Tuesday, June 30, 2015

Richard Schnap- Two Poems


These familiar streets
Remember me
Carrying a pizza

Home to the girl
Waiting for me
In a white nightgown

Whose bed we shared
For a brief time
Before she found

A new shadow
And our chapter ended
As I walked away

And never looked back
Wondering where
These streets would lead

As I felt the wind
Turn the page
Revealing the next face


Some are made
Of china
To be easily shattered

While some are made
Of steel
To be virtually unbreakable

And some are made
Of dust
To be scattered by the wind

While some are made
Of glass
To be invisible to the eye

And some are made
Of paper
To be home to a timeless story

While some are made
Of ink
To be the one that writes it

Donal Mahoney- Three Poems

An Old Nun’s Opinion

An old nun sitting 
on a bench in front of her convent
saying her beads was

interrupted by a young nun
coming home from school
to the convent for the night.

She asked the old nun if she had heard
about the Supreme Court passing 
the gay marriage law

and the old nun said she had.
The young nun seemed surprised. 
“Well, Sister, you don’t seem upset!

The old nun looked at her beads
and said, “This isn't Roe v. Wade.
This law won't kill anybody."

Homeless in Nome

I was beautiful once,
the homeless lady tells 
the young worker

who’s filling out forms
before assigning the lady
a bed for the night.

She’s been homeless 
for months since 
arriving from Dallas.

She's looking for a job
and maybe a husband
but hasn’t found either.

The worse thing, she says,
is the weather in Nome.
It’s nothing like Dallas. 

With snow in the winter 
and rain in the summer 
in Nome she needs 

something to crawl under. 
Often it’s a man, she says, 
with no home either.


It’s a big book, a thousand pages,
a million words, a bestseller,
and the verbs are mad as hell
because the nouns get all the credit
even though the nouns go nowhere 
if the verbs don’t take them,
never mind the adjectives,
those leeches on the nouns,
getting the same free ride.

It’s reached the point where the verbs
have had enough and plan to quit 
the book and leave the pages blank 
unless they get $15.00 an hour
to keep on dragging nouns 
and adjectives from cover to cover
plus overtime tossed in 
for adverbs and prepositions
and a nice bonus for conjunctions. 

Donal Mahoney lives in St. Louis, Missouri.

Linda M. Crate- Three Poems

no reason for your unkindness 
i am not a damsel in distress
can defend myself
nothing justifies
being cruel unless perhaps you
were being devoured by
a dragon,
but then i wonder 
what company you must keep
for all the dragons i've met
were good;
perhaps you deserved to be slain
for your wickedness—
i observed it once when 
you tore my pretty little red heart into
ribbons that you used to tear into
my ego,
and you held such glee when you pulled
my strings;
well, gepetto, you've handed me
scissors so i cut the strings
refuse to be your
anymore because i have my own hopes and
dreams calling to me.

i was wrong 
you cannot force my hand
mother said you
want to be friends again
simply because i've forgiven you
doesn't mean i want you in
my life again,
and i refuse to let you back in;
this door is closed for
a reason—
even evil dragons have shown me more
kindness than you have,
and so i will leave you out of the
story of my life
because you don't fit here;
my novel is one you wouldn't recognize
i was always taught not to judge
on appearances:
you always looked kind—
how very 
wrong i was.

stop chasing me
you are
mercury in retrograde
always looking
for an ego to dent in
negativity and confusion 
in your wake,
and i'm tired of the dragons
that follow you
chasing after me;
you were all the  darkest days
of my life
i am so glad they are over
our song is not the 
and you don't deserve to sing
my name on your lips
so don't;
i prefer the silence—
you are not the person that i need
to comfort me
i am the flames and the ocean waves
wild and you only ever tried to
cage me and tame my 
but i am mean to shine bright;
so i fare thee well
you never understood me,
and i'm done trying to be nice
to someone i cannot
stand being around
i loathe your negativity and the way you
always tried to drown me in the canoe
of your broken dreams;
you were never brave enough to be you
don't judge me for being me
it's who i was meant to

Christopher Hivner- Three Poems

I put my fingers
in between the still
fan blades
and wonder about
their power.
I could depress 
the on/off button
and find out quickly
or stare at the edges
and imagine.
I put my fingers
on her back,
tracing the shoulder blade
and wonder
how far I can go?
I could tempt
her on/off button
to see if she purrs
or scratches
but instead I
pull away.
My thumb against 
the serrated teeth
of the knife
draws chills to my skin.
I could press
and wait for the blood
or caress the metal
and live in the
what may come.
Some days I get to choose
between the blade
and the open spaces,
other days
the blade finds me
no matter 
where I hide.
Heart Beat
this night
like so many others
feels lost
I tried to give myself away
lost in the fable
of obedience
no sale
this night
feels the same
heart beat
empty space
heart beat
staring into the light
heart beat
like so many others
Some were smiling
in the picture,
a few looked tired,
five former friends
at a party,
none knowing the others
would be there,
a forced congregation
at the
‘everybody smile’ altar.
Behind them,
reached for the ceiling,
searching for escape
from the room
with no oxygen.

bio: Christopher Hivner writes from a small town in Pennsylvania surrounded by books and the echoes of music. He has recently been published in Eye on Life Magazine and Black Mirror Magazine. A chapbook of poems, “The Silence Brushes My Cheek Like Glass” was published by Scars Publications and another, “Adrift on a Cosmic Sea”, was published by Kind of a Hurricane Press.


James Murphy- Three Poems

Salute to the Hammering Bastards

The sun rises on
rooftop Sherpas
scaling peaks
hauling bundles
of shingles
fearlessly effortlessly
climbing hammering
hollering cutting and

They're never a
welcome sight
and the noise
drives the
neighborhood dogs
into a howling frenzy
but watch from the
kitchen window
and quietly applaud
the balance strength
agility and endurance
in the swampy heat
of early September.

Hours later savor
the burning beer
bubbles in the throat and
listen as the clatter fades
into quiet sunset
over the suburbs.

May the men
on the roofing gang
do the same.


Beauty school girls in the supermarket
like white wine and cigarettes,
cupcakes and hard-cooked eggs,
hummus with roasted red pepper,
bagels and cinnamon chewing gum.

One wears fishnet stockings,
the kind with the backseams
that lead the eyes along a line
from the stiletto heels
to the back of the thigh
on up to the cheeks,
while the other sports
bare, bumpy legs
and teeny sneakers.

All of this is nourishment for
the combined cosmetology
curriculum: managing manicures,
the use of thickening tonic,
corrective coloring, the cultivation
of the artistry of artificial hair,
sanitation, sterilization, and
infection control, massage for
lymphatic drainage, and lash application.


Nineteen years old
living at home
with mom and dad,

he'd head for the door.
"Where you going?"

Of course
he was going out
for a walk

maybe talk with
a cross-town

on the payphone
by the gas station
buy a pack of butts
at the drug store

amble into the alley
for a shot, a dime tap
and a game of pool

listen to the rolling
riotous clash of pins,
balls, and wood

watch the weathered
bartender's puckered
cheeks suck a marlboro
in the corner of her mouth

and ponder the probability
of being with her at the end
of the night.

It would have to be her place, right?

Instead he'd walk
over to the playground
piss on the hopscotch
break bottles on the
foursquare court
and stumble home
before the cops
showed up.

He was miserable,
maybe even diseased,
and he enjoyed it

but he really just needed
to get out of that house
for a few hours

those quiet, tense, angry
evening hours when his
father wasn't at work
and wasn't yet sleeping
                                    or dead.

Bio: Murphy lives and writes in Lakewood, Ohio.

Jeremy Mac- A Poem

 The House of Holidays
My name is Mr. Mobley, as you'll soon see,
I bid you welcome, merrywell,a bowl full of glee,
As you confirm, British, my drawl,
You'll ascertain in my sophisticants, calligraphy, my scrawl,
I clad in the finest and adornments in ditto,
Top hat, penguin tail coat, and razor edge slacks that park upon pedestal silk pillow,
The colour of my attire in no bore, changing with season, or mood depending,
Which is all in your choosing mind of transcending,
My golden locks are short but very announced,
And blue eyes omit nothing, cannot be denounced,
I am a riddle hard-pressed to be solved,
I speak in gray truths, in lights of blight, corrupting the nature that evolved,
Is there a dream? A hushed desire? I'll create profound fantasies,
But hold fast boys and girls, you may not wish to mold such realities,
For is there a price that one pays?
Do you dare,
Come take a stare,
Into my House of Holidays!

(Jeremy Mac is an Arkansas native and multi-genre fiction author with three novels, as well as a variety of shorter stories and poetry to his list of writing credits. Please stop by to learn more about Jeremy Mac, and leave a comment on Facebook at: www.facebook.com/jeremymac.author)  

Robin C. Pinkman- Three Poems


 The universe in
 fact, it proves itself to be one
 in all the things (i find remiss)
 in the death of some-
 one i care about for real  my
 boy, who rolled around in the
 new harvest as i cleaned it on
 the table  and there were little
 black and white hairs in all the
 flowers  in all the harvest.

 Portland 2015

 The death of a rat is awful  
 red trickles from the nose, the
 snapped neck  black eyes gaze
 corners unto eternity

 rat poison is better (you don’t
 have to clean it up), but still an
 awful death you can hear writhing
 in the wall  it’s nothing you ever
 want to think about  but you can’t
 live with plagues, can you? you
 take a hard chug for too long
 which burns down to where
 you once imagined a soul.

 San Jose 2010

 1980 thought to herself: what
 will it be on my name day? 
 here at the end of the past  and

 everyone thinks that i just guess
 when they're little  in so many
 words  and they marched her

 along  and most everybody
 went along with it  took to it
 like their natural habitat  and

 she clutched at her arms  and
 heard them all at once  but
 nothing possibly can ever

 happen to us  because nothing
 ever does  we all line up  and
 we all know one another  and

 everybody does as they're in-
 structed  but i end up in trouble
  even though i'm only very

 small  somehow, The Years
 have no patience for me  and
 won't show me how to do it

 right  and demand that it's
 done correctly  because one
 comes after the next one

 before the next one and after
 the last one  and that's why
 This Hideous Old Machinery  

 is here in your  
 little face  to grate and take
 pleasure  and close the door

 on your obscene bleating
 so the others remain

Monday, June 29, 2015

Ramona Thompson- Two Poems

Queen Cobra

Who do you think you are?
Ms. High and Mighty
Little Ms. Perfect
Think you're so much better
Above the rest of us
How quickly you forget
Where you came from
Your past
Just as sin filed
As the rest of us

Your tongue is pure acid
You stick your fangs
Wherever you want them
Don't give a damn
Who you hurt
As long as we all agree
You're always in the right
Can't ever be wrong
Oh no!
Not you Princeness Perfect
Everybody's favorite lady in charge

Sick of it
I for one am gonna
Fight back
Bite back
Take back my rights
No more stepping across that line
You're movin' back
Way back
Gonna let me live my life
Without every minute of it
Getting in my face
With your poison wisdom
Shooting down my self-esteem

Venom Immune

Like MC Hammer
So long ago
Can't touch this
I'm stronger
Thicker skin
I've built up
Over all these years
Away from you
I've learned
One or two bitter lessons
About mothers and daughters
And how blood isn't always
Thicker than water

I still love you
But I know
Now I must put away
Childish hopes and dreams
You chose him
So I'm picking me
Won't get caught up
In another sticky web of your lies
Family ties have come undone
I can't look back
No matter how desperate
At times I want to

All grown up
On my own
You keep your distance
Mama, I'll keep mine
No more games
Done waiting in limbo
For you to wise up
Come back to me
You wanna be a punching bag?
You go right ahead
I got better plans
For this long, long life
Ahead of me

Always we'll be bound
By the fact
You gave me birth
You gave me life
But sometimes that bond just isn't enough
Sometimes a woman finds a man
More appealing so she abandons
Her only child
Just like you did
But hey mama
That's ok
I'm not bitter anymore
Funny but somehow I've learned
I've come to be
Venom immune

Ramona Thompson has been writing for more then 20 years. Her past publishing credits include Dead Snakes, Calvary Cross, Howl, This Ain't No Rodeo and many more.

Readers/fans may reach her on facebook or at reddstar111@gmail.com

Adreyo Sen- A Poem

The Cavalier Poet After the Funeral
It was after the funeral.
Your eyes met mine
across the strained formalities 
marching across the pained blue plains
of the ceiling.
Perhaps, I thought, they allowed
the hint of a smile
to cloud my thoughts.
So lovely I knew was your smile,
as sweet as an apple covered in sugar.

But my thoughts were a powerless sky
over the sea of gravy 
that was my plate,
impotent over the placid islands of chicken.
Despite your silent importuning,
I chose to worship my stomach.
I let boredom be your fate,
but I did not intend for a drunk uncle
to disgorge his affection onto your lap.

But why did you kick me on your way out,
dearest?  That really hurt.

Jonathan Beale- Three Poems

Light dancing

Watching the River Wey at day break

Light in all its masses
and in all its dimensional
States and backdrops....
As the mornings
revealed - pulling
the flesh of the night
away.  Revealing….
The sleepless river.
Dancing - waltzing
Waltzing- twirling
Twirling - dancing
never able to stop.
These hypnotic
Waltzing whirlpools
weaving silver & gold
slowly revealing
this Xanadu.

Flood on the garden

Molehilled - the remembrance left -
Undulated skin across
The world.
Steel and leaf covered the lawn.
Nothing past the rain.

Dew, rains silent sister
Draws her finger across everything.
Bring with light to life
The – pearls - of – life.
Brother sister conflict

The black.  The white
The greenery licks the rain dry
In a silence: in darkness
Grows to flourish.
Until the rain passes again.

After today
As nights created from the  vying from the day to night

The hammer has beaten the remains of the day
Until spent dust and ashes remain

Still here, cold coffee stained the night.
This is where  that cloudlike state wafts by

The vampire night dissolves and is talked to liquidity
Muses here and my red raw eyes – contend

Against the storm chasing the dust I am lost
Fragments remain.

Archaeology of the night and its remains still around
Some places have and are the light and the life perfection.

Still sweet leaves, the reminder – and the words
The words are forgot: apathy eats them now – and why

The savannah of a stated conscience re-pleated
Here against the night.

The lightening roars not beholden to language no
It’s the end of the affair broken to repair

Standing against the wind to wear down
The roman want for all dressed in that purple gown

Talk here is as gold - milk to a cat
Striding into the falling lids falling on the mat

A strange beauty in innocence was once seen
Seen the eye is fooled what was beauty is obscene

I must lay an eye down to rest, even words need
To rest from the their power to share to feed

The muses dance around my head as torture they
Allow me against the stormy weather to make hay

I cross here before the alter before I lay to rest to rest
I take my cross the muses leave knowing they meant in jest    

Sunday, June 28, 2015

Janne Karlsson- A Cartoon

 "Janne Karlsson´s website is here: www.svenskapache.se"

Paul Tristram- Three Poems

As Cheap As Resentment

is the place where she is now
destined to remain.

© Paul Tristram 2013

Chewing Granite

It’s that spark of magic, that energy.
The serotonin bursting within your brain,
adrenalin coursing through your veins.
That youthful spring bouncing your step
and laughing twinkle in your dancing eyes.
Dropping a beer bottle from your left hand
but catching it with your right hand in time
with the music, way before it hits the floor.
It’s not walking the line it’s swaggering it!
Feeling Friday night at 6am on a weekday
morning for 5 weeks in a continuous row.
It’s about the glancing curve of the moment,
Elegantly spitting out electric shrapnel
whilst kicking down the walls around you.
It’s chewing granite in roaring anticipation,
being bull’s-eye bound and storming through
with a nonchalant single shoulder shrug.

© Paul Tristram 2014

Tornado Blues (Written On Father’s Day!) 

I remember those Jim Beam nights
and Jack Daniel’s afternoons,
actually I don’t, what I really recall
is awaking to the bloody debris
and carnage of the morning afterwards.
Police cells mostly, hospitals sometimes,
often strange, demented women’s beds.
(One time, with broken ribs and nose
in an old bank safe at the bottom of a hill?)
It was like distilling Russian Roulette
and slamming it down in shot glasses.
As if I was psychotically participating,
for my Family’s honour and Country’s pride,
in ‘The Olympic Self Destruction Games’
Roll ‘em dice and don’t think twice.
I didn’t walk the edge of the knife blade
(That kind of malarkey’s for pussies!)
I slid up and down it, sideways.
Everything a red rag to a bull
with a distinction in dissatisfaction.
It’s a wonder that I am still sane
(Relatively speaking!)
and a miracle I’m still alive and well.
I’ll be 45 years old this coming Tuesday,
the exact same age that my ‘Old Man’
smashed on through to the other side.

Paul Tristram is a Welsh writer who has poems, short stories, sketches and photography published in many publications around the world, he yearns to tattoo porcelain bridesmaids instead of digging empty graves for innocence at midnight, this too may pass, yet.

Buy his book ‘Poetry From The Nearest Barstool’ at http://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/1326241036
And also read his poems and stories here! http://paultristram.blogspot.co.uk/


Donal Mahoney- Three Poems


One thing 
we all have 
in common is 
we're ripening 
for the harvest.

Donald Trump 
and Pee-wee Herman,
Bill Gates 
and Eliot Spitzer,
Warren Buffett 
and Anthony Weiner

are different 
in many respects 
but like the rest of us, 
they, too, are ripening
for the harvest.

They hang with us
from the same branch,
apples, big and small, 
ripening in summer, 
withering in fall,
waiting for winter
to conduct its harvest. 

Some of us hang
from that branch
and wonder 
what in the name 
of God is next.
Others just hang.
They appear
not to care.

Email to a Son

Hard to believe you graduated 
from college 25 years ago.
Anyone who can climb 

from ruffian in a juvenile home
to university graduate to 
business owner is remarkable.

One day your sons
will come to understand that.  
Your siblings as well.

Couldn’t be prouder of your trek, 
a magnificent one, done the hard way, 
something I viewed from the valley. 

My father had a passbook 
with cash for me to go to college. 
He always had work, hard work,

highly skilled, with no layoffs. 
There’s always a demand for hot wire
electricians willing to climb 

tall poles and high towers, 
attack voltage in any weather. 
Life never steps back, forever upstream, 

and then suddenly we're salmon. 
A final thrust or two and we die. 
Thank God we have souls. 

Wildlife in the Garden

Birds and possums, 
coons and squirrels
frequent my wife’s garden.

Dawn to dusk I spy on them
from an upstairs window
next to my computer.

They remind me of the city
poor foraging in Dumpsters.
This morning a coon dispatched

a possum that had 
frightened away two feral cats 
I feed every day at 4 a.m. 

When I went out on the deck
and waved my arms to dispatch
the coon, he sat on his rump

and stared at me with a glare
I saw 50 years ago in the eyes
of a girl who became a nun. 

She is still a nun today. 
She said cut it out back then.
As did the coon today. 

Donal Mahoney lives in St. Louis, Missouri.

Douglas Polk- Three Poems

The Revolution Begun

nature in revolt,
the days numbered,
ark builders search for wood,
the rainbow,
the sign of the covenant,
was the small print ever read?
the earth infected,
and the disease professes to be the cure,
people eager to believe,
find me a white coat,
and glasses,
I will hypothesize with the best of them,
science is any one's bitch,
as long as you play with the numbers,
and squeeze some tits,
science never right or wrong,
though mistakes made daily,
but only progress,
akin to climbing stairs,
building higher and higher,
a bridge to fucking nowhere,
though it doesn't matter,
the revolution begun.


ignorance confessed,
education not to teach,
but to manipulate,
create citizens unable to think,
products of the assembly line,
available in every color,
every description,
and any design,
all programmed the very same way,
unable to think,
but with an equality even Bernie Sanders can be proud of.

Prayers Said

in the name of Ginsberg, Kagan and Kennedy,
forgive me judges,
for I have sinned,
believing in a God far above thee,
I know now you are supreme,
save me,
but only if everyone else can be saved,
blessed equality,
laws and life,
be decided by you,
the constitution,
the same as the bible,
fairy tales,
from another time,
and another place,
the federal government the god of today,
legislature, executive and judiciary,
the new trinity,
pray dear judges for the souls throughout history,
ignorant of your benevolence,
government bless you,
saviors of the world,
or at least of the state.

Kurt Nimmo- Three Poems

the small things in life

I ventured out of the house
to buy a flashlight and batteries
for a storm
that did not materialize.

I stayed
in the house
all day.

I have no reason to leave.

I will turn back the curtain
and look at the world out there.
this morning
I saw the neighbor
tending his flower beds.

the neighbor and I
have one thing in common.
we both like to drink beer

we never drink it together.

he likes
to talk about
when he was a soldier.
I never talk about
how I ran away
from becoming one.

I sit
before a typewriter.
it is the kind of work I like to do
and will likely
continue to do until
the day they
carry me out of this
old house
twenty one grams.

most people die in the hospital
not their own bed. what a shame.

that is
my wish for today.
to be left alone
and to die in my own bed.

it is
the simple things
in life

that make people happy.

end times

my wife
is out there
to the neighbor.

I don’t talk to the neighbors
unless absolutely necessary.

I have
to say.

I am not a misanthrope.
I simply have not had good luck with humans
so avoid them when possible.

my wife
comes in and says
the neighbor
believes it is the end times.
it has never been this bad
he tells her.

he’s talking about the rain.
it will be historic and gloomy
over the next few days.

it has always
been the end times

humans are
I tell my wife.

rain is secondary.


one of those
hot and humid Texas afternoons.
I sit here looking
and the sun
suddenly disappears
allowing an angry rain
to assault the

one of those days.
I want to break something.

a lifetime of words
and situations and half remembered faces
and smoldering recrimination
threats deadly as the asphyxiation
of charcoal smoke towering up and
twirling with muddy blades
in the vortex
of a ceiling fan.

instead of
breaking something
I pull on a toenail until the edge shears off
down to the quick.

I think
murder might be possible
and then I slink back like a child
in awe of sun and rain.

sun defeats
rain beyond the window.

I stare at the
incomprehensible wonder
of green cellular life.
it is all
beyond me.

I lift
the glass and
take a

I feel better
for a

Mel Waldman- Three Poems

Dog days
into death-soaked August nights-

sizzling summer heat

the burnt offering
boiled human brain roasting in hellfire.

beneath a seething canopy of sin
I am D.O.A.

the steamy night

my skin opens up
my mask comes off

the monster
pops out-

it’s time to kill & die

death-soaked August nights

the monster
inside me
is born

I am

Inside one,
outside the other

not there

not then

inside the darkness,
outside the light


outside & into,
inside & out of

inside the  soul case
& out of the vastness

outside the solar system
& into my mortal body

inside the soul case
into the spirit world & the invisible universe

that is
the unendurable suffering of my soul

it is
I know

it is
my soul

I suffer


Blood-red omphalos on the side of the road

almost hidden
behind the mutilated moribund trees,

You reveal only a Lilliputian arc of yourself,
glowing religious stone & holy presence that

you are,

& still, I feel you
& know you,

in my strange unfathomable vision-
in a glimmer of celestial light

coming forth
from the center of the earth or perhaps,

the cosmological hub of an unearthly place
of my own beautiful & grotesque creation


Jennifer Lagier- A Photo

                                                                "Pacific Grove"

Janet I. Buck- A Poem

Goodbye to This & That & Him
I’m tired of being hubby’s slave,
sick of dark insulting eyes,
bruises left by words I don’t exchange,
keeping those he hit me with.
Tired of fretting silences,
baking cakes in acquiescence, giving him
both lobster tails we can’t afford.
I stash a one-way ticket in my purse,
pack as fast as hands can move—
stuff in clothes like wadded rags.
No room for coats in case it’s cold.
One pair of shoes—they’re on my feet.
No room for bottles of perfume.
No room for basic toiletries.
I scrub the kitchen twice at least,
just in case the other woman wants to cook.
A three-page letter open on our dining table—
used for coasters under a vial of spendy scotch.
Hustle, hustle, hurry up before
you hear the doorknob turn.
I call a cab—we sit in stretching traffic jams,
a dozen trucks and mini-vans, smothered
in white cherry blossoms—inches thick.
Drivers thrashing windshield wipers,
treating them like falling sleet,
taking out the honey bees that follow petals
wherever they chance to land.
I know I’ve hated living here between the bars
on every window near the ground—
where going to a grocery store
means two sore heels from steel carts.
Where no one speaks, not even birds.
I left the car keys by the door.
He’ll need them, learning how to drive.
Next to them—a can of mace (a birthday gift
for running errands late at night), my wedding ring.
Rays of light are fast asleep, but
suns of polished marigolds must lie ahead.
My dad will meet me at the plane—
the other end of incubus.

Bio: Janet I. Buck
Janet Buck is a seven-time Pushcart Nominee and the author of three full-length collections of poetry; her work has won numerous literary awards and she has published roughly 4,000 poems and non-fiction essays in print and internet journals around the globe during her 18 year writing career.  Buck's most recent poems are scheduled for publication in forthcoming issues of The Milo Review, Misfit Magazine, The Ann Arbor Review, Antiphon, River Babble, PoetryBay, and other journals worldwide.