Adam Brodsky Cleveland Heights, OH poet

and though the live-oak glistens there in Louisiana,

solitary in a wide flat space,

uttering joyous leaves all its life without a friend a lover near,

I know very well I could not

Walt Whitman


Jim Lang and Ben Gulyas clear of sockets


Oh, Sunflower (for Lang)

Oh, sunflower–
socket clear & skeleton thick–
w/roots every which way
connecting it
across time
to loneliness…

Oh, beauty,
waiting perfect
in tin cans
we’ve come
to gently stew in…
the foto finish shows
you’re black & white,
a stalk in the night,
a glare,
a caption.

In twilight,
you stood alone
with it all running through,
a rail yard,
a bottle cap,
a memory,
a train.

Those shoes
were big enough for two
& two more.
You led the pack
putting familiars
the direction
your beard pointed.
A theme.

Even with strangers,
you were never alone,
On the bus.
Horsing around.
Trailing the tears.
Making moments.
lines of smoke
into clouds.
into a hat.
It was a party:
Lang gone wild.
A discussion.
Take your stalk & go.
Hoof it
back into family,
forward into history,
with a paper bag
of words
that stars fall out of
& dreams.
Look, there’s a penny.
No, it’s a dime.

June, moon, tune, croon,
Oh, sunflower.
Train, train, train.


Adam Brodsky is a poet, publisher and educator who performs guitar songs round the parts of Cleve.

Victor Clevenger MO poet

Displaying WATERMELON.jpg

Bree is a Pleasureville, KY poet and artist


porcelain poem

i don’t wake with hot breath
& hard bones like i once did.

i don’t wake with women &
watermelon seeds stuck to my
skin anymore either.

i just wake soft & clean now,
but i still end up alone in a
bathtub at times,

rubbing myself in ways that
older age & responsibility will
never be able to diminish.

sometimes i never even turn the
water on, i just climb in & lie
flat on my back with the porcelain
chill against my skin,

& imagine your face.





Victor Clevenger is a poet in rural MO. This poem will appear in his forthcoming book with Spartan Press March 2017.  His book (Least Bittern books) Come Here is a visual collection of short poems which really hit.


Andrew Darlington Osset, West Yorkshire poet


I’m not going to write this poem,
I’m through writing poems,
I’m leaving this poem 
for someone else to write,
I start by burning to change the world,
now the world changes around me
in strange and unexpected ways,
I refuse to write this poem,
let it write itself in blood and anger,
I’ve done the readings in backroom bars
the M1 hard-nose hitchhike down to Soho
done the cut-&-paste riot punk-zines
with real scissors sniffing real glue
done the getting high and all the lows
the bare-floor cold beds and overnight girls
the acid folk-rock bi-friends with benefits,
the solidarity for this protest against that
the jazz Beat gurus and Dada-shock porn,
the new worlds of sweat and BeBop wired
to cellular connections into eternity,
but I’m not gonna write this poem,
I’m through writing poems,
words won’t come together
they retch like vomit in my throat,
in a time of darkening dreams
poems must ignite the sky, but
it’s time for someone else to write them,
I’m not going to write this poem…

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Andrew Darlington is a poet and ephemera bloodhound residing in Ossett, which in the first millennium was part of the Kingdom of Elmet.

Jim Lang Cleveland Poet and Photographer




Jim Lang passed away some days back… he gave art tours at the Cleveland Clinic, which is one of the best galleries in the nation. He published a considerable amount of rags and bag-o-zines, rethought what a book was back at Coach House in O Canada before settling in Columbus then Cleve. he threw pots, practiced the art of Raku and took photos of countless musicians, artists and poets in – or passing through Cleveland, spanning many a decade. A memorial of sorts here…pass on by and drop a line or twenty.

Tom Rechtin Fort Meyers, FL poet

Steven B. Smith from his and Kathy Smith’s blog Walking On Thin Ice

There’s Something Blue In the grass,

A tuft of hair
From a Halloween wig,
Something dropped,
Not an egg shell, though
If I took my glasses
I might have believed,
I might have even believed
That the grass
Wasn’t littered with dusky
Flowers, tempered
In their whiteness
By the burnished nub
Of their stems
And as the light fails
On this day
Of Independence
The lightning flickers, trumping
Our fireworks,
The leafless tree in the distance
On the other side
Of the iron fence, not
Dead, but
Passing through its own
Like a wall,
Its lowest branches
Too far out of reach
To hang a sign
Because climbing
Is finally hopeless,
Playing the piano
Is finally hopeless,
Picking a flower
Is all we can ask for
So I stand
And open the screen
My chest rising
To the occasion
Of blue


Tom Rechtin is a poet-lawyer (but mostly a poet) who lives in Fort Myers, Florida with his wife, two kiddies and cat named after Frieda Kahlo’s worser half.