New Poetry, Fiction, Essays

Poetry by Linda Stevenson, Christopher Moore and Wanda Morrow Clevenger

Linda Stevenson is a founding member of Melbourne Poets Union, facilitator of poetry groups in gaols and community centres, contributor to anthologies. Chapbook “The Tipping Point”, a collection of eco-poems published in 2015, feature guest poet on Radio 3CR “Spoken Word”. Active as a poet within the online poetry sector, hosts regular Salons at her home in Frankston, Victoria.









Comrade, walk to the water’s edge, a grab bag

of all you possess dragging over wet sand.

Red light frays the surface; see, it splits,

a trough of loaded syntax, a drift, apostrophe’s

belonging, where we’re headed now.


I thought you might like my company.

Remember, we gathered shells,

listening for omens. Remember, inundation dreams

woke us early mornings,

but we shelved them away with old books,

proceeded to the day, its repetitions, editing.


I don’t have much to say, no point, you know it.

Hold on to something, this horizon even.

Our feet sink into wasteland,

grit, erosion, we’re stumbling.

No remedies, no life rafts. But stand. Wait.


One last thing…

I know why you suddenly screamed,

seeing, on the instant, the arc of our travelling,

the startled flight from the orchard,

future tenses hanging, like ready fruit,

from the branching out of our birth.





All rumours of my solitude

have been wildly inflated.

It’s simply that today was a chilled depth

of indecision, its winds finally calling

heads or tails. I stayed home. Though

I had planned to go,

do an open mic spot if allowed.


I have done these things instead:

a quick chicken dish,

portions needful to be taken

from raw to readied plate,

several poems, also raw,

but they will succumb later

to my seasoning, last preparations for

forthcoming joint art show,

hopes re competition, ( I’ve “run it up”

twice prior ), and I’ve finished the antibiotic,

stopped coughing, except for sometimes.


That’s all.

Apart from thinking.

Apart from hoping that you’d find your car keys,

apart from keeping company with the cat,

apart from remembering and thinking.


Rumours about my thinking are rife, inflated,

quite apart from the ones about my solitude,

my memories, and my relationship

with the weather. I think you know that.

Just hope it’s a nicer day tomorrow.




Christopher Moore has been writing poetry since 2012 and has been published in his college’s magazine, The Laconic several times since 2015.  He loves to express emotion within his poetry and his poems often times make people learn something interesting once reading them. He grabs inspiration from wherever he can find it.






The Time Traveling Poet


Born in the early Internet age, she seems a bit out of place.
Her words, her thoughts, very untypical for her generation.
Almost like she got sucked into a wormhole
and ended up close to the third millennium.
She longs for the daring American poets
who stayed in Paris after the Great War was over.
Elaborate swing halls,
sharing music that goes against their parents and grandparents.
Flapper culture suits her well as the jazz music plays on.
Like Alice down the rabbit hole,
she somehow got sucked into a wormhole
and ended up in the early twenty-first century.




Wanda Morrow Clevenger is a former Carlinville, IL native.  Over 443 pieces of her work appear in 155 print and electronic publications.  Her flash fiction “Roses and Peppermint Candy” won the 2014 Winter Short Story Contest in The Holiday Café.  Her poem “corsage” won the 2014 Black Diamond Award for Excellence of Craft in The Midnight on the Stroll Poetry Contest. Her nonfiction “Big Love” was nominated for 2016 Best of Net by Red Fez literary journal.





the first poem in weeks



.when Mom passed


my meds for PTSD

effectively blocked

the confluence of

the customary emotions

leaving me venerable

to any number of potential

crooked eyebrows

and tongue lashings


we had spent

the entire day

with her

the week before

scraping hard

at the bottom

of the barrel

for fresh conversation


I am grateful

for that

at least


when she passed

I wrote the first

poem in weeks



not this one



14,035 days


legit for

14,035 days

he says we have

nothing in common

as though he’s been


morphed from

dead Koa wood

rendered rain-man

as to how we

got together

in the first place


I ignore the remark

a sinless observation

he’s maybe right

he’s maybe wrong


as is my way

I beg to differ





Mom tried

to play cupid

between me

and a boy

down the road


kept pushing

and pushing

but he was very tall

I was very short

she didn’t see

how I saw


she said

‘he goes to church’

and that

was enough




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