Poetry from Mahbub

If You Don’t —-

How do I move foreword

If you don’t tell me

Show me how to start

How do I do something better

If you don’t light on

How do I step right or left

If you sound less

How do I brood over

If you don’t hang me in blessed

How do I snap the glory of nature

If you don’t  accompany me

How do I laugh from heart

If you don’t open your eyes to me

Soft and see the blush

How do I think the world

If you don’t hug

All the things will run away behind

If you don’t respond

All the things are in dust

If you don’t come to me with the face of love.

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Poetry from Sudeep Adhikari


Ethics of Space Exploration

So I finally learned the ethics and politics

of space exploration.


Try to find life at the far corners

of unforgiving solitude. Shoot the kids

in Yemen and Afghanistan.


Go bonkers about the discovery of habitable

planets. Bomb the shit out of Aleppo

to make it  look like poor people’s Mars.


Hope the aliens from space are nice

and friendly. Kill the brothers from another country

if they drink beer in your bar.


So the space moralists told me,

“Nobody owns the moon”.


Damn fucking right!

I told them nobody owns Earth either.


Sudeep Adhikari is a structural engineer/Lecturer  from Kathmandu, Nepal.   His recent publications were with   Red Fez , Kyoto  , Your One Phone Call, Jawline Review, Anti-Heroin Chic, Yellow Mama, Fauna Quarterly, Beatnik Cowboys, After The Pause, Poetry Pacific, Silver Birch Press and  Vox Poetica.

Poetry from J.J. Campbell


that gnawing ache
complaining about
pain makes some
people believe you
are crazy
temptation makes
it so easy to want
to make them feel
your pain
swallow your pride
and become a martyr
i’ve heard good
the responsible one
i have always felt
like the stranger
in a strange land
i so want to believe
that i’m actually
allowed to be happy
but i have no fucking
evidence at all that
happiness is even
a fucking option
this is what happens
when a father decides
that work is more
important than family
there is no joy in
being the responsible
one making sure this
bloodline fucking
call it art
spill some
paint on a
canvas and
call it art
up is down
low is high
you may
zig and i
will not
i have no
desire to be
better than
a chunk
the nagging aches
and pains of getting
the years of being
care free and living
life always find a
way to take a chunk
out of you before
it’s all over
a homeless guy once
told me that he never
trusted any fucker
interested in having
a pretty corpse
i passed him a bottle
of whiskey and said
all you need to hear at your high school graduation
seek out
the truth
and let the
roam free
there are
no special
death and
only then
will you
of now


Christopher Bernard reviews Territory of Dawn: The Selected Poems of Eunice Odio

Celestial Objects

Eunice Odio

Eunice Odio



Territory of Dawn: The Selected Poems of Eunice Odio

Translated by Keith Ekiss, Sonia P. Ticas and Mauricio Espinoza

The Bitter Oleander Press



A review by Christopher Bernard


It has often been said that modern man is in need of a new religion, of a new God, that the old religions and old gods, apparently resurgent throughout the world, are in fact in a battle to the death with a vision of the universe offered by modern science that differs so greatly from that of the Great Axial age from which most of the world’s great religions emerged that they cannot hope to remain relevant for long.

Either they will die, or they will destroy the scientific vision of the world, and by so doing, since they will find themselves unable to renounce the instruments of power science has made possible (though, to be consistent, they should renounce both subatomic theory and nuclear bombs, the theory of evolution and the internet, climatology and drones – but when has a fear of logical inconsistency ever stopped a martinet more powerful than a schoolmaster?), they will destroy the world, or, if not the world, civilization, and thus bring the human experiment to a spectacular end, to say nothing of the Final Judgment that a number of religions have long portended.

There is another way to our own suicide, and that is through a form of radical secularism fomented by the scientific worldview itself, a view purportedly hostile to religion of all kinds—seeing religion as irrational, intellectually presumptuous, morally hollow, hostile to knowledge, reason, and humanity—and yet which turns out to be itself irrational, cruel, presumptuous, hostile to reason, humanity, and even science.

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Poetry from Michael Robinson


For Angie

When I was little, I would talk to God

Waiting for his response.

“God is listening!” said my foster mother.


I wanted to live with God,

Just like the black women would say—

To go home to Jesus.


Wondering if black boys could go to Jesus,

Or did we just go to jail,

Or just lay in the gutter alone.


When the Doors Close

In the darkness of the night,

I seek the light of the moon,

Coming to greet my soul.

In the darkness of the night,

I pray that God will hear my heart,

In the darkness of the night.

In the darkness I smell the candle burning,

I’m safe with the burning candle in the darkness of the night.

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Poetry from J. K. Durick

Convenience stores

Convenience stores must be easy, out there alone, late;

around here two or three get held up each week, as if

there were a quota on them. It’s easy to picture, the lone

clerk dozing a bit by the register when the guy comes in,

the only person in the store, brandishes a weapon, they

always say brandish for these guys, either a gun or knife

or what looks like a weapon, and the minimum wage night

clerk always turns over the cash, an undetermined amount

they always say, and then he’s gone back out into the night,

so often around here the bandit leaves the scene on foot, as

if familiar with his or her surroundings, some local talent

perhaps; then on the evening news they will show pictures of

the thief, caught on the convenience store’s security camera

and we are told to call the police if we recognize this person,

a person who someone will know, a person who, more often

than not is caught. It’s as if convenience stores have become

the stage, the backdrop for this predictable play, this tired story

about our world, a dark lonely place where it seems as if we

either tend the till or come in from the night brandishing or

pretending to brandish a weapon, then leave with a hard to

determine amount of money, leaving behind each time just

enough of ourselves that we get our picture on TV and finally

someone recognizes for what we are and calls it in.

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Poetry from Benjamin Blake



Alis Volat Propriis 

Wandering the desolate Oregon coast

Salt-swept rocks shrouded in ocean mist

Something flutters in the pines positioned on the cliff-face

And somewhere not too close

A dog barks, ceaseless and urgent

Joined by the cries of plaintive gulls

I always dreamt of shipwrecks

And lamp-lit smugglers’ coves

Of sun-bleached bone

And sand-worn bottles

Their messages long lost at sea

So it is here that I’ll sojourn

Lay down with someone else’s wife

This old body needs its rest

And it’s time we moved on from writing letters

At least for a little while

Sophie, for the sake of Conversation


Alone again in autumn

The leaves drift down from the trees

Dew drops accurately reflect isolation

Newly departed from a passing bus

She’s standing on the roadside

Clad in a plaid jacket and over-sized white headphones

And I could have been hit by it

By the way I’m feeling

If only I could

Catch more than inquisitive looks

From such a pretty face

I’m fumbling in the outfield

From the prettiest face

Tripped and fallen again

Why am I still writing these stupid songs?

A whimsical by-product of delusion

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