Ingrid Bruck – 1 poem

Super Wolf Moon 


The wolf moon leaps
at the throat of night. 
She growls 
at the setting sun 
in passing,
refuses the company of planets,
dims nearby constellations.
Her snarls and yelps
spurt light 
across the perigee to earth,
her sky-shine glows 
radiant on snow.
On New Years Eve and Day,
this blazing super moon
competes with fireworks,  
candescent lights,
the ferocity of cold. 
The solitary super moon howls 
on an empty stage, 
awash in the afterglow 
of solstice.
May it augur well 
for our infant year. 



Ingrid Bruck lives in Pennsylvania Amish country in the USA, a landscape that inhabits her writing. A retired library director, she writes short form poetry. Current work appears in Unbroken Journal, The Song Is, W.I.S.H., Eunoia, Nature Writing, and Entropy. Poetry site:

Miki Byrne – 1 poem



We are all that we have ever been
and like matryoshka dolls,
our present encloses layer upon layer.
All that went before—the baby crying
in indefinable need, small child
wide-eyed in dark hours, right through
all the phases, day-turned pages,
until now.
This minute, where all
that has been gathered rests within.
Keeps backbone straight, soul clean,
a bright heart proud and beating.




Miki Byrne has had three poetry collections published and had work included in over 170 poetry magazines and anthologies. She has read on Radio and TV and is active on the spoken word scene in Cheltenham. Miki also ran a poetry writing group at The Roses Theatre, Tewkesbury. Miki lived on a Narrowboat for years and began performing her poems in a bikers club in Birmingham.
Miki is disabled and now lives near Tewkesbury. Gloucestershire.UK.

John Sweet – 2 poems




Walk into the room

looking for a way to leave


My history was never as

violent as yours, but it’s not

like I’m going to apologize


Christ isn’t a solution,

obviously, but

a riddle


look at it from every angle


Why would a man choose

to murder his own child?


How much sunlight can a

beautiful woman hold

in her cupped hands?


It’s not answers any of us

are after here, but praise.




The song of love



or something for all the murdered waitresses,

all the suicides and the missing ones,

all the kids they put up for adoption in the summer of ‘92


something for the streets that

end at graveyards


for the town that floods while we sleep and it’s

nice thinking I’ve escaped my past even

when the reality is always more complicated


it’s the last day of

whatever season my father died in


crows at the foot of every cross and

along the edges of the interstate and always the

shadows of collapsing barns


always blinding sunlight and the absence of heat


the names we forget and

the bodies we can’t seem to


the faces that are never happy to see us


voices that tell us to come in

but never anyone willing to offer us

something to stop the bleeding.





John sweet, b 1968, still numbered among the living.  A believer in writing as catharsis.  An optimistic pessimist.  Opposed to all organized religion and political parties.  Avoids zealots and social media whenever possible.  His latest collections include APPROXIMATE WILDERNESS (2016 Flutter Press) and BASTARD FAITH (2017 Scars Publications).  All pertinent facts about his life are buried somewhere in his writing.

Adelaide S. More – 2 poems

Resignations of my location


Aitu circles my apartment

in the form of a pelagi‘s father

walking, smoking at the edge of jungle.


Dark rain pops

as drops find shallow puddles

in pocked earth around my roof.



Feigning sleep.

The cigarette smoke hangs just on the other side of my curtains.

A phantom of it slinks in, saturating the room.

I resign myself to breathe.


A snap, and a banana leaf, crashes onto the roof.

I resign myself to breathe.




Rhetorical questions


What is it to sit with the tide?

The surf is not—is never a murmur.

It is a solid, constant statement, repeated and varied.


Perhaps sitting with the tide is a chance to know myself?

To understand fear—the wisdom in it.

To gain perspective. Realize my potential for change.


maybe it’s just escape


Why do I squirm inside, walking the rocks?

Is it the memory of the dog pack nearly setting on me last weekend?

Is it the spider-like quality of the crabs scuttling into cracks?

Is it the slimy shine of the things that cling to moist rocks with front legs, then flip and snake into the brine of tidal pools with their sleek hind tails?

Or is it only the fear of the surf?

The reality of the tide’s power?

The unforgiving consequences of a rocky shore?



Adelaide lives in the Midwest with a golden lab named Sam and spends time teaching English as a Second Language to more recent arrivers at an adult learning center.

Adelaide’s poetry and fiction have appeared in electronic publications including New MysticsThe Enchanting VersesTruck, and Westview Journal.

Sometimes Sam does consider getting on a plane.

You can reach A.S. More at


Byron Beynon – 1 poem




He continues westwards,
a few miles at a time,
where roots recognise
the flavour of the rain.
Place of Gwenllian’s nemesis,
as a community settles
with castle, spire,
and that sense of accent.
On the horizon
the Gower emerges
from pre-history,
a panorama of atmosphere
as salty flats
wait for the future to arrive.






Byron Beynon lives in Wales. His work has appeared in several publications including London Magazine, Cyphers, Crannog, Poetry Wales and The Yellow Nib. Collections include Cuffs (Rack Press) and The Echoing Coastline (Agenda Editions).