. Water Think of a river The water is not named From every depth it runs Water is water The river is not without Its flow. Its life-- The life of a creature is in the blood When he enters the water reddens-- You are not wrong: blood is thicker than water, If permissible, blood can float a river And what remains A river are found. To Purpose Where I can be of most use? I can be the pit the rain Pools after they emptied and filled, The flood now sits over the rice plains, The great lake stars Space like eyes on the moon Tonight. The moon. The moon (What can I say?). Sometimes light I can see Flickering over the water they are watching. It returns like a missing father. Staggering Bruised night to night, in various shades of light Eaten by a monster Darkness in my nightmares. Nightmare. Nightmare And nightmaring (what to say about it): It is an eye. Opening The theatrical darkness I’ve entered, not once Was I permitted to be bored With his torture, his resourcefulness to disguise And ambush—the gnat is not always a gnat, the spider, The web, the young girl looking on the garden Of white lotuses suddenly turns bone-white Genocide, those rice fields: when will they stop This constant façade over these years Old bones, scaffolding with every intricate Part I am to them? In this blank space, this vacant dark wall Spanning a grotesque mirror and its flat face, the moon I see The children following, me not far, breathless with questions, my mother and her death Camp of mothers calling here and there: Are they there? Are they here? in the corner Back I first did not see. Are they too, they still have hidden in rice Acreages, I am to appeal for (to poetry of all)? Now dirty bits broken up and stuck together (they too don’t want A whole mirror regarding such images distorting their perfect poetry). So I’m torn once and twice (are we right Calling on the service of others To view our deaths?) Once committed; twice visited (Day and night); and three times I am real Real is real to disguise You all amongst night Trees, blooms as common as rain, flood and fog Fields, my mind (You all’s actually) in voices of petals and leaves Falling, faces cut features—a human collage Of planetary deaths: can you see One’s falling dark a million stars are shown?  Naushena is a poet, an early years teacher, a healer and a mother of three. She has been writing poems since her teens about the complexities of life and developed her passion over the years. Besides poetry, she writes essays and fiction too. Her work has appeared in Boston Literary Magazine, Mothers Always Write and is forthcoming in Mamalode. The Street Lamp Light At night had you passed by the spot Hope you could miss it not. The pole; tall, slender and old With a belly wrapped in gold. In winter serving as a lantern For travelers who to their home return. Shrouded by a sheet of mist But she would secretly peep through it. Few sat studying under the little lamp light To make their future prosperous and bright. Few burnt to death at her feet At last, they had accepted their defeat. Years passed, seasons went To give light, she was meant. Children’s play she had witnessed Not a sight had she missed. Now her body has bent low. No more does she glow But she’s happy with this even For she has become, a bird’s haven. My Shape Poem I Am old. They say, may be fifty. Nay, more. I say. My life’s a book Zealously preserved with all the events I have seen. A silent spectator, I have been of travelers, who stood under My shade in the Scorching heat when I played with the Sun, hide and seek. Who would Attempt to cast his rays upon them and I swayed to and fro, to protect them. I was A home of many birds, a quiet partner of children in their games, their favorite escondite. My long roots like the golden tresses of a woman were their swings. My coarse trunk, engraved With the names of lovers, is a testimony of their fleeting love. Here I am alone at the causeway Standing majestically, With open arms. Cut My boughs to light your Fire, if you want. After All, who can burn and Still give comfort? Here I stand unreservedly, To serve and I will, as Long as I am let by you. Last Time Last time, just last time, Embrace me, Just tell me that you are sorry. Sorry for disrespecting me, For abusing me, Tarnishing my image. With both hands, apologize Say that you should not have insulted me In front of others. Last time, confess that you did not regard me As a selfless soul Who walked along through thick and thin When others left. Who sold her possessions for you When you possessed nothing. Last time, just last time Admit that your words Pierced through my body And wounded my soul Leaving invisible marks That this self will always behold. Last time, kneel down and repent That you killed My love, my respect And my compassion for you, Only then, perhaps, I may forgive you.  Christina Murphy’s poetry is an exploration of consciousness as subjective experience, and her poems appear in numerous journals and anthologies, including, PANK, Dali’s Lovechild, and Hermeneutic Chaos Literary Journal, and the anthologies From the Roaring Deep: A Devotional in Honor of Poseidon and the Spirits of the Sea, The Great Gatsby Anthology, Let the Sea Find Its Edges, and Remaking Moby-Dick. Her work has been nominated multiples times for the Pushcart Prize and for the Best of the Net anthology. Before There Were Rebels Before there were rebels, there were prodigals; before there were prodigals, there were fathers; before there were fathers, there was God. Perhaps. Or maybe God was a conventionalist, not a prodigal, or a rebel, and only peripherally a father. Deciphering is the key because there is no way to know. So the mind plays with logic and the heart plays with need, and any of the three will work depending upon how it is one needs to see or understand stability or chaos. God the conventionalist would have created out of duty God the rebel would have created out of spite God the prodigal would have created to re-create a lost unity Seeing God as the conventionalist, it is easy to praise God’s work ethic. A lot was accomplished—beyond perhaps even God’s expectations Seeing God as the rebel gives one sympathy for those who feel angry at being in someone else’s world on someone else’s terms Seeing God as the prodigal makes one aware of transgressions and the desire to make amends by replacing a broken trust with a new world of second chances Seeing God as God lacks the human touch, which might be fine with God, but is too limiting for humans, who might wish to think of God as one of their own So perhaps God was none of these but just a child seeking to play in a world of no playmates, in a vast darkness before the Let there be light And God the child was a visionary, and the ideas became visions, which became the three-dimensional forms that humans came to know as reality Ah, the prodigal plays, the rebel fantasizes, and God the child mourns for companionship equal to God the child’s abilities and interests And everywhere, the Universe mourns for lack a North-Star God who is centered within the darkness and defined by light The world is a dream of perfection that falls from grace in every pensive moment of a human or God-like heart Rebel on, oh God, while prodigals you have created look for the way home in the bittersweet melancholy of stepping stones into stillness Yuxing Xia is an author and poet who has been published in 10 different countries in journals and magazines such as Society of Classical Poets, Strong Verse, and many others. He hopes to retire to an ostrich farm. Rain Within the crest of a lasting rain, I held an umbrella hostage for a friend. I stood wide-eyed for several hours, waiting for a shadowy figure to emerge and greet me with a sigh of relief. I wondered if I (or my friend?) was at the wrong spot and we wasted time waiting for each other to reach the other, only to find ourselves lost inside the labyrinthine self. Backseat Take a spin around the block and let me know if you like the new car because it’s your birthday and I wanted to give you that pickup truck. Run through some mud and a few mail boxes, go opposite the one-way lanes and I will follow the trail of twigs and leftover paint to your home. As I savor this moment in the back seat, we will make new memories along the highways and floating dust, speeding under the cover of moonlight and bumper stickers. The moments we sacrifice along the journey of increasing velocity will not be lost once the brakes break. Colony Legions of time couldn’t fall when we crossed the colored seas, sailing with a creaky boat. Our heads were raised above the mast with salty air swelling our faces. We could twist that old raft in whichever direction we wanted jumping up and down. And the wear in the rudder was telling of our clumsiness. We knew the first sliver of land was going to be cooked and eaten, then stepped on and colonized.  Deborah Rocheleau is an English major, Chinese minor, and all-around language fanatic. Her writing has been published by Tin House, 100 Word Story, Flights, and Thema, among others. She is currently writing her third contemporary young adult novel. Lightning Strikes Waiting for the elevator to the Washington Monument our tour guide informed us the structure is free-standing No mortar holds all those marble blocks in place but their weight alone anchors them to the Earth. No nails were used an architectural trait it shares with the Japanese pagoda made not with stones like their Chinese equivalents, but wood, paper, earthen tiles and a heavy central mast, the shinbashira that keeps the building upright through an earthquake weathering a natural disaster better than the Washington Monument. The day after our trip up the Monument, an earthquake rattled the Capitol sending a crack down through the free-standing stones of the obelisk like the mark from a bolt of lightning when it kisses the top of a stripped, branchless, cypress tree. Although pagodas withstand the earthquakes inevitable in Japan random lightning strikes are claiming them one shinbashira at a time.  Fiona Pitt-Kethley is the author of more than twenty books of prose and poetry. She is British but has lived in Spain for the last thirteen years together with her family and an adopted family of feral cats. She is currently writing a prose book and poems on the Sierra Minera. Mina Segundo Ferrocarril Its mouth is hidden in the woods. A slope leads up to it behind a cemetery. The Romans mined here first, then Modern Man reopened it, extending passages. So many Roman mines ended up thus. Nineteenth and Twentieth century bosses lacked divining skills to search out other spots, preferred to scrape the last scraps of the ore from almost worked-out mines that once were good. The tunnel´s filled with mud up to our knees. Its roof is low, easy to strike your head. Our ancestors were shorter in those days. Along the route some rusting rails emerge The passageway divides, forking in two, its Roman straighteneess bending to a curve. Galena glints where lights illumine it. No hammer needed on these brittle walls. They yield their samples to our fingers´ touch, gypsum, rainbowed with goethite, yellowed with iron. The left branch leads to ancient areas. Some masonry that´s growing stalactites. Clear water pooling on the floor beside. A white precipitate turns it to milk as we plod through it to the tunnel´s end. The right branch has a ramp that leads upstairs. This mine goes up where other mines go down. The upper level´s dry. The clearest quartz, galena, siderite adorn its walls. gypsum so delicate it turns to dust. More passages, another drystone wall leads up for those who have the skill to climb. A telltale string other collectors left marks out the path to precious minerals.  OPEN HOUSE (fictions) and an expanded edition of the prize-winning SunStone Poetry Press chapbook, EVERYTHING SPEAKING CHINESE: ENHANCED, REVISED EDITION, were published in 2015, while GROUND OF THIS BLUE EARTH and UNDER ARIES were published in 2012 and 2014, respectively. Gordon's awards include National Endowment for the Arts & Humanities Fellowships and writing residencies, while several poems have been nominated for Pushcarts. NIGHT COMPANY was nominated for an NEA Western States' Book Awards. He divides personal and professional lives among Asia, Europe, and the Mountain/Desert Southwest. What is Light After All but Desire?
Better to illuminate than merely to shine . . . -Aquinas- Beyond the complex, a parti-colored suite of prayer-flag kerchiefs hitched on hemp And cord stretched across the patch of thin-skinned, filéd, silver poplars adorning Night, People, Pueblo, Llano decked out in desert ecru, ochre, divining light. And then they ignite So soon as spiritlamps, spots of unknowable light rarely seen, or first-felt in the blood, Until late, blue, then red and violet sparking inside and out chambered houses of the poor Like winter-white luminaria, now midsummer-mad, adobe, stucco, terrones marsh-brick Glowing, while the flat pale sky requites its dark desire over clumps of mountains splayed in Silhouette, white night caught in the desertspell of wild iris, jasmine and lilac, Chaste berry shrub, Sexpot Tease Cereus, her solitary solstice taking nightwhite root, blooming oh so virginal! For once, and once only, out of cactus in fragrant darkness, then poof— gone with the dawn, Light after all but desire inspiriting dreamy clay. Spring-Moon Lotuses on a Summer’s Evening (after Yung Shou-p’ing) What if they’re not as sublime as baroque Blue Nile lotus, Crème-white Madonna lily, ascending aflash from sacred waters, Stems stiff as righteous Jamaican spliffs, têtes regally coiffured, But just gangly and beige and somewhat scumbled, brushed on Mulberry bark or rice paper, their taupe, misty palette Home, Opening nightly up from rushes and shallows for no one but Themselves, Art, Nature, Poetry, and the unseen Spring-Moon Illuminating mist just enough for feel, just as it illumines every Mortal thing in this world, however briefly, fabled glam aesthetes Sporting toque-blanche-et-azure crowns, milkweed and toadstool—, Sunflowers caught furiously yellow on canvas in the act of being Nothing more beautiful than they already were, are, always have been, In bleak, wintry Arles.  Christina Murphy’s poetry is an exploration of consciousness as subjective experience, and her poems appear in numerous journals and anthologies, including, PANK, Dali’s Lovechild, and Hermeneutic Chaos Literary Journal, and the anthologies From the Roaring Deep: A Devotional in Honor of Poseidon and the Spirits of the Sea, The Great Gatsby Anthology, Let the Sea Find Its Edges, and Remaking Moby-Dick. Her work has been nominated multiples times for the Pushcart Prize and for the Best of the Net anthology. A TOWN WHERE THE MERMAID by Christina Murphy a town where the mermaid is a run-down bar and fishing nets hang on wooden walls, the sea nearby rocks in fragmented lights; the waves are reminders of change and temporality— nothing lasts beyond small motions not hearts or grains of sand, not even stars someday when infinity is exhausted and nothing remains to understand the silence INTERSECTIONS by Christina Murphy The order of things is the outer shell of stems & roots, waterfalls & bedrock opening into the softest sighs of patterns shaped by the intersections of evening light The grains of ocean sand are blossoming stairways, narrowly extending into a way of being, silently beautiful in all forms of light Concealed in clouds are the tears of the lost, the wrong turns, the sad choices—all hidden within the white shadows floating, like delicate smoke, across a deeply blue & motionless sky ALL THINGS CONTAINED BY ZERO by Christina Murphy
1. Hillsides in the blue haze of evening where intricate honeysuckle vines frame the melancholy of the sun’s diminishing heat Rippled water shines in silken layers, and all the world’s failings are revealed by the loneliness of each mooring of dreams in an endless sea All things contained by zero will be reshaped by the meanings held in one fragile moment-- night’s darkness approaching like the shadows Of moonlight on ancient waters, restless with currents as the graceful arc of gravity connects land and sky through a latticework of clouds and waves stirring 2. In light, in darkness, the world does not seem a globe but a surface layered with growth and diminishment and a circumference that defines what might have been Like the stones on eroded shores that, in twilight, look like angels seeking a way to speak to the heavens, the indifference is cold and deep, more silent than foreboding And only the tides—like blood—move through channels and bow down to the fate that holds infinity in its scope and reshapes the absence entwined within every moment  Colin James has a chapbook of poetry Writing Knights Press: Dreams of the Really Annoying by Colin James called Dreams Of The Really Annoying from Writing Knights Press. PANDERING TO THE ECOLOGICAL by Colin James
At the staff promotion it was someone's idea to herd wild antelopes through a narrow pass into a hastily built stockade. But those animals can jump, and did killing several office workers instantly. Mrs. Newman who collected the office fund was the slowest running almost posthumously, and an intern we weren't sure really existed anyway. The big boss down from corporate, stood on a boulder screaming into a megaphone. He had the look of conviction in those blue eyes.  Deborah Rocheleau is an English major, Chinese minor, and all-around language fanatic. Her writing has been published by Tin House, 100 Word Story, Flights, and Thema, among others. She is currently writing her third contemporary young adult novel. Immigration by Deborah Rocheleau
Every word wants to make it to English It’s very accommodating, they’ve heard once you’re settled Piñata made it Feng shui even Burka For Tundra, though, things were harder coming from an obscure background raised on the snow of Norway among reindeer herders He longed to immigrate, even as the dream seemed a melted ocean away. Then came a political shift, someone pointing out the benefits of a diverse language how thought was limited by a starved vocabulary one word stifling the imagination While speakers of languages with six words for snow skated icy circles around their one-word counterparts The idea, though faulty, inspired measures to stockpile words snatched here and there from foreign languages. Thus Tundra arrived and established himself in the scientific jargon and thesauruses of one of the world’s most widely spoken language He has arrived, only to find himself alone, the sole immigrant from Sami, his mother tongue.  Marea Needle has been writing poetry, short stories, fiction, non-fiction for many years. She published in various media: websites, magazines, journals, etc. Latest work is a collection of short stories titled: From My Ashes, Volume 1, available on Amazon.com. She’s currently working on first novel THE 1-2-3 OF A LOVE AFFAIR (Pantoums) by Marea Needle Depending on the Whether - 1 Whether or not he likes me Or whether or not I like him To charm or be charmed Diving into his soul or looking aside Or whether or not I like him Plays the restless dream Diving into his soul or looking aside Later… -3 Swearing it off before it starts So what does it matter now Plays the restless dream You’re leaving I’m not To charm or be charmed Will there be tears or not Swearing it off before it starts More ripping apart or not Whether or not he likes me You’re leaving I’m not Obsession - 2 Walking in oblivion or not More ripping apart or not Always the questions Selling off stars or not Why the other women? What is he thinking? Walking in oblivion or not Where do I fit in? Will there be tears or not Selling off stars or not Why the other women? So what does it matter now Why isn’t it me? Where do I fit in? Why can’t he get it? Why isn’t it me? What is he thinking? Where do I fit in? Always the questions  Craig Kurtz has vexed aesthetic circles since the 1981 release of The Philosophic Collage. Recent work appears in Dalhousie Review, The Madras Mag Anthology of Contemporary Writing, Sentinel Literary Quarterly, Sheepshead Review, and Tower Poetry; many others would just as soon string him up. He resides at Twin Oaks Intentional Community. The Science of Insult by Craig Kurtz RECRUITMENT FOR THE SCHOOL OF SCOWERING HEADMASTER: Forsooth, the science of insult is mathematical, There’s protocols and formulas: it’s intellectual; sure, in the country, some bumpkin can merely slap a face, but in refinéd London, quarrels’ rules fill a bookcase; there’s etiquette and precedent and how to do it well, there’s statutes and concordats in the art of raising hell; good man, your coming in’s indeed an act fortuitous, the Captain here is certified a quarreling genius. CAPTAIN: I’ll tutor you on the insult disguised as compliment, I’ll teach you querulous accosts both deft and elegant; I’ll demonstrate the churlish dehort and the reproof curt and if these will not prevail ye, there’s kicking shins overt; the counter-check’s effective, the suave slander’s de rigueur, the quip intense is trendy, the snide jeer is debonair; all these prim conventions can be taught to you until you are advanced to flatter glitterati with ill will. PUPIL: I would speak according to the phrase triumphant, if you please,1 enucleating the kernel of my scabbard with ease;2 I’d like to roar out challenges to all my well-bred foes but do so with assurance that no one will slit my nose. HEADMASTER: Forsooth, the science of insult requires scholarship -- how to salute haunches, when to box ears without slip; there’s tropes and figures to map out how you should taunt and goad, and, according to Fastidious Brisk, dueling in the mode;3 now, in the countryside, breaking windows after dark may be the latest rage but we’ll expect more of you, spark; we’ve got a certain tenor here, we’ve got a subtle touch, and being Furious Inland is going to be too much.4 CAPTAIN: I’ll tutor you on feizing servants and nose-tweaking gents and why it’s a faux pas to ever mix these variants; your thump, your wherret, and your doust, essential to ache joints, tugs on the hair, bobs o’ the lips, I know the finer points; 5 I’ll demonstrate the niceties of truncheons and knife stabs, but, more importantly, I’ll show you how to dodge bar tabs; when I am done, the people you’ll love best are enemies, since friends or family won’t fight you, who needs these base sissies? PUPIL: I would insult courtiers and justle cavaliers -- anyone can brawl with peasants, I’ll hassle compeers; but, maybe prior to my transformation to gallant, you might also provide me with some weapon unguent.6 1. Fletcher and Massinger, The Little French Lawyer, Act II, sc. I.
2. Middleton and Rowley, A Fair Quarrel, Act IV, sc. I. 3. Ridiculous anecdote about a challenge in which two antagonists succeeded in only injuring their foppish attire, from Jonson’s Every Man Out of his Humor. 4. Buffoonish country ruffian in William Davenant’s News From Plymouth. 5. Middleton’s A Nice Valor, Act III, sc. III. 6. Magical salve which, placed upon a weapon, prevents injury to its victim; mentioned in Henry Glapthorne’s The Hollander.  OPEN HOUSE (fictions) and an expanded edition of the prize-winning SunStone Poetry Press chapbook, EVERYTHING SPEAKING CHINESE: ENHANCED, REVISED EDITION, were published in 2015, while GROUND OF THIS BLUE EARTH and UNDER ARIES were published in 2012 and 2014, respectively. Gordon's awards include National Endowment for the Arts & Humanities Fellowships and writing residencies, while several poems have been nominated for Pushcarts. NIGHT COMPANY was nominated for an NEA Western States' Book Awards. He divides personal and professional lives among Asia, Europe, and the Mountain/Desert Southwest. BEFORE THE FALL by GTimothy Gordon Picasso lived this painting of tears, blue as the humid depths of the abyss, and full of pity. -Apollinaire- His child’s hands Keep curling, merging Moment and myth, husband, Esposa, bowed, barefoot, Shy-eyes beggaring nothing (Nothing like the maimed At Guernica, blind men, Sad acrobats, tumblers, Breasts nailed to nudes, Guitars the shapes of women, Tontos y locos), crude blues, Blueboy savior blessing all Before the tide of washed blue sea, Before duende struck, Before the scripture, “Pablo Picasso,” Título, LA TRAGEDIA, Lugar, Barcelona, España, That summer surréaliste, 1903. BAS-RELIEF BLUE by GTimothy Gordon Behold the sun as still As the flat, blue, pastel sky, And the day daily burns a slow, Fervent burn in its bas-relief beneath-- Brute lives of strays and waifs, Unnamed, unnamable, Found on the floor of earth, True as the trueblue sky, Still as the stillborn sun. DISORDER AND EARLY SPRING by GTimothy Gordon They have finally Decided to come Alive on the lower Slope, shape and color Intruding into view Mountain and brush, First faint stippled hues Effacing the comely blue And prescient sun Even unto the nightswell Where in-deep, Under starlit canopy They cease waiting, Sensing their certain sway Into the wild, Crazy with color. |
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