Poetry from Nate Maye

She’s a doll
until you decorate
her, a lovely
fashion until
you notice how
she fails to make
eye contact,
drags her feet,
fails to communicate,
rips you apart
behind your back.
Blink you miss
it, blink you miss me,
this poem I wrote for
you, if you blink
or click, gets lost
in the endless stream
of cubes and rounds,
pushed to the bottom
of the stream.
He lingers in the hall
and I dream about
him turning suddenly
a new creature,
mythic and strange.
But he still won’t clean
like he’s supposed to,
often napping
in the corner, even
with his horse legs
or beast eyes.
Nate Maye is a rising poet.  Nate watches too much television and studies literature.  He is from Texas.

Poetry from JD DeHart

With his bow tie
and his bowler,
his etiquette videos
With his distinguished
accent and polished
It’s easier to dismiss
the claws.
The Classic
It’s battered and worn
and sits on the shelf
like a mountain
that can taunt you,
Remember how you
carried me around
for years on end, I was
your constant companion
until the day came
When you realized
you would never read
me through.
It’s a beautiful hassle
this constant tapping
sound of devotion
I should love its lapping
gate and its tiny bells
I should worship and cherish
its presence
If I could just push past
the early boundary
of my own annoyance.

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Poetry from Astra Papachristodoulou


This camera has an eye that cannot see
the act of toxic scrolling that can be
an agony of the mind that’s driven me
miles from “amour de soi” that’s all I need
to find my peace and spread prosperity
to those who I see and see me as rarity

These lenses can keep flashing filthy BANKNOT£S
for people who hide behind their idle followers
of photographs they’ve taken to promote
their “soulmates” with whom they’re asymptotes
projecting life as seen by the Kardashians
with selfies in a shell that’s rather porcelain

Insta-society needs velvet antidote
to filter trash and help one to self-love

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Poetry from Joan Beebe

Night Sounds

Sleeping soundly without a care,

When suddenly I heard a step on the stair

I arose from my bed and tried to be quiet

I was terribly afraid but thought I should try it

To find out what could be that woke me from sleep

So into the hall I did manage to creep

I looked all around but nothing I found.

Suddenly there was music from downstairs,

It sounded like a piano and again I was scared.

I decided I had better take a look and what did I see

But a big old cat running up and down the keys

A window was left open and that’s how he got in

That’s why I heard that terrible din.

So if night sounds disturb you, just think of this.

Those sounds can be funny with such a strange twist!

The Passage of Time 

Like the wind blowing here and there

Changing to barely a whisper,

Time eludes us in the passing of days.

We look forward to a lovely spring

After a cold and snowy winter.

Time passes and we awake one morning

To the warming day with its

Promise of blue skies, pretty flowers

The sun in its splendor.

Time passes and soon we hear

Summer rain, thunder and wind.

But when it is over, there is

A beauty to the quiet and stillness we feel.

Again, time passes and the leaves

On the trees start changing color.

We are now in Autumn, a kind of

Magical season with scarecrows, full moons

And children trick or treating.

There is a sunny but cool, crisp air and

You breathe it in because it pleases you.

Finally, time passes and we see snowfalls,  enjoying

The first one as it seems to sit on the trees in a dazzling light.

Pine trees are a picture of such natural beauty

Now we watch with smiles as

Families are playing with their children

And building snowmen.  Sleds are

Brought out for fun , sliding down hills,

Then rushing back up the hill to

Fly down it again and cheeks

Getting red in the cold.

Christmas brings much joy to the

Family celebrations and there is

A different sense of peace in the world

Our passage of time for this year

Is now complete.

Poetry from Will Somers

Blue-eyed Wraith

I still remember

The helmet of coppery

Hair, shining in the sun.

I can still tell you

About the heat of the

Day, as my class

Stretched our legs

At the World War II Memorial.

I saw her there,

For the first time,

And what I thought would be

The last.

But it wasn’t.


She haunted my dreams

Starting that night.

A blue eyed wraith

Staring me down

Every time I closed my eyes.

I was captivated by her

Proud, defiant eyes.

Her scarlet lips

Always beckoned me closer.

Maybe I should have

Known that I needed

To stay away.

Christopher Bernard reviews San Francisco’s latest Word for Word short story production



Word for Word’s Stories

Emma Donoghue “Night Vision”

Colm Tóibín “Silence”

Z Below

San Francisco

San Francisco’s well-known drama group Word for Word, which for 23 years has been staging short stories with ever-increasing theatrical sophistication, recently brought to the stage two finely wrought tales by Irish writers about Irish writers at SoMa’s Z Below. The results were a pleasure for both lovers of literature and of the stage.

Word for Word’s cunning device is so obvious one wonders why nobody ever thought of it before: take a good short story and stage it as a play, with every word spoken by a character in the story. The opportunities for theatrical magic are patent, and potent, and taken entire advantage of by Word for Word and its talented staff.

Tonight’s embarking (I saw it on April 1st) brought two stories, one by Colm Tóibín, the comfortable, fashionable middle-brow writer (“middle-brow” is sometimes mistakenly taken for a putdown, though it isn’t; a sturdy literary culture needs a strong middle-brow culture to keep the low-brow aspiring and the high-brow honest), based on an anecdote from the notebooks of Henry James. The anecdote was told to him by Isabella August, Lady Gregory—the Lady Gregory—writer, playwright and Irish folklorist, probably most famous in this country for her association with the poet W. B. Yeats and their mutual support of the celebrated Abbey Theater, now the National Theatre of Ireland. Henry James never worked up the anecdote into a story, but Tóibín uses it to draw out a tale about an affair between the unhappy Lady Gregory and the poet and womanizer Wilfred Scawen Blunt, and her long, puzzled savoring of what seems to have been the one great physical passion in her life.

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Prose from A. Iwasa


Excerpt from Transcendental Hobo

a memoir by A. Iwasa

Chapter 1?

I often think of September 29th, 2001 as my birthday.  It was the first time I marched in Washington, DC, and in many ways was the culmination of a process that started about three years earlier when I found out about the School of the Americas (SOA), a Latin American military officers’ training facility located at Ft. Benning, GA.  But that day in DC there were two demonstrations against the impending war in Afghanistan, and I participated in both.

I had been to protests before, but nothing I had experienced in Cleveland, OH (Clevo) prepared me for the tense and sometimes violent Anti-Capitalist Convergence (ACC) march on the World Bank, which ended with hundreds of us getting detained in the plaza in front of the building.

In retrospect, of course, the differences make total sense.  What’s demonstrating for the legalization of marijuana with maybe three hundred people mostly too stoned for any sort of serious shenanigans, or participating in a so-called solidarity rally while people on the actual front lines are breaking unjust laws elsewhere?

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