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Keep reading more of Issue 5: April, May and June 2017.

Submissions open for Issue 6 to be published in July, August and September 2017.


KJ Hannah Greenberg – 1 poem


Abetted by a need to know such things, about most topics,
While lecturing on grownup sands, near swimming pools,
He failed to appreciate recently powered “fusion’s” ken.

Thereafter, in some studies, acquired rights seemed pablum.
Standard faculties soon became, in literary fashion, steep
Conditions for tenure overrides, signs of eponymous others.

Accordingly, his brood, those would-be Ivy Leaguers,
Heads barely elevated from their books, fazed issues
Entailing aerobics, swooning at movies, lizard lunches.

Time and success changed those brainy boobs;
Such status seekers’ sere impacted vanishing
Sororities of wives, mothers, lovers, confidents.

Consistent with some points of view, they spewed litotes,
Cached acanthus, adorned starboard walls with hummingbirds,
Encouraged computer meltdowns (omnificent, not fried).

Worthy diversions, more than extended weekends, finally
Culled their delvings into tossed notions, salad dressing,
Cashmere memories. Care’s needed researching Komodos.


KJ Hannah Greenberg gets high on adverbs, mixes more metaphors than a platypus has pockets, and attempts to matchmake words like “balderdash” and “xylophone.” Occasionally, she also creates mawkish prose. Hannah’s poetry books are: A Grand Sociology Lesson (Lit Fest Press, 2017, Forthcoming), Mothers Ought to Utter Only Niceties (Unbound CONTENT, 2016, Forthcoming), Dancing with Hedgehogs, (Fowlpox Press, 2014), The Little Temple of My Sleeping Bag (Dancing Girl Press, 2014), Citrus-Inspired Ceramics (Aldrich Press, 2013), Intelligence’s Vast Bonfires (Lazarus Media, 2012), Supernal Factors (The Camel Saloon Books on Blog, 2012), Fluid & Crystallized (Fowlpox Press, 2012), and A Bank Robber’s Bad Luck with His Ex-Girlfriend (Unbound CONTENT, 2011).

Carol Deering – 3 poems


A moth roiling witchy at the window
my mind whirling
the moon at 3 a.m. looming closer
hunchbacked, absorbed

                celestial navigation…

What gets this moth so keyed up,
to dance so noisily? show no mercy?
What winds me up a slope         

                angular relationships…

when I want to spin
from the sharp edge of thought
into lazy swells
of sleep?



This jacquard-patterned river,
pulling up its socks, tripping,
scampering, leaping shadows,
plays with threads of light, running
tiptoe, allegretto con moto,
with all its might.

The snow on the edge glows blue
and ponderous,
all the full moon



lost, returning late,
looking up through the understory,
up through the depths
of black water
to the fossils and the undead

with friends at a jukebox
playing It’s a Beautiful Morning
at midnight
must get back
to camp

I can’t see
for the darkness,
sounds start and stop
invisibly, eyes
grip a sliver of stars
that curves as trees

let me by.


Carol L. Deering grew up in New England but has lived in Wyoming for 30 years. She has twice received the Wyoming Arts Council Poetry Fellowship (2016 and 1999). Last year she won the Wyoming Writers free-verse contest. Her poetry appears in online and traditional journals, and is forthcoming in Soundings Review and Written River. Carol also has poems in the regional anthology Ring of Fire: Writers of the Yellowstone Region. Once she had the privilege of interviewing Richard Hugo; that interview, published by Art Notes (Columbia Basin College), was reissued in CutBank.

Kraig Dafoe – 1 poem


It is time again to mow the weeds.
One can fool themselves into thinking
it’s grass, but upon closer inspection
the truth is revealed. Early spring brings
forth an abundance of dandelions,
their golden flower so brilliantly bright.
A vile weed, this picture of beauty
will choke what little grass grows in its
presence. I mow them down, the blade beheading
them and as the mower passes, some stand
ridged, their bodies refusing to fall.
I feel no remorse as the death of these
“flowers” takes place, for in a day or two
for everyone cut, ten more will begin
to take its place. The battle to rid them
from what I call lawn is pointless because
in a few weeks, they disappear again
for the rest of the season. When they go,
I will turn to the thistle, the crabgrass
and the ragweed. Each of these holds its own
beauty. Why do we fight to remove these
from our sight to be replaced with simple
green of grass? Can a single blade of grass
or the culmination of many stand
up to our desire? What have these weeds
really done? We don’t kill the Peony
for bringing ants. We do not kill the rose
for scratching our skin with its thorns as we
brush by. Why are we so damn quick to judge?
Can the sedum bring as much joy to us
as the dandelion? Can the rose moss
or St John’s Wort? Maybe, for some of us.
I suppose there will never be a place
in our hearts for the cute dandelion,
but I’m sure that will not deter them from
flashing their yellow smile to us each spring.


Kraig Dafoe is an English Major at Washburn University. His publications include two novels and poetry in various literary journals.

Pete Patterson – 2 poems


Rhythms beating, hearts entwined.
Emotions giving flight.
The flutter of wings touching.
Twin feathers floating.

Gentle winds drifting.
Never to part.

Eyes wear scars, reflecting:
Blue hope twinkling:
Dreams of tomorrow bring rain:
Diamonds falling from trembling lips:

Gentle winds drifting.
Never to part.

One single kiss on her forehead:
One single touch of her hand:
One single glance of her eyes:
One single breath of her sharing:

Gentle winds drifting.
Never to part.



She said:
Come see me in the springtime
The winters here are much too cold.
She wants to show me
All the places where she goes.
When I asked her
If I could fall in love with her
She said No.

So I look up into the sky
And I wonder the reasons why
I have a gypsy soul and a heart meant for leaving.
Has love passed me by, and I ask myself why
Can a man like me ever be able to change?

So I am waiting for warmer weather,
Wondering if she will ever,
Ask me to come see her again.
Should I call her, on the telephone?
Should I forget her, and continue on my way?

She said, come see me in the springtime,
The winters here are much too cold,
She wants to show me
All the places where she goes.
When I asked her
If I could fall in love with her
She said No.

I said:
If it is cold there in the winter
Could we spend some time together?
Will you let me hold you, and keep you warm?
She said no.

What can I say, what can I do?
There is no place for love to ever grow
We will always be friends, to the very end
But somewhere along the way, what we had
Was blown away in the winds that say no.


Pete Patterson