Charlotte Ozment – 1 poem 



In the valley

of forgotten gods

she came, bringing

her cape of stars,

a celestial choir

tucked into the seams.


The fabric of her

luminance out-shown

the gloom, and the elders

whispered, on edge.


The moon had followed

her, caught up in

the wake of her

innocence, illuminating

hidden champions,

their agendas yet worn.


On a cloud built

of discontent she bathed

in the cosmic lights

that erupted from

her thoughts,

and the crows came

to learn her intent

so to fill our terra

with mystery.





Charlotte Ozment lives on several acres in Texas.  She finds words hidden in the world around her and can sometimes put them to paper before they fade. Her work has previously appeared in “Carcinogenic Poetry”, “Kleft Jaw”, “Star*Line” and “Café Aphra”.


Stefanie Bennett – 1 poem 




They said, you once lived here.

Here, in this room

Where the light rarely enters.


They said, in the brochure,

Your fame was found

Inside that cabinet drawer and


Tied up with string

Were your jottings;

The aftermaths and their encores.


This room is a musty place;

As white as milk. Sterile.

A monk’s cell.


They said, you once lived here…


A roll-top desk. A single chair.

And… by the window

The tallow lamp.


You would have called that light

To your side, Emily.

As friend and confidant.


Once made, the pact remained

Until the last breath

Hushed it out.


They said, you once lived here…


There is no rage to speak of.

Grief, and phantoms?

Only the tallow knows.


Now, the century has turned;

Taking you with it. Have

Things gone according to plan?


Outside, the white day welcomes

More guests, and still more



Simply because you

Once were – and

That is more than enough.




Stefanie Bennett has published a dozen poetry titles, a novel, & a libretto & been nominated for best of the web + the pushcart. ‘The Vanishing’ [poetry, 2015] is published by Walleah Press & available from Walleah & Amazon. Stefanie’s latest title [poetry] “Blanks From The Other World” is due late 2017. Of mixed heritage (Italian/Irish/Paugussett-Shawnee) she was born in Qld., Australia. 

Raymond Miller – 1 poem

What’s The Emoticon For This?


When there’s something suspect

in these tears I’ve wept;

too wet at the death of one unmet.

What’s the online grieving etiquette?

Are virtual wreaths for poets’ graves

flung silently through cyberspace

as artificial as the  blooms

on manicured, well-tended tombs?

I made you up – a mental picture,

dark and vital, bearded figure,

eyes a-blazing truth to power.

Quick then, take this token flower

thrown to follow through the shade.

Unseen faces cannot fade.





Raymond Miller 

Ian Mullins – 2 poems 



You haven’t been yourself,

she says. So who have I been?

Perhaps the creature who hides

behind my back and turns

when I turn, so I never

glimpse him but know he’s 

always there. You, of course,

neither know nor care

for this wild screaming boy, 

who would shoot out the moon 

and blind the sun’s eye 

for a bet. No wonder then, 

that when my wild shadow 

shows himself you find him 

mute and strange, beating odd tattoos 

with his claws on cold, 

broken earth. And if he could speak

what would he say but

 I haven’t  been myself  

for some time?





Time Out 


It’s hard work

being out of your mind:

all those words

tugging on your tongue

as though all your past lives have

re-incarnated into your skull,

and all of them have

too much to say

in too many languages

no-one speaks anymore.

Better here, drugged out

on the bench watching a game

that’s nothing more than

grown-ups playing at

being kids again; remembering

a time when everything mattered

but none of it was your fault,

when you could walk home

swinging your bat, telling yourself

you’ll laugh at this when 

you’re sad and old, when dreaming 

is just another way 

of kidding yourself that you’re 

really quite sane; it’s just 

the world that’s mad as a mouse 

chasing a cat to steal 

back cheese. Don’t they 

set traps for that?





Ian Mullins

Flora-Belle Smith – 1 poem

Don’t Be Afraid of Daddy 



Midnight, A cold night in November. 

Mama braiding my hair with her hands so tender. 

Hearing moans of fright in the air, she said, 

That’s just your daddy and he’s having nightmares again. 

Mama why you puttin’ up all them knives? 

I need to protect you, your brother and I. 

Then she cries, he wants to take us with him when he pulls the trigger. 

I won’t allow a murder-suicide. 

When I sleep and hear a creek I open my eyes. 

‘Cuz he just ain’t in his right mind. 

But mama told me, mama told me, 

Don’t be afraid of daddy, he’s a good man. 

He’s seen a lot of things that others couldn’t withstand. 

He loves you more than you’ll ever know, 

But he’s falling prey to his demons, 

So who knows how long till he goes.





Flora Belle Smith