Bobby Bolt – 3 poems 



In July we sang cat tail whispers swaying in a heat

with the seasons.  One month of rain made us


the most enlarged versions of ourselves,

so fullness became our biology, the Middle-West

with its many volumes inviting Gemini rain destined

to pale under an angry star.  Battle cries rang


more like warnings in a song christened

Arthritic Bending and the Ultimate Snap. July,

when a supply vessel ailed by overpressure

events exploded in deathless spectacle


before piercing its destination.  How I would learn

the dodged bullet perseveres, never homeless.


throwing wishes to the future, promises of autumn

for extinction of the present as a highway mirage,

one through which I drove with black-blooded


roadkill left behind in a poem called

How to be One with Nature: Something I Learned Too Late.




It won’t really feel like leaving

if you remember the scar hiding

just below your hairline, how places

like this could split you red and wide

and flying into the next, your

swordsmanship tested and proved

absent on two continents—some

fingers were harmed in the making

of this food—while three Japanese

characters were drawn in the making

of your name, the one found

on a green sheath because what’s

the point in concealing a sword,

and if you remember old thoughts

like how people used to look braver

and swing battle-worn words at each other

in the pictures you weren’t alive to take,

then this might look more like a time

machine than an escape plan,

where nervous fingers run through

your hair, pulling like tires for answers

in the foreground and if you hit a bump,

slip and fall between the creases

of your brain then think of a four-mile

island, letting the luck of fifty polydactyl

cats and their leader MacLeish float you

back, chasing the far-away echo

you thought you heard, and if you keep

her voice closer to your ear like

the freckled reminder of a piercing

that never happened, or the poem

in the towered, singing bell then

you’ll know to keep near some coverage,

all walls and ceilings and floors

and the matching shapes within remind you

what will blanket your nervous sleep:

the lesson of spider-child born in the center

who uses his years to spread and re-center,

as such you will leave your crisp summer stanzas

of corn and soy with the sight of her

footprints on the unwashed passenger

side windshield, and some home can fly

with you to other towns on golden song

where you might close your eyes, and breathe.




There’s a curious movement in going anywhere,

and didn’t you know we’re all hanging,


spinning upside down and dangling

by the roots?  Stay still if you like, and stare,


or go find a way out but even if you runhere

you’re actually going there.  Not lost, but losing


change and keys, heels over head when moving

more around the question than toward.  Veering


blood unequipped with rear view, your vessels

won’t move backward, just stop and flow.


A thousand numbers you’ll never know, breaking

codes and making codes and who guessed


the end from Mayan stone?  With buttons pressed

on peace we’re waging, vacant silos make our homes.


Bobby Bolt recently received his BA in English from the University of Illinois at Springfield, and will begin his candidacy for an MFA in Poetry at Texas State University this fall.  At UIS, he served as Poetry Editor for both Alchemist Review and Compass Literary Journal—the latter a publication he co-founded with some classmates.  Bobby’s work has appeared or is forthcoming in Postcard Poetry & Prose MagazineRoute 7 ReviewAmore: An Anthology of Love Poems, Rappahannock ReviewSink Hollow, RunestonePretty Owl Poetryand Lincoln Land Review.

Joan McNerney – 4 poems 

While we waited


Hearing daybreak begin in

alphabet chaos.

Forgetting ocean trenches are

longer than mountains.

Our cores hard like moons

listening to rhythm of

dead waters.



The electric generation

watching clocks

push forward on soiled walls.

Worms breeding

from each other. Slimy bellies

dressed in sweat

and polyester.



Weary with longing to pop

out of our skins.

Our anger burns through eyes of eagles.

This configuration of rage.


Fire flying

We realize not a thing is

w   i   d  e   r

than the sky.








His long fingers

search coded panels

buttons cool smooth

attached to glowing screens.


Isn’t he powerful?

The general

          general motors

general electric

and the major, major holocaust?


So admirable

the admiral

can sweep our planet away

in less than half an hour.


Another fact to live with

we can all blow up

in flames.

At any instant

galleries of murdered faces.


All of us born with this

strange dilemma.

Why do anything

when everything is wrong?

Our hearts caged in fear.


The eyes of the dead

are glassy and surprised

staring with open mouths.


Yes and always there is pain

of what could possibly remain.

Perhaps some slabs of concrete?

Is that all we have been building, buildings?




That evening


After the operation,                                                                                                                                                                                                                      

you delirious

my heart torn apart

wearing robes of despair

o so heavy my desolation.


Walking through town

I passed train stations

where homeless

children sleep

…wild flowers plucked

from gardens of grief.


You were conjured up in

my mind as trees draw

your face over tops of

trees blossoms of trees

your fabulous face.


I must somehow

continue to live

in this mutilated world.

What is lost

cannot be found.




I planted my garden



on the wrong side

of moon forgetting

tides of ocean

lunar wax wane


only madness

was cultivated

there underground

tubular roots

corpulent veins


flowers called

despair gave off

a single fruit…


I ate it

my laughter

becoming harsh

my eyes grew




Joan McNerney’s poetry has been included in numerous literary magazines such as Seven Circle PressDinner with the MuseBlueline, Midnight Dreamers of Yellow Haze, Poppy Road ReviewBright Hills Press Anthologies and many Kind of A Hurricane Publications.  She has been nominated three times for Best of the Net.  Four of her books have been published by fine literary presses and she has four e-book titles. 

L.B. Sedlacek – 2 poems 

You will receive
some high prize
or reward.
You are patient and carefree.
Drink to your health.
Wish you
You will inherit some
money or a
small piece of land.
You will receive
some of nothing
or none.



The first time I learned about
divorce we were at the beach.
It was my cousin’s parents.  He didn’t
understand it at first.  Then he
was angry and bitter.
The arcade and the amusement
park by the beach, one in Carolina,
had bumper cars, a Ferris wheel,
Octopus, Bobsled, a game room
and a busy boardwalk.

He’d disappear on the boardwalk and
wouldn’t ride the rides because he
said he had no money for tickets.
I gave him some of mine but he
didn’t ride with me.
We went home.  We went separate ways.
His father moved out.  He stayed with
his mother.  He’s friends with his father
now some twenty years later and married
with his own kids.

The amusement park, the arcade, it still
sits there by the ocean.  It’s mostly known
now for its donut and taffy shops.  Last time
I went I wasn’t alone.  We didn’t ride the
rides or play games.

We just walked on the boardwalk and left.


L.B. Sedlacek is a poet and writer living in western North Carolina. L.B’s poems have appeared in such places as “Big Pulp,” “The Broad River Review,” “Mastodon Dentist,” “Pure Francis,” “Third Wednesday,” “The Broken Plate,” “Main Street Rag,” “Tales of the Talisman,” and others.
When not writing or reading poetry, L.B. enjoys swimming, riding
bicycles, doing volunteer work especially for the local humane society.
L.B. Sedlacek


L.B’s latest work is a memoir, “Life after Wreck”

ISBN 978-1-329-91674-6

Ken Allan Dronsfield – 2 poems 

Melting in the Dark

Mercy granted in the key of C

coffee cafe on a June Saturday

careless in fantasies or icy dreams

field full of Frisbee’s floating freely

geese on the pond chasing sailboats

tripping in the park; melting in the dark

Quagmire still runs searching for Lois

dance a jiggidy step as Peter frolics

seek forgiveness; tomorrow’s Sunday

busting a bubble from a pink Bazooka

Pleasuring rhyme upon a cartoon insert

begging for mercy in MacArthur’s Park.


Thorns and Petals

And in the final act

we were all just human

intoxicated with the idea

that love, only love would

heal our starved hearts,

mend our brokenness and

bind our wanton lust with

rose thorns and red petals.


Ken Allan Dronsfield is a published poet and author originally from New Hampshire, now residing in Oklahoma. He loves thunderstorms, walking in the woods at night, and spending time with his cats Merlin and Willa. He is the co-editor of the new poetry anthology titled, Moonlight Dreamers of Yellow Haze available at His published work can be found in journals, magazines and blogs throughout the web including: Indiana Voice Journal, The Literary Hatchet Magazine, Belle Reve Journal, Peeking Cat Magazine, Dead Snakes, Bewildering Stories and many others.

Welcome to Bindweed Magazine Issue 3!

For October, November and December all poetry and fiction published in Bindweed will be included in the later print anthology for Issue 3.

Bindweed Magazine Issue 2 will soon be available to buy in print. Read our news vine for more information:

If you want to submit for Issue 4 for publication in January, February and March check out the submission guidelines at:

Happy reading, Heavenly Flowers!

Leilanie Stewart 🌺

Fiction Promotion – Hym and Hur by Phillip Frey 

Title: Hym and Hur

Author: Phillip Frey

Format: Ebook available through Amazon and Smashwords

Pages: 29 pages

Published: 15 January 2014

ISBN: 978-83-7606-460-4




Extract from ‘Hym and Hur’


A bright flash lit up the restaurant window. The waitress snapped her eyes shut, thinking it was the sun bouncing off a windshield. Blinking her eyes open, she noticed the booth alongside the window was occupied. A booth she could have sworn had just been empty, and she made her way over to it.

Hym set the breakfast menu down. “Coffee,” he said to the waitress, “and can I get a hot fudge sundae at this hour?”

“No problem,” she told him. “And for you, ma’am?”

“Hot tea,” Hur said, “and a slice of cherry pie with two scoops of vanilla ice cream.”

“Sounds great,” the waitress smiled, and she left them.

“What’ll we do today?” Hur asked Hym.

Searching for an answer, his hazel eyes filled with mischief. “How about this?” he whispered. “For twenty-four hours we give everyone in Los Angeles bad luck.”

“But most of them already have bad luck,” Hur said. “And it would be a negative. Why not give everybody good luck?”

“Not really my kind of fun,” he slouched.

In the silence that followed, each tried to come up with something.

“Breakfast time,” the waitress announced. She served the drinks and desserts, and then was off to the next booth.

Hur’s blue eyes brightened. “I got it,” she said, and it was her turn to whisper. “For a day or two, no one in Los Angeles dies.”

Hym slapped his forehead. “That is great!”

“Oh-darn,” she said. “We’ll have to get you-know-who to go along with it.”

“Why wouldn’t he?” Hym said as he dug happily into his sundae. “It’ll give him a chance to shorten his list.”

Hur nodded skeptically as she took a big bite of her dessert.



Extract from ‘Hym and Hur’


Barney’s Beanery had just opened. There were only two customers at the bar. A chubby old woman sipped a beer at one end. At the other sat Death tossing back a shot of Jim Beam.

He grimaced with delight, slammed his glass down and said, “Barkeep—I’ll have another.”

Pouring the drink, the bartender eyed Death’s black coat and fedora, the pale skin and long gnarled fingers. “Perfect weather for a coat,” he cracked, “must be only about 80 out there.”

Death took hold of his fresh drink. “You’re too young to be a real barkeep,” he said. “You’re a standup comic, just trying to make ends meet.”

“Got me pegged,” said the bartender. “Which club you see me at?”

“None,” Death grinned. He downed the Jim Beam, burped and said, “I’m a real whiz when it comes to people-insight.”

The Beanery’s door opened. Hym and Hur stepped in and gazed at the far end of the bar, at Death ordering one more for the road.

Death saw them and arose tall and lanky from his stool. “It’s Hym and Hur,” he said leaning in toward the bartender. “Pair of beauties, wouldn’t you say?” Then turning toward the pair, he hollered over the distance: “Pair of troublemakers is more like it!”

The bartender said, “Hey, take it easy or I’ll have to ask you to leave.”

“It’s them who ought to leave,” Death said. He backed away from the bar, knocked his stool over, danced in a circle and sang out, “Pretty pair will fill your bottles with beetles and worms, and your drinkers will dance with pink ‘n’ blue pachyderms!”

The chubby old woman at the near end of the bar put her money down and left.

“Geez,” Hym said quietly to Hur, “does Death need a vacation or what?”

Death stopped dancing, pointed a long finger at them and shouted, “Secrets—dirty little secrets!”

The bouncer came over to Death and said, “You’re outta here, buddy!” He grabbed Death’s coat sleeve and yanked him toward the back exit.

Suddenly, as if struck by lightning, the bouncer let go of the sleeve, reeled and hit the floor with a hard thud.

“He’ll wake up after I leave,” Death told the fearful bartender. “Now, now,” Death said to him, “everything’s fine.” Picking his stool up off the floor, Death sat and threw back his one for the road, Hym and Hur on the approach.

“I’m feeling much better now,” Death said to the bartender. “So good in fact, I’ll have another for the road while I give these two a moment of my time, over there in that booth.”

“And for us,” Hym ordered, “two root-beer floats.”

“Heavy on the ice cream,” Hur smiled brightly.

Death stepped over the bouncer and said to the bartender, “No use in trying to use the phone. Landlines and cells have been temporarily brought down by an unusually large sun spot.”




Information about the author:


Phillip Frey has been a professional actor, independent filmmaker and produced screenwriter. He is now devoted only to writing prose. The fiction books “Dangerous Times” and “Hym and Hur” were his first published works.
As a recent contest winner, Phillip Frey’s romantic comedy, “The Hero of Lost Causes,” may be read in Scribes Valley Publishing’s annual short story anthology, “Slow the Pace.” Available in print and eBook.

Jota Boombaba – 2 poems 

Volkswagen Van

                         “We never see him.”

                                     —Louis XIV


Grand chateau, once royal court of France

  now packed with peasants on bus tours from Paris

    —and me curled up in a Volkswagen van


Where once purple kings and sycophants pranced

  dancing with stars on a moonlit terrace

    this grand chateau, this royal crown of France


Now hosts a daily deluge—trash cans

  full of coffee cups, littered souvenirs

    and me curled up in a Volkswagen van


When one past prince fell ill at romance

  too ashamed to be seen, too embarrassed

    he shunned the chateau, a sin across France


Like him, I’m alone, a grin with no glance

  never to know a stroll with an heiress

    only the hold of a Volkswagen van





Railway Deli

                     —Train to Venice, 1980


Parents packed with diaper bags; infants, kids

  stuffed like peppers in a carriage corridor


Uniformed soldiers smoking San Miguels

  strung-up salamis, olives in a jar


I close my itchy eyes, dream of first-class seats

  roomy leather arms, air-con breeze


I pop a Coca-Cola, pour bubbles over ice

  prop my tired feet, sip the countryside


But eyes blink open, burning from the stench

  thin tin can, narrow wooden bench




Jota Boombaba, when not on the road, writes in and around San Francisco, where he lives an kicks back with his son.  Catch him most days at

Stephen Mead – 2 poems 



It came through at once,

Came as braille,

The canvas & that touching

Since you didn’t really reach

Out of anything but

My system analyzing

Time out of mind to be

These clearly surreal fingers,

Their sculpted span, a mass

Of presence shaping what went

Beyond letters & dreams,

The shadows of pages

Where we talked our heads off

In sleep, in exchanging silences

With strangers, in omitting

The distance which was

Our eyes calling from photos

Held in envelopes, held in

Our palms pouring

The other’s face,

The other’s mouth

Over sheets of

Private flesh




You have the sheen of certain paintings

Even as landscapes climb, solid steel & concrete

High rises blocking sun all around you, you,

Jungle dissident planted, a misfit, in this

Beat box ghetto…


Does the undercurrent contain jazz?

Listen, orchids rustle a tropical breeze

Through hair, the tattoo of blues

Bruise-stuck to skin.

With them the city is polished

Bright as moon in clear midnight.


Your gaze pierces sky scrapers.

These apartment projects become

Some evergreen glade

When you enter, a starling.


Mote on the move, light glints

As fire off the heat breathed.

These notes instill pure nitro

Nuances, a good fever’s rhythm.


Lulled by such thrumming

The landscape becomes still.

You lend it some more potency

& resonate.


A resident of NY, Stephen Mead is a published artist, writer, maker of short-collage films and sound-collage downloads. His latest P.O.D. amazon release is an art-text hybrid, “According to the Order of Nature (We too are Cosmos Made)”, a work which takes to task the words which have been used against LGBT folks from time immemorial.  In 2014 he began a webpage to gather links of his poetry being published in such zines as Great Works, Unlikely Stories, Quill & Parchment, etc., in one place: