2026

 

 

JANUARY

 

 

 

J. Ajula, Rick Christiansen, Patrick Deeley, Carrie Farrar, Fin Fearn, William Ogden Haynes, Gabrielle Munslow, J. R. Solonche, Hannah Stone, Kamil Zaszkowski.

 

 

 

 

 

 

J. AUJLA

 

Small Talk

 

All around the table, there were empty glasses,

cats and other forms of life moved within the room.

Most were imperceptible.

 

Very slight, gradual or subtle.

Something not capable of being perceived.

 

The board game made the dictionary

some measure of exchange.

 

Outside taking air, the painter had explained:

I do not believe in plain speaking. There I see

coffee and silverfish.

 

The man with her looked to the sky:

Where I’m from we call it night.

 

Peacocks lined the dinner plates. Candles lit the way

and words were simple objects in that orderly display.

 

Someone broke the silence:

Perhaps it’s hearsay

but Sam Beckett drove a young André

(the wrestling giant)

to school each day.

 

I wonder what they spoke about?

 

The guests went on breathing

the same air as their hosts

passing through their open throats.

 

K–Aujla is a writer with no fixed address, bad teeth and a song for anyone who can sing.

 

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RICK CHRISTIANSEN

 

The Last Routine

“Two orcas—mother and son—remain in the shuttered tanks of Marineland Antibes, performing

for whoever still comes to watch.” — TideBreakers Report, 2025

 

Green water clots with rust and fallen light.

The mother circles once—her son in her wake—

beneath a film of algae, drift, and silence.

Four months enclosed, they still return to their marks.

When strangers lean above the corroded platform,

they rise together, he moving close beside her.

 

Her shadow lengthens; he swims tight beneath her,

both bodies glinting briefly in the light.

Once crowds leaned in from the raised platform,

hands clapping her rhythm, drawing him in her wake.

Now only lenses wait to catch their marks—

the whole tank breathing its slow, green silence.

 

Filters groan; the pumps exhale their silence.

Still they ascend—her first, then him below her—

offering the faint memory of old marks

that shimmered once beneath rehearsal light.

He rises slower now, pausing in her wake—

both turning toward the shadowed platform.

 

Rust powders the gates; moss climbs the platform.

Each echo lingers longer in the silence.

She flicks her tail once—he folds into her wake—

a reflex honed by years of drifting near her

toward cue and crest, the trainer’s vanished light,

their bodies taut in the choreography of marks.

 

Observers note the scars—thin, crescent marks—

and lift their phones above the viewing platform.

Outside, protest banners ripple in the light,

and nothing cracks the walls or breaks that silence.

He circles tighter now, shadowing her,

his fin dipping lower as he enters her wake.

 

Once wild, they crossed the open blue in her wake,

where the dark held them gently, a world without marks.

Here, habit binds him closer still, keeping to her,

their motions flattening beneath the empty platform

and the weight of water thick with silence.

Yet still they gleam for anyone holding up a light.

 

Toward the platform’s edge, the last light thins in their silence.

She drifts beside him—her wake folding into his, soft as memory’s marks.

And in that dim, he follows her through the dark that gathers her.

 

Rick Christiansen is a former corporate executive, stand-up comedian, actor, and director. He is the author of two full-length poetry collections from Spartan Press: Bone Fragments (2024) and Not a Hero (2025). His work appears widely, including Sheila-Na-Gig and MacQueen’s Quinterly. He was recently nominated for a Pushcart Prize Award.

 

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PATRICK DEELY

 

Childhood                                                                                                                   

 

Old men solemnly shook their heads

and said be careful or you’ll fall off the edge

of the world.  I tried to get close

to the edge, wanted to leap

as I would from a tree, to spin and orbit

 

as the millions of dead people’s souls did –

shining in the dark, winking,

humming the song of eternity

even if nobody but me could hear them

or take from their trembling

 

that there was good reason to tamp down

the importance of things, for all

would pass and neither would your sadness

stay solid – but fade, shrink

softly away beyond the dawning curtains.

 

Go, droned the big wind in the chimney;

flow, whispered the wild grass

and spilling rivulets, but I mistook directions,

laughed in the wrong places,

fought and cut myself and tried to cry.

 

Pictures bloomed in my head. 

The straight thinkers seated at kitchen tables

or leaning on farmyard gates

certified a boy so bird-brained

he was bound to fly in foolish circles. 

 

Slowly, it brought me to gentleness,

I grew surefooted around whirlpool and quag,

drew from the shy ghosts

of the wet meadow my own story. 

And there was the world – there, the sky.

 

My Father’s Salsa

 

He would jiggle the riddle’s circular frame

between his hands, sand dancing

within, fine grains streaming

through the wire grid until only shingle

 

and jags of stone remained.  Then stop

those salsa rhythms I found

myself dancing to; chuck loose pebbles aside,

gouge from the quarry a refill,

 

shake and shuffle as before,

sifting so the damp, silken sand overspilled

the sides of its conical hill. 

Walls were called for where clay ditches

 

had always done, the quickening –

though neither of us knew it yet –

to modernity begun, cement mixer and silo

soon shunted into position. 

 

We saw it as improvement, tunnels drilled

through hills, tar lorries,

steamrollers smarming a nexus of routes. 

And bridges, so many new bridges

 

to cross.  Decades later, in this underpass,

a muffled whoosh, plastic

scrunched underfoot, long mittens of ivy

darned on rock.  I scamper up

 

and around, stand above everything. 

Smell fuel-burn, feel the wind against my face

no matter which way I turn. 

Traffic bugles, trombones, an out-of-tune

 

brass band, the world of strangers

here and gone, all my townlands swept past

in about the time it takes

to mime my father’s salsa, dream the man.

 

Patrick Deeley is a poet, memoirist and children’s writer from Loughrea, in the west of Ireland.  His latest collection of poems is Keepsake, published by Dedalus Press in 2024. www.patrickdeeley.net

 

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CARRIE FARRAR

 

Instructions for Being Alone

 

You consult an almanac

for sovereign and deeply rooted beliefs.
Autarky and Nirvana.
Solipsism.

 

You contemplate
the architecture of your silence,
savoring the fortunate stillness,
the good space
that makes your existence
breathe deeper.

 

Blue heron glide
over the reservoir near your window,
still as slate,
and spiderwebs stitch
silver lace
across the high porch eaves.

 

You are enclosed
by a narrative of your own making,
an architect
of private thought,
a quiet scholar
whose company
is purely chosen.

 

You steep black tea
and note the stars
sharpening into diamonds.
Zen parables drift
through the newsfeeds you skim.

 

If you meet the Buddha
on the road,
kill him.

 

The true master
is an eternal student.
The mind is its own place,
and in itself
can make a heaven of hell,
a hell of heaven.

 

Serendipity.
You sip your tea,
settling into a flavor
you once learned
to call home.

 

Carrie Farrar is an emerging poet whose work explores interiority, solitude, and the quiet architectures of thought. Her poems often draw on philosophy, contemplative practice, and close observation of the natural world. She lives and writes in California.

 

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FIN FEARN

 

Grow Your Own

 

From the top shelf, the bonsai

spoke to him. He imagined the day

the leaves would glimmer their green

hue in the light. Take the soil, plant the seed

and wait; that’s all he’d have to do.

 

The bonsai would fill what was missing;

it’d smooth his coarse facial hair; iron out

the wrinkles that had been placed

centrally on his forehead. His green

envy of others would change to acceptance.

 

Driving back from the shop, he gazed at the green

label covering the box beside him. It

would balance him, as it itself is balanced, sitting idly on

the passenger seat.

 

Fin Fearn is a third year Creative Writing student at York St John University, currently working towards further studies in the form of a Masters degree. He has held an intense passion for the written word since he can remember and has featured in places such as Scribbled and Pulsar.

 

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WILLIAM OGDEN HAYNES

 

Slow Changes Under the Sun

The sun, with all those planets revolving around it and

dependent on it, can still ripen a bunch of grapes as if it

had nothing else in the universe to do.  Galileo Galilei
 

That day, the cumulus clouds wandered slowly across

the sky like sheep herded by an invisible wind. In the heart

 

of the forest, the pulsation of life was seen in everything

from tiny insects to the tallest tree. And somewhere

 

underground, roots threaded deep into the soil, and seeds

slowly cracked open in darkness waiting for water and

 

sunlight. Wildflower petals yawned open, stretching to

greet the sunrise. The air smelled clean, perfumed subtly

 

by pine, cedar and wild mint. A beetle waddled along on

a decaying log and a spider’s web trembled in the gentle

 

breeze. Morning dew clung to green leaves like a necklace

of diamonds and early mist lifted like a veil from the face

 

of a new day. Ancient oaks stood tall with storm-scarred

bark, their lives spanning slow seasons counted in rings

 

that won’t be seen until they’re felled by the logger’s axe.

Here, time creeps along, almost imperceptibly, as leaves

 

slowly turn toward light, roots reach out for water and

shadows at sunrise crawl across the forest floor. And

 

Galileo’s grapes, these wild muscadines, change color so

gradually, that not even the deer who eat them will notice.

 

The Fragility of Poetry

 

Some things are delicate, like antique stemware. If

even a gentle hand holds the stem too tightly it’s likely

to snap. The same is true for eggshells, bubbles, dishes

and spiderwebs. Other objects are fragile because

 

they’re short-lived, like autumn leaves, sandcastles,

snowflakes and cut flowers. We enjoy them while we

can because they’ll soon disappear. There are intangibles

we can’t touch that are also easily broken. Promises,

 

hearts, winning streaks, relationships, spirits, trust

and democracy are all fragile. Our lives become more

delicate as we face aging and mortality. That’s why

we’re careful and take precautions. And that brings me

 

to the fragility of poetry. A poet sits in a room, draft

after draft written on paper, words crossed out, arrows

rearranging stanzas, crumpled papers, like large hailstones,

clutter the floor. Suddenly, inspiration strikes, notions

 

emerge as dim filaments in the distance. The poet sees

the scattered threads and weaves them into a string, then

a rope, clipping off extraneous fibers, creating a tight braid

of words and metaphors. We think of a rope as having

 

strength, but a poem is not necessarily strong. When you let

someone read it, you’re putting the poem and yourself on

the line. You’re at the mercy of the reader’s biases. There’s

a vulnerability in the work and in the poet’s self-esteem.

 

And in the end, no matter how tightly wound, a poem is at

best just a lottery ticket, and at worst, a house of cards, an

umbrella made of rice paper, easily blown away with a sigh.

 

William Ogden Haynes is a poet and author of short fiction from Alabama who was born in Michigan. He has published several collections of poetry and many of his poems and short stories have appeared in literary journals and anthologies.    http://www.williamogdenhaynes.com

 

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GABRIELLE MUNSLOW

 

Before I Become Alice

 

To be a poet with metrophobia—

where words wound and scrape the tongue—

is like a footballer scared of the ball,

who tackles everyone but his fear.

Or a clown with coulrophobia,

painting his face with his eyes half-closed.

A stargazer with siderophobia,

wanting to look at the dazzling stars, but unable to.

A dancer afraid of movement.

A bee afraid of honey.

 

That’s how we all live, in some way—

scared the things we love will undo us.

Love is a cracked secret.

 

Neophobia—fear of new things—

baptises me.

So I cling to what’s old and familiar,

like threading a needle with no thread,

rereading the same chapter

of a tired book.

 

There’s something else beneath it all.

A word in Russian: toska.

It has no true translation—

a quiet ache that settles in,

like a guest who never leaves,

heavy as fog,

nameless, but everywhere.

 

I’m looking in a mirror,

but it’s distorted.

Eisoptrophobia—fear of mirrors.

Toska looks back at me

through the glass.

 

I smash the looking glass

before I become Alice

and enter Wonderland.

 

Gabrielle Munslow is a poet and nurse practitioner based in West Sussex, UK. Her work has appeared or is forthcoming in Strange Horizons, Half and One, The Lake, Sky Island Journal, and Bristol Noir. She writes at the intersection of myth, memory, and emotional restraint.

 

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J. R. SOLONCHE

 

 Zero

 

Zero is my favorite number. It is

a simple number. It is a quiet

number. It is not a number at all.

It is the number of things that can

go wrong if you do nothing. It is

the number of times I have won

the lottery. It is the number of times
my cat has washed the dishes. It is

the number of complaints I have
on a quiet Tuesday afternoon. But

zero is also powerful. It means

a beginning. It means a blank page.

It means infinite potential. It means

promise, aspiration, inspiration.

You start from zero. You build up

from zero. It is where everything can

happen because nothing has happened

yet. Zero does not hope. Zero just is,
an absence that means everything is

fine. No problems. No worries. No

nothing. So I thank you, Brahmagupta,

O father of the zero, O father of nothing,

O grandfather of infinity.

  

Bohemian Rhapsody

 

The first time I heard "Bohemian

Rhapsody," my daughter was playing

it in her room. The door was closed,

but it was loud. I usually never paid

any attention to the stuff she listened to,

but this thing hit me in the solar plexus.

I stood in the hallway and listened to

the whole song, all six minutes of it.

It was complicated. It had slow parts,

fast parts, parts that sounded like an

opera, parts that were just shouting.

It was not boring. So I stood transfixed,

half in the dark, half in the light from

the kitchen, listening. I prefer simple

songs. A man walks into a bar, a man

buys a drink, a man goes home. That is

a simple song. This song was not simple,

except the very ending, a simple guitar.

Then the silence, which was not a simple

silence. The silence after was different

from the silence before. A silence like

the silence one hears only after Bach.

A silence full of the same forever as that.

  

Nominated for the National Book Award and twice-nominated for the Pulitzer Prize, J.R. Solonche is the author of over forty books of poetry and co-author of another. He lives in the Hudson Valley.

 

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HANNAH STONE

 

If winter comes…

Shelley, ‘Ode to the West Wind’, and Jo Bell’s prompt from 52 of ‘an invitation’

 

Enough prevarication; you’re needed here.

Of course, travel plans can change, due to factors

beyond our control, but please show willing;

at least book a flight. Sometimes Day

doesn’t bother getting up at all;

just slumps under the cloud duvet,

pissing drizzle into his pjs,

too damned lazy to stir.

He needs you to sound the alarms –

the blackbird at 6am; robin at 6.15;

remind him there are targets to meet –

a minimum of seven and a half hours

of eyes open, before passing out to the Night Shift.

Spring, stop playing for time; please send your ETA.    

 

First snowfall

 

Last night’s snow deploys its double cunning –

unfurling time to re-find childish glee,

whilst simultaneously releasing light

as if a lid were lifted off a box

containing not Pandora’s evil gifts

but possible encounters with new joys.

With drink in hand, the visitor reclines

on lonely sofa (or is it soap box),

dispensing wisdom to his boomer mum

to whom he has entrusted recipes

for shakshuka, orange and almond cake,

along with other nuggets of advice;

it’s obvious what we should do today:

eat cake, drink coffee, and build a snowman.

 

Hannah Stone is the author of Lodestone (Stairwell Books, 2016), Missing Miles (Indigo Dreams Publishing, 2017), Swn y Morloi (Maytree Press, 2019) and several collaborations, including Fit to Bust with Pamela Scobie (Runcible Spoon, 2020). She convenes the poets/composer’s forum for Leeds Leider, curates Nowt but Verse for Leeds Library, is poet theologian in Virtual Residence for Leeds Church Institute and editor of the literary journal Dream Catcher. Contact her on hannahstone14@hotmail.com for readings, workshops or book purchases.

 

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KAMIL ZASZKOWSKI

 

Splinters of sunlight

 

The city slowly frees itself from the grip

of the rustling discipline of tightly

fastened raincoats.

 

Pavements frosted by rain

slither like snakes—rough serpents

covered in silver mould

seem t seethe in the wind

fermented by the cold and glitter in the sun.

 

Again we can walk, carrying at the zenith

of scents: a damp greyness and green

through the sticky silence of the sun

with the wet lament of folding umbrellas.

 

A step from breathlessness so long as we go

forward.

A hair's breadth from a new hairstyle

unless you prefer to split hairs.

 

One more word and a decent poem

will be born.

 

Kamil Zaszkowski, born in 1978 in Poland, currently living in the UK. He has published in his native language in Polish Literary Magazines and Newspapers and in the English-language magazine Chainmail Poetry. He is the author of three volumes of poetry and a book of prose.

 

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