New Poetry, Fiction, Essays

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End of reason

by Allison Grayhurst

I hear the echo of instability slide

through the corridors like a plague

that just missed. I hear the song and flip

like a flock of tiny birds, upside down,

bellies flat against the sky.

I feel soiled by layers of complexity,

needing to feel again protection,

the stroke of a cool summer on my lips,

needing a puppy left at my door.

I know the sun will rise on my twisted frame.

I know a red petal thrown into a pale blue sky.

I know more than a parched mouth,

more than brick painted over

or prison bars dipped in rainbow hues.

I know of tongues basted in trembling glory,

my purpose –

core, settled and pure.



Allison Grayhurst is a member of the League of Canadian Poets. Three times nominated for Sundress Publications “Best of the Net” 2015, she has over 1075 poems published in over 425 international journals. She has sixteen published books of poetry, seven collections and nine chapbooks. She lives in Toronto with her family. She is a vegan. She also sculpts, working with clay; www.allisongrayhurst.com





Lies Heavy

by Mellisa Mulvihill

Life slips and slinks
around death
with busy-ness buzzing
plugged in feeding parched souls
with rechargeable hope
distracting from the inability to ever avoid
that which comes

It explains with powerless memes,
photo shopped prettiness, desperate prayer,
delusional certainties flirting
with absurdity and uselessness
all things happen for a reason

It generates lists
high powered telescopes gazing on worlds unreachable,

And still life cowers
in the shadow of the disguises of Death
eternal in its coming
endless in name
vulgarly intrusive in its thundering

Life dropped
its lies heavy
at my feet
where it thudded
like a suitcase
a stranger packed for me
achingly hollow
but weighted down
with useless detritus
gathered by
who never really knew me at all

Death’s call is roiling



Melissa writes poetry and creative non-fiction and is a self-identified dystopian junkie. She was recently published in the June 2017 issue of Poet’s Haven’s, Strange Land. She lives in Ohio with her husband, two sons, and labradoodle, Luna(tic). She detests writing in third person about herself more than having to eat beets AND really bad pizza.




One Last Bark

by Steven Langhorst


Sometimes I miss my dogs paws
With just cause
In running dreams
Relived scenes
As they slept amongst the stars
Yipped at the full moon in backyards
On trails at daybreak
First light behind the night makes
The instincts sharp
I long for one last bark



That’s how we communicate

by Casey Haldaine 

There’s a raincoat
in each of my backpacks,
all my stories
start with the splash
of a memory.

Just roll
with the kind downpour,
to the tapping sound
of the hood of my mind
as I converse
with a wrong dial
about all the foolish blunder.

Sour chronicles expose
a taste for the world,
for wine,
for each covered up outline
of a ravishing disaster.

A sanctuary
of ceramic owls,
deposits of the night,
taunting the stillness
flying above.
Marking the forest,
the benches, the frames,
counting slipped disks
of a spineless

Stolen from their display,
wild hoots chase
the painted barking.


Assessing the patient’s sins through inconclusive bruises

by Casey Haldaine

A divine intervention
dragged gullible bodies
across the dusty
floor.A broken compact,
eyeliner marks,
razors and crayons
scattered all around,
opiated.Salty caramel kisses
in your anesthetic coffee,
spinning carnival letters,
some Soviet tragedies.And the aftermath is obvious:intravenous, estrogen promises
and a fast rolling gurney,
out of control
towards the inevitable
car crash..

The invisible blue

by Casey Haldaine

The fishes
don’t whisper to me

They sleep in silence
at the bottom of conscience
and wait
for the reckoning
to come.

Cold blooded waves
grinding teeth,
conspire against the odds,
pealing pale skin;

mainsail for an engine,
a vessel for a purpose.

Followed by paper boats
leaving thoughts
and acryl marks
as they float

the invisible


Drowning always finds a way 

by Casey Haldaine

Drowning always finds its way
into our bloodstreams.

Seventeen types of rain,
tapping on a humble roof.

The rivers named
after childhood memories.

Here’s a bit of orange juice,
just to dip the tongue.

The Old River of Prague
washes my folly away.

The steam came with fuel,
engines calling each stop.

Mist of the morning
washing faces,

and the water
slowly gathers.


Give a pulse

by Casey Haldaine

The shade of light
is set by your presence.

The rain plays drums
on a flickering lamp,
my boots are splashing
to a rhythm.

The drops on the road
and the running engines,
the moons and distant stars,
in each puddle.

give a pulse
to a faceless street.



Casey Haldaine is a regular chap from Slovakia, currently living in Wales. Daytime worker/night-time writer, mostly inspired by music and nature. 








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