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.

Bree Pleasureville, KY poet and artist


we barn lay

way laid, in the fields of nobodys vison,
you turn me on and i let your
hands wander where. my
heads comfy in the crook
of your arm. you said go long and i caught it easy.
pigskin never felt so good in the hands. yore tales of
the QB hart attack halted me in white deer tracks.

i want to be your three times girlfriend
hawks flying over while the quiet traffic
lands everywhere and we wonder has
anyone lain here before, just like this
wandering us in the grass.




still wet

tulip oak and beech leaves
frame ringlets of both of our brown hair that
wide sky reveals a thin lip of

cloud pressed pink by the cheek of sun rising
that little want you now foster,
all mine

a still wet field, our own for it is
early, and what is more sure, for it?
the hot august pavement?

the punishment of waiting burns some real
serge gold along our prone imaginations

i notice each myriad leaf points up
innumerable hands cupping

i am mystified that each rough side
faces us and you read my thots,
you say, as a child (to another child),
its going to rain, and i bury my face
in your dry hands.




Bree‘s latest book is And i Am Also Invasive (Birds and Bones 2017). She made a calendar of her collages and a book of them is forthcoming, thanks to the Kentucky Foundation for Women.

Rae Cobbs Louisville, KY poet


My Father the Ceiling Fan

Dark wood and bright brass,
a still cross or propeller,
the fan I watched
hang from my ceiling
for years is my father.

Glad for our existence,
we stare past homely walls,
ignore who we are, center
on something under stars.

I killed him once, my father,
with anger hammered into a tree.
Surely that let him know me.
Since he died, I don’t hate him,
rotten fruit that spawned me.

My ceiling fan doesn’t have
a bald head and greasy neck.
It is elegant, a hand me down.
My father wasn’t elegant.

I looked past him most
my life. I find that sanity
kills our Satans and death
kills our devils, but
love lasts, laughing.



Matt Jones is a poet, artist and musician most recently hiding out in Northampton Mass.



Kitchen Meditation

The same wind that pushes clouds
across the river clears the sky.
The yew and holly dip and drop
caught snow. The wind blows
straight over a curved plane; hope
mixes with futility, colors on a palette.

The day seems to move, or does our planet
wobble, diving always out to space,
drawn back in by gravity? It’s serious,
this mill. We infest and call it glorious
existence. It is both depravity and joy.

I do not live by life alone, growth
and atrophy. Without the finite soil,
the beaches, canyons, mountains, space,
I am not fed. Allowed to prosper
through these seasons, we erode
but we are filled with possibility.

More than that: actuality, a force
so massive that it doesn’t move,
a cloud containing wind, that
shifts and folds back on itself,
the kitchen counter, bowl, and spoon.

Rae Cobbs is a prolific published and performing poet, educator and freelance writer in Louisville, KY.

Youssef Alaoui Morrow Bay, CA poet


When the Sky Swirls Stars That

Drip all the way to the ground
at the edge of your village
a dark mid winter walk and
silent snow phantoms approaching.

I called out to the last of you
leave my memory
much like that melody
we sang by the late fires
of final dawn, now
soap flakes and snow
fly the peacock-ridden balcony.

Tralala! we hurled at the canyon
our voices embarrassed to be so slender
dwarfed by the rock blades
as the ribbed coast cut the air
even before we resigned to
shelter salt pillar brides.

The heart of it was so clear to me
you and I filled with the stuff of all things
when last we spoke, but here
at the edge of your shadow
village I will turn
and take my chances
on faded trails.

*      *      *

kung fu master backward

life in reverse is dance-like
problems resolve themselves
old flowers brighten, disappear into the earth

bright puffs of light
arrange the streets, open people’s eyes
set them on their way

zygote me dreams ethereal crowns
longing for a chance
to doubt you, taste this

yell at all this again still you buy it
your sleepy bowl of cheerios


Youssef Alaoui lives in Morro Bay, CA. His book Fiercer Monsters will be released this year by Nomadic Press of Oakland and Brooklyn.