New Poetry, Fiction, Essays

Poetry One

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I Edit my Life

By Michael Lee Johnson


edit my life

clothesline pins & clips

hang to dry,

dirty laundry,

I turn poetic hedonistic

in my early 70’s

reviewing the joys

and the sorrows

of my journey.

I find myself wanting

a new review, a new product,

a new time machine,

a new internet space,

a new planet where

we small, wee creative

creatures can grow.


Michael Lee Johnson lived ten years in Canada during the Vietnam era. He is a Canadian and USA citizen. Today he is a poet, editor, publisher, freelance writer, amateur photographer, small business owner in Itasca, Illinois.  He has been published in more than 930 small press magazines in 33 different countries or republics, and he edits 10 poetry sites.  Author’s website http://poetryman.mysite.com/.  Michael is the author of The Lost American:  From Exile to Freedom (136 page book) ISBN:  978-0-595-46091-5, several chapbooks of poetry, including From Which Place the Morning Rises and Challenge of Night and Day, and Chicago Poems.  




by Kapardeli Eftichia


You must catch
and that strange
with white petals
and the red mark
the circle of life
to imprison

pink Sorrows
the shoulders of the angels
their wings ornaments
where the soul incessantly
the sky spreads and flies


At night the stars free
time to go
with the Sun heart
Stis land hug to submerge
together with the poor
and the hungry of the world
into an uninterrupted
sleepless prayer


By Leanne Neill

Corporations measure her worth

in milliliters.

There’s a price on her face,

barcode on her forehead,

Use by date,

stamped on her demeanor.

All in the terminology though

it seems;

Best before,

may soften the blow.


Society is fickle,

there’s still money to be made;

just a different set of insecurities to target.

Discarding all receipts, proof of value,

she sends postcards from her lustrous heart.

She knows despite her sun screen,

she’s just beginning to ripen.

There are few, can afford her.


By Stealth

By Leanne Neill



I avoid you;

in the quiet of darkness,

by stealth.

Monsters under my bed;

teeth sharp and defined.

Even the certainty of daylight

allows no comfort,

in your shadowed bruising.


The Light

By Leanne Neill


Maybe it’ s time to relent,

to a higher power.

I’m messing it all up

with the consistency

of a prodigal fool.

My supremacy of self

a well-constructed fallacy,

all outside saviors,

devils in obvious disguise.

In foetal position,

I’ll await your voice;

same one came to me years ago,

in the darkness of a child lost.

She told me that everything

was going to be just fine;

like any wise woman,

she was right.

Come to me my guardian angel,

I’ll not denounce you this time.

Please tell me again;

I’m ready now,

for the light.


Leanne Neill is a company director, mother of three, and a self-professed composer of words.  She has twenty-three years of experience in public libraries and local government.  In May 2016, she started her poetry-inspired Facebook page : LUST for WORDS.  Her poetry collection, ‘Fine Lines and Unpolished Pieces of Me,’ is due for release in 2017.  She lives in Melbourne, Australia.







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Poetry- Vivien Jones

Allotment I just have to see those rigs, those bed-spread patches, to see my mother sewing fragments of grown-out-of clothes, to make a summer skirt.

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