Sunday, 28 June 2026

Five Poems by Ken Gosse

 






More Than Once Upon A Time

 

On the first day of spring Adam found he was sprung

(an amazing physique which was very well hung)

but he hadn’t a clue what that one piece was for

till a rib was removed and was tossed on the floor

(or the ground, we should say, since it wasn’t a room—

without roof, doors, or windows, no need to assume

that a visiting neighbor would soon make a call—

there was no need for privacy, none for a wall

in those days before anyone else would arrive)

then he noticed his spare rib had started to thrive.

 

On the first day of summer, young Eve came around,

more lithesome and lovely than all else he found

and he noticed another bone rising in awe,

overwhelmed by the shape of the creature he saw.

The hint of her smile would entice his first grin

and he sensed what he thought was original—sin—

when she reached for an apple and offered a bite

as they fell to the ground where they spent their first night.

 

The first fall arrived with their fall before dawn

(the seasons were young; summer came and was gone)

but the sunrise that day brought a chill to the air

and the garden they lay in was suddenly bare

because winter had brought the first fall to its close

and the cold, not their shame, showed them they needed hose,

pants, and shirts, even hats to protect their bare breasts,

thighs and nethers and heads, from their toes to their crests

as they headed out east in their search for fresh loam.

Where the first day had dawned, they might find a new home.

 

Soon, spring sprung again as did women and men

from the body of Eve since they still had a yen

for the apple they tasted upon their first date—

hence an orchard was first to put food on their plate.

They tilled and they toiled, they roasted and boiled

the food that was needed to feed their new brood

but it seems that today, though they each had their way,

their descendants condemn that first coupling as lewd. 


 

What’s Needin’ in Eden

 

We don’t know their first position,

although there’s a supposition

that a serpent had directed

what the two had long suspected

was the purpose of the difference

seen between their legs, vociferance

shouting what design made clear—

that two of them should gather near,

discover what it’s all about

and learn both inside and without

why they’re alike yet not the same,

as if designed to play a game

by taking hold of parts unknown

of which the two had both been shown

before they gave a fig or two

to hide behind what they now knew

was waiting there without disguise

while his, of course, to their surprise

had learned to stand up and to prance,

and so, they chose to take a chance

and taste the fruit beneath the trees

where they would play like birds and bees. 


 

The World’s First Picnic (in 50 Words)

 

They used Adam’s sparerib to fix

a companion to serve him picnics.

The very first one that Eve made

offered apples and fig marmalade.

Just one bite of apple

would cause them to grapple

and once Adam’s eye

noticed Eve’s breast and thigh,

her buffet was the first ever laid. 


 

Fishing in the Eastern Sea (50 words)

 

Since they didn’t get a pardon

and they had to leave the garden,

do you wonder how long Adam

took to find himself a madam,

and while wand’ring east of Eden,

looking for what he was needin’,

while fair Eve played him the cuckold,

did he wonder why she chuckled? 


 

Hayseeds

 

Morning had broken

when Eve was woken

by the first dawning of a new day.

East of the garden,

begging none’s pardon,

once Adam sowed, they rolled in the hay.






 

Ken Gosse usually writes short, rhymed verse using whimsy and humor in traditional meters. First published in First Literary Review–East in November 2016, he has also been published by Pure Slush, Home Planet News Online, Lothlorien Poetry Journal, and others. Raised in the Chicago, Illinois, suburbs, now retired, he and his wife have lived in Mesa, AZ, for over twenty years, usually with rescue dogs and cats underfoot.

 

 


Four Ekphrastic Poems by Hedy Habra

 





De lo Eterno y lo Lúdico serie sembradores de estrellas by Cristina Francov



Or Don’t Be Fooled By Her Self-Righteousness

                        After De lo eterno y lo lúdico by Cristina Francov

 

If you could only see her when she slips into her sleek pajamas

and fights for hours with me, her alter ego, always dressed in

contrasting colors from head to toe. She favors the coolness of

seashell and ivory tones while my clothes are tainted with cravings,

the shades of fire and blood. That’s why I can’t stand her political

correctness though we’ve shared the same umbilical cord and most

of the time coexist harmoniously. Or is it because I usually fade

within her during the day, a replica she carries within, folded in

her pocket like a cardboard silhouette?

 

Only at night does she allow me to materialize and sit next to her.

Hours long we ask each other the sempiternal question: Che vuoi?

Maybe she yearns to accept me, the way a terminally ill patient

needs a blood transfusion or autologous stem cells? We coexist

in constant contradiction: one of us wants to swallow the whole

world, get up at dawn and run barefoot on the beach to catch the

first rays of sun while the other would rather lie down all day long

and watch the sun set. 

 

First published by Gargoyle

From Or Did You Ever See The Other Side?(Press 53 2023)


De lo Eterno y lo Lúdico serie sembradores de estrellas by Cristina Francov




Generations Lost by Helen Zughaib

 

Or Have You Ever Noticed Erasure Patterns Within Fractals?

                        After Generations Lost by Helen Zughaib

 

Scattered on a multi-faceted quilted pond, women’s faces emerge, each as though from the center of a lotus about to drown before sunset. Eyes lined with kohl look alike. Their unanswered quest blurs the lines on the receding oval faces. In the midst of that fractal fragmentation some hands stand out holding a blank sheet of paper, or were they once photographs of loved ones, so old the image was erased by indifference as life goes by with its dismembered seasons mixed pell-mell with gouache on that canvas like in a kaleidoscope constantly reshuffling its patterns, relying upon the onlooker to revisit the artist’s gaze over the drowning faces. 

 

First published by About Place: Dignity as an Endangered Species in the 21st Century

From Or Did You Ever See The Other Side? (Press 53 2023) 

 

Generations Lost by Helen Zughaib (USA b. Beirut, Lebanon)

https://dcarts.emuseum.com/objects/3602/generations-lost;jsessionid=5CC59D832D5F773251AAF17A4EFCE659?ctx=1c1266c63cb2c344f14cbb28d23840e6dae0f2a4&idx=0


 



 

The Upright Piano

            After Piano on Fire: Mirror Maze by Andrew Ferez 

 

I see myself out in the cold, draped in a silk nightgown, seated

barefoot on a stool by that upright piano, you know, the one my

mother bought when she thought I should take piano lessons, while

others played during recess, oh, how I first struggled striking notes

daily, practicing scales, then rehearsing Mozart’s “Rondo alla Turca”

till I’d play it in my mind relentlessly, tan tan tan . . . tan tan tan . . .

even when I knew I’d never learn another piece, and now, half a

century later, I am drawing with memory’s wavering lines that same

piano to make it the vessel of my heart’s message, of so much left

unsaid buried in a bitter well turning into notes that rise in tongues of

cold fire licking my insides with every key I touch, unharmed, I feel

the piano ablaze under my fingertips, twisted candles adorn its top

that grows into a tower and turrets spouting flames from windows,

a menace to the adjacent branches, my fingers wildly strike the

keyboard while the sky opens up like a stage filled with shimmering

damask memories dancing to the melody like maddened fireflies. 

 

First published by Knot Magazine

From Under Brushstrokes (Press 53 2015) 

 

Piano on Fire:Mirror Maze by Andrew Ferez (Russian) 2011

 Illustration for the book "Mirror Maze" by Natalia Kalinina

https://elhurgador.blogspot.com/2012/12/andrew-ferez-ilustracion.html 

 




Bishop of Sargasso Sea by Yacek Yerka (Polish) 1996

 

On the Sargasso Sea

            After Bishop of Sargasso Sea by Yacek Yerka 

 

Think of a houseboat floating over a sea of foaming moss so thick

it seems anchored in green dunes despite its full-blown drift though

it’s only a contrivance and whoever lives in it is obsessed with the

passing of time: an alarm clock by the bed, a cuckoo at the entrance,

a sundial at the threshold, a timer by the stove, a wooden clock on

the dining table, an hourglass cresting the wall, a bell by the water

clock, and let us not forget the telescope placed between the bottle

of wine and the grapes, stalking the movement of stars.

Grains of sand fall, a rhythm espousing the ticking of clocks: chimes

and bells oscillate, muffled by surrounding haze, and there’s no room

for fantasy: its dweller watches coffee drip drop by drop, is aware

how long it takes to read each line on a page, successive seconds

pervade his sleep, even his daydreams, nothing’s left to chance, only

he knows deep inside he has become a clock within a clock, afraid

of losing track; lost in that sea of moss, he’d still feel the thump of

his own heartbeat. 

 

First published by Poet Lore

From Under Brushstrokes (Press 53 2015) 

 

Bishop of Sargasso Sea by Yacek Yerka (Polish) 1996

https://www.instagram.com/p/CVN7-zaoWWt/






Hedy Habra is a poet, artist, and essayist. Her latest poetry collection, Or Did You Ever See The Other Side?, won the International Poetry Book Awards and was a finalist for the Eric Hoffer and USA Best Book Awards. The Taste of the Earth won the Silver Nautilus Book Award and Honorable Mention for the Eric Hoffer Book Award. Tea in Heliopolis won the Best Book Award, and Under Brushstrokes was a finalist for the International Book Award. Her story collection, Flying Carpets, won the Arab American Book Award’s Honorable Mention and was a finalist for the Eric Hoffer Award. Her book of criticism is Mundos alternos y artísticos en Vargas Llosa. She is a twenty-five-time nominee for the Pushcart Prize and Best of the Net and a recipient of the Nazim Hikmet Award. https://www.hedyhabra.com/

 

 


Four Poems & Five Haiku by Charlie Brice

 






Switchbacks

 

There were days when we hiked the Rockies,

navigated switchbacks, hauled backpacks,

tipped a wineskin at 9,000 feet.

 

I open the door for Paula, my wife’s physical

therapist, and tell her that she’s arrived at the

most glorious moment of Beethoven’s 9th

where an ode to joy opens a world of hope,

 

opens a soaring glow drunk with fire. Poor

Paula, I might as well be speaking German,

not talking about Germany’s greatest composer.

She’s probably thinking, Oh god, why can’t I

 

 just walk into a house and start my routine? Why

do I have to deal with some overweight codger

who wants to gouge my gord with classical

music? I take her to our porch-room where Judy

 

sits in a wheelchair. I say, I’ll turn off the music

and leave you two to your torturous machinations.

On the flatscreen Riccardo Muti conducts

an orchestra and chorus. I turn him off just

 

as the chorus gears up for that blissful finale. I’m

grateful for Paula. Her skills might make my wife’s

last years more bearable. Hell, I’d put The Troggs

on the flatscreen if it would help Paula help Judy.

 

At daybreak the smell of pine surrounded us.

At night the purling river played a lullaby.

The stars were so bright.

 


Farther

 

When they carried him out of our house, the color of his sunken cheeks sparked in me a lifelong interest in lividity. The bottles he hid in his desk, the linen closet, the kitchen cabinet, and under the driver’s seat of his car birthed in me a romance with booze. Those car rides when mother forced me to help her dig him out of a Cheyenne bar produced in me a bone-dry weariness. I once tried to call him “coach,” but he wouldn’t remove the cigarette from his mouth in order to catch the ball I threw. In school I constantly misspelled the word father, always put an “r” where it shouldn’t be: f a r t h e r.

 

 

Daddy

 

Did he ever want something beyond

the booze? Did he ever aspire? He

lied on the marriage certificate with

his first wife. He was 16, not 18.

 

She was much older, an angry, racist, woman.

 

They had a daughter, my half-sister.

He walked out on them while the baby

was still an infant. Left them with nothing.

 

What did he want when he married my mother?

Did he ever aspire? He drank all the time.

Is that all he wanted?

 

I was thirteen when they carried him

out of our house. His purple face had

an odd expression. He looked perplexed.

 

Death is a puzzle no one ever solves.

 

 

Trains

 

That gap between the depot platform

and the first step onto the railroad car:

kindling to ignite childhood nightmares.

 

Would the gap suck me under, its mighty

jaws chew my tiny body to bits? Was

that how I filtered into darkness daddy’s

drinking, mommy’s screaming?

 

Once inside the car its rhythmic rocking,

soothing clicking, sent me to the womblike

safety of no outside.

 

Still, there was only one direction available,

only one boarding place, only one destination:

the terminal.

 

 

Five Haiku

 

In winter my heart beats

louder than the frozen earth

Spring seeds wink and smile

 

Hare tracks in deep snow

wind cold and sere slaps my face

So much life in death

 

Leaves crunch under foot

crispy smell of furrowed earth

Morning hides the moon

 

Withholding your love

lips puckered and chapped

A dead rose knows pain

 

Winter walk tonight

two deer appear/disappear

Invisible wings 

 

Charlie Brice won the 2020 Field Guide Poetry Magazine Poetry Contest and placed third in the 2021 Allen Ginsberg Poetry Prize. His tenth poetry collection is A Brief History of the Sixties (Alien Buddha Press, 2026). His poetry has been nominated for the Best of Net Anthology and the Pushcart Prize and has appeared in Atlanta Review, The Honest Ulsterman, Ibbetson Street, Chiron Review, The MacGuffin, and elsewhere.


 

 

 


Friday, 26 June 2026

One Poem by Andrew Shields

 






My Bleeding Heart


 

I woke up and my heart was gone.

I heard the door slam, so I threw on my clothes

and followed the trail of blood down the stairs.

 

It wasn't in sight, but the drops were still there,

despite a misty morning rain.

My bleeding heart was beating fast.

 

The hole in my chest was empty and numb

when I saw my heart just turn a corner

and run into the street where a boy had his hands

 

in the air and was backing away from a gun:

"Don't shoot!" he called and he called, "Don't shoot!"

My bleeding heart was standing its ground

 

but fled when the final shot was fired.

Was it the blood of the boy or my heart

that I tracked through the afternoon into the night?

 

I saw it again in a suburban street

going up the steps to a room above

a two-car garage by a storybook house.

 

The girl in that room was too big for the chair

beside her childhood desk, so her legs

were sprawled across the floor in front of her.

 

There were traces of powder on the mirror

she'd used as a kid for her dress-up games.

My bleeding heart tried to take it all in,

 

but her faraway gaze was as slack as her wrist.

It felt for a pulse that was faint and fast,

then fled before the final breath.

 

The trail of blood grew dry until

I saw it shimmering fresh on a path

that led through the woods to a trailer park.

 

The full moon shone on aluminum roofs,

and a candle was lit in one of the windows.

Through the dirty glass it flickered

 

on scraggly hair and hands on a face,

a pistol on a checkered tablecloth.

My bleeding heart would have reached for the gun,

 

but the hands of a soldier are trained to be faster,

and this was the night when the sounds he kept hearing

were silenced by one final shot.

 

How can I follow the growing trail

of so much blood? At dawn I saw

my heart go up the steps of a church

 

and open the double mahogany doors.

But when I got into the dimly lit nave,

where had it gone to? The pews were all empty;

 

the Bible on the pulpit was open

to chapter and verse for the coming day.

My bleeding heart that never prays

 

appeared beside the altarpiece

and sat down beneath it as if to wait.

The ever-brighter stained-glass colors

 

played over it and the floor of the church

until it vanished into the light,

its beating still there at the edge of hearing.

 

I fell to my knees; I fell asleep

and dreamed of the congregation's voices

singing to my heartbeat's rhythm

 

and interrupted by a man

who'd made as if it come for solace.

My bleeding heart awoke in my chest,

 

and I awoke again, the door

unslammed, no trace of any blood

on rug or stairs or stoop or street.




Andrew Shields lives in Basel, Switzerland. His collection of poems "Thomas Hardy Listens to Louis Armstrong" was published by Eyewear in June 2015. His band Human Shields released the album "Somebody's Hometown" in 2015 and the EP "Défense de jouer" in 2016. His poems have recently appeared online in Talking About Strawberries, Delta Poetry Review, London Grip, and Oddball Magazine.

 

Mastodon: https://mas.to/@AndrewShields

Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/andrewshieldspoems/

 


Five Poems by Ken Gosse

  More Than Once Upon A Time   On the first day of spring Adam found he was sprung (an amazing physique which was very well hung) bu...