I am a poet. I realize how it is to find outlets. I also have never done this as a means to make money, but losing money on it is not acceptable and find I no longer have the time to do this, focus on my day job, my other podcast work, and my own poetry. In fact, what little time I would have used to market my own poetry have often been used to publish things here. Given that I have co-authored non-fiction book on the table, a new chapbook scheduled to come out, a promotion at my day job, and several podcast projects, I needed to cut something down, and this is it.

While the journal will remain here on WordPress, and YouTube page will be updated with prior works and remain the archive of poet cast, I have unlaunched the Patreon, canceled the hosting on the new podcast, and will host the four recorded episodes at my personal project, Varn Vlog and eventually on the YouTube page.

Shalon Van Tine, P.H. Higgins, and I are all too busy to really devote the time this project deserves although we may very well post articles on film or reviews of poetry books here from time to time. Our submissions are closed indefinitely, but the site will remain up and the work we have published will remain available. Should conditions change, we may re-open the journal, but in the immediate future, all work here will be solicited and updates will be sporadic.

Please read the poets who have contributed to us the past eight years. Their work will remain here for you, and I hope you savor it. I would like to thank them for giving me this artistic outlet for the better part of a decade. I would like to thank all the volunteer staff over the last decade. I would like to thank Steven for talking me into this and for discussing books and movies with me for almost nine years. You will find future with work with Steven, P.H., Shalon, and I on my podcast VarnVlog in addition to here.

Sincerely,

C. Derick Varn

Managing Editor

On The Complex Illogical Hypothesis

The waiting period of the puzzle pieces
elongates unevenly; now A may cross B
and meet at the point C; now those arrière-pensée
will conglomerate and succeed in upholding
the predictions and predestined sooths.

I gather one piece, and think, “Now where did
I place the other pieces?” A slow car runs down
a withered red balloon. Hello to Mrs Snyder.
“Where are you?” The following piece screams silently.
Somewhere between the truths I am. We are.
Rain oozing out of the tips of the monsoon clouds.
The road lies wet. The tire-mark shows a path.

The Behaviour Pattern of the Illusions

Midnight shakes me awake
just before I fall asleep,
and I move the window’s curtain a bit,
see five of our neighbours
sitting in our front yard looking at my house.

I have a gun by my imagination.
I keep it locked in my conscience.
The summer whistles as the dark
reaches the boiling point.

And then, in the same night
I open the curtain with all my might;
my muscles ache and ring;
I find nothing but the darkness outside.
No one faces me when I feel
the strength to face them.

An author and a father, Kushal Poddar, edited a magazine – ‘Words Surfacing’, authored seven volumes including ‘The Circus Came To My Island’, ‘A Place For Your Ghost Animals’, ‘Eternity Restoration Project- Selected and New Poems’ and ‘Herding My Thoughts To The Slaughterhouse-A Prequel’. His works have been translated in ten languages.

Find and follow him at amazon.com/author/kushalpoddar_thepoet

Author Facebook- https://www.facebook.com/KushalTheWriter/

Twitter- https://twitter.com/Kushalpoe

They told me in town this was the place to see them.

And it’s winter, so no one is here but me, and a dog,

A young dog, sifting the black plastic trash bag left

On top of the cement picnic table, someone’s laundry, it appears,

Because all he pulls out is a sock, a shirt, a pair

Of jeans with the back pockets torn, a sexy lavender bra

He swings frantically against the night, because it’s stuck, I suspect,

The lacey frill, most likely, snagged on one of his small sharp teeth,

And it will not soothe his hunger. Nothing much else is going on,

Unfortunately. On the hillside, where the lights, they say, will appear,

The lights perhaps of decapitated miners searching

For their missing heads, or of incredibly sophisticated aliens,

Large eyes emitting bright beams of phosphorescent nebulae,

Even, possibly, the eyes of the hedge fund manager

Who hosts the private opening of an Argentine painter,

His work a series of cardboard signs he’s purchased,

According to the catalogue’s preface, from the homeless,

His protest, he’s quoted as saying, against theatrical want and its

Recurrent performance. Anyway, on the hillside, nothing. It’s still dark, not even

A house-light, steady, unwavering, has pierced it. So I watch

For 30 minutes, an hour, and still nothing, and then, there, there, there—

A truck judging from its twin headlights, driven, judging by its

Inconstant weaving, by a couple of kids on their way

To a party. 2 hours later I’m still there, the night

Even darker, as is the dog, which by this time has loosed himself

Of the lingerie and is watching me carefully, growling occasionally,

To get my attention. At the third hour it’s getting harder

And still nothing, just the shifting of the stars, Orion

With his ornamented belt glittering fantastically, though

These, I think, are not the lights they speak of. By now

I am tired, and the dog, also tired, has curled up

By the trash bin, half in shadow, half in light, but when

I take my sandwich out, because it’s hungry work

Watching the dark for hours, he gets up, sniffing the air

And looking at me, the way dogs do, so I give him half, what

the hell, I think, he’s hungry too, which he swallows in

3 quick staggering gulps, and then, I’m pretty certain of this,

smiles at me, not once, but twice, before he angles away, pleased,

trotting off, his head turned back over his shoulder, still smiling,

his sharp small teeth like a beacon, a mysterious, marvelous,

otherworldy beacon that glows impossibly, weaving as it picks

up speed, moving with an incredible quickness across the dark, impenetrable dark, of the land.

Randall Watson is the author of No Evil is Wide, (Madville Publishing), which received the Quarterly West prize in the novella, The Geometry of Wishes (Texas Review Press), a finalist in the Juniper and Tampa Review Poetry Prizes, The Sleep Accusations, whichreceived the Blue Lynx Poetry Prize at Eastern Washington University, (currently available through Carnegie Mellon University Press), and Las Delaciones del Sueno, translated by Antonio Saborit with an Introduction by Adam Zagajewski, published in a bi-lingual edition by the Universidad Veracruzana in Xalapa, Mexico.

Irony

The virtual trapeze in social media
swings dangerously both ways
whenever you comment or try to
reply to a question

Often a poser is one more arrow
from the same quiver that holds
for centuries the sharp verbal darts
sharp to tear deep into the prey
to fall flat on the ground

Posers give the teeth and command
of institutions to individuals
With an the inelastic trap the question pushes
the second person who finds around him
two pairs of
parallel and perpendicular lines suddenly drawn
shaping a square
within which he finds
homogeneous answers

I somehow loosen the caution
after biting dust and am an
ideal scapegoat

But unlike these
the questions of life
are elastic and the quest for answers
endless

Mist

I know for sure neither I
nor my parents chose one another

But
Why the partners of my choice chose
not to partner anything worthy

Why I feel scared amidst a crowd
in social media

Why some pages of my decade back diary
surface of their own this year on dates not matching
the previous entries

Why same AI messages are repeated in reply
by different friends and family members
for my anxious pings

Why there is homogeneous emptiness
in relationships of different levels of hype

How someone double my size
is going about comfortably in my missing shirt
dyed and ‘with love’ embroidered above my name

Whether the boons I grabbed desperately are traps

Why some sparks get dampened in mundane challenges
and some others into ball of fire

I am clueless

P.Muralidharan, a versatile thinker, critique and writer’s nonfiction ‘BUBBLES BURST’ has been widely appreciated by readers. A well known writer in Tamil for more than two decades and now contributing in English also. In English, not only have his short stories been included in a few anthologies including HydRaw’s, several of them have also been published in online  magazines and publishing house portals. He lives in Chennai, India, and has contributed in English and Tamil in the creative arena.

I am through a superb window – looking.
An angel of feeling awakes in me.
The dreamy oak-trees stand alway leafless.
The native auspicious cue is just large.

My scenery – the enchanted verdure.
The moony old barn of Ted my dear nuncle.
I am looking at a proud throng of crows.
They belong to the whiff of every times.

The springtide looks so meek-beauteous-fair,
first and foremost Morningstar – at night.
I daydream springwards window-view withal
of a dreamy Ovidian summer gale.

Homelike herbage that seems to bewitch all.
My cats want to enchant the fantasy.
Dreamed subtle morn withal notably.

Paweł Markiewicz was born 1983 in Siemiatycze in Poland. He is poet who lives in Bielsk Podlaski and writes tender poems, haiku as well as long poems. Paweł has published his poetries in many magazines. He writes in English and German.

Cameron Morse is Senior Reviews editor at Harbor Review, a poetry editor at Harbor Editions, and the author of six collections of poetry. His first, Fall Risk, won Glass Lyre Press’s 2018 Best Book Award. His latest is Far Other (Woodley Press, 2020). He holds and MFA from the University of Kansas City—Missouri and lives in Independence, Missouri, with his wife Lili and two children. For more information, check out his Facebook page or website.    

Walking Away from Nowhere

There are no words for what I feel,
only emotions flying wild.

I signed a contract,
not for my soul, but for my life.
It states that I belong to no one,
not even myself.

There is no wealth involved.
No notoriety, longevity, nor good-health.
Only the insistence,
that I pay for my own sins.

Sins, I have many.
I have transgressed throughout the years.
There is not a corner that I can turn,
where I cannot say “Mea Culpa.”

For every year that has stung me,
I have stung it back twofold.
I cannot find the peace that I seek,
withing the written text.

So, I spend each waking hour of each day,
searching for those words that never come.

Time is a Lie

The pain of discovery.
The distance of loss.
Time is a lie that weaves its song
among meadows of hope.

An age of thought,
not knowing truth.
We seek repentance
within ourselves.

Moonlit words
hide our love,
before the dawn awakes.

I open my eyes
to find you gone.
Will I ever see you again?

The Tired Lives of Old Men

songs
sung out of tune
coming from voices
raspy with hate

lives
lived far too long
belonging to
ancient-bodied men

time
filtered by a sun
grown cold
from neglect

day to day
we struggle
wondering where
we went wrong

off-road path to freedom
slowly sinking in the mire
we dig deeper into trenches
of self-content

caring not for humanity
nor for well-worn waves of guilt
hence
the final sour note is struck

Ann Christine Tabaka was nominated for the 2017 Pushcart Prize in Poetry. She is the winner of Spillwords Press 2020 Publication of the Year, her bio is featured in the “Who’s Who of Emerging Writers 2020,” published by Sweetycat Press. Chris has been internationally published, and won poetry awards from numerous publications. Her work has been translated into Sequoyah-Cherokee Syllabics, into French, and into Spanish. She is the author of 13 poetry books. She has been published micro-fiction anthologies and short story publications.  Christine lives in Delaware, USA.  She loves gardening and cooking.  Chris lives with her husband and four cats. Her most recent credits are: The American Writers Review, The Scribe Magazine, The Phoenix, Burningword Literary Journal, Muddy River Poetry Review, The Silver Blade, Silver Birch Press, Pomona Valley Review, Page & Spine, West Texas Literary Review, The Hungry Chimera, Sheila-Na-Gig, Foliate Oak Review, The McKinley Review, Fourth & Sycamore.

limpet wisdom

I’m putting out fruit.
scuze me, he says, leaning over me. I need to get at them grapes …

… I’m putting out tins
and he’s like: you again? move, I wanna grab some beans!

… I’m wheeling my cage of stock back across the shop floor
and he walks around me, huffing and puffing.
you taking the piss? he says. leave me alone, will you?

then the bell rings, telling me to jump on tills.
I jump on and say: next please …
and who comes over?
you’re fucking stalking me, you are! he says,
dumping his basket down. this is fucking ridiculous!
but he still lets me serve him
so I have to ask: why don’t you use the self-service machines?
you know, since human contact obviously bothers you so much?

he launches into this big speech
about how grateful I should be
that customers like him – who pay my wage, by the way –
still want real people serving them,
otherwise I’d be replaced by robots, wouldn’t I?

and yet for some reason,
as I watch him march out
with a jobcentre booklet
sticking out the arse pocket of tracksuit bottoms,
I am not grateful.

maybe I’m just not a people person like he is.

the passing of time and other things

she’s buying underwear.

you know you can’t return this? I ask her.
yeah. she nods. I know.
just checking, I say. you’d be surprised,
the amount of people who try to bring underwear back.
I’m not stupid! she says.
ok, I say. sorry.

she pays.
I watch her storm out.
I see her through the window, looking at her purchase.
she’s thinking …

wait for it,
I tell myself as I watch her.
wait for it …

she turns around,
marches back in
and slaps the bag back down on the counter.
changed my mind, she says,
folding her arms
and smiling.

will she tell the manager
I didn’t explain the return policy for underwear
or will she say
she should get a refund anyway
because I was “rude” to her?

let’s find out.

Paul Tanner has been earning minimum wage, and writing about it, for too long. He was shortlisted for the Erbacce 2020 Poetry Prize. Author of “Shop Talk” (Penniless Press, 2019), “No Refunds” (Alien Buddha Press, 2020) and “Working Class Zero” (Dreich Publications, 2021).

Sarcasm on Tape

Al being sacred, at a cost to the resident,
Turning back punters on an incessant morning
The undirected kiss desperately seeking
It’s unholy destination at a home like this
Forgiven, forgotten about once the drink ceases.

Born once, born forever, notified for sound
Some other syndrome drowns in its pocket
Credible unions still never to understand
Caught on the briars of a fulsome pandemic
No announcements of love to past noisily.

Swimming in sugar, wretched enjoyment
Speech on corners accelerate grandly
No word on interruptions taken care of
The common poison learning on its spite
Under and over skin, knowing where loved.

Knowing more than realised, disrobed on the quiet
No one awake at this unholy hour, simple,
Recycled misgivings turn on its own heel,
Sarcasm on tape for the bold percentage
The desired collectables stamping out romance.

Trying out for the rank and file genius
Refusing effort where necessity goes forth,
Changing the pronouns an assumed task
Earning below your means, divorced over will
Pardoned over photographs grinding to a halt.

Localised Flooding

Nothing’s changed at all, a predictable marriage
Nature’s bounty knows no reasonable grounds
Photographed unawares, cute aristocrats
There to be looked at, to renege on its purpose.

A porridge of blood and bone, unreliable narrator
Darkly circling in the sorrow that’s in it,
The conscience gathering what is left to surmise
Doing tawdry favours on a raft of promise.

Run off hands and feet, adopting more strictures
Slashed for misdemeanours otherwise staid
The sacred purchase equalises other friends
Running among the scissors grandiose shame.

Garnering experience on another hard station
Rising through the silent heat a periodic ride
The mislaid autograph good for its keepsake
Others, being straight, eliminated on sight.

Not bring a hero, or coming even close
Trusted on being close, keeping someone happy
Lucky to sell, whatever jobs need doing
Poisoned fame, tracked down to a bedsit.

Blood through entrails, disrobed in carcass,
The large floral dress measures to a loudspeaker
Climbing to a Greenspan, waiting on correlation
Not bothering to notify the dregs that are there.

 Patricia Walsh was born in the parish of Mourneabbey, in north Co Cork,and educated at University College Cork, graduating with an MA in Archaeology. Her poetry has been published in Stony Thursday; Southword; Narrator International;  Trouvaille Review; Strukturrus; Seventh Quarry; Vox Galvia; The Quarryman; Brickplight, The Literatus, and Otherwise Engaged.  She has already published a chapbook, titled Continuity DeeErrors  in 2010, and a novel, The Quest for Lost Éire, in 2014.  A second collection of poetry, titled Citizens Arrest, was published online by Libretto in 2020.  A further collection of poetry, titled Outstanding Balance, is scheduled for publication in early 2021.  She was the featured poet in the inaugural edition of Fishbowl Magazine, and is a regular attendee at the O Bheal poetry night in Cork city.