Cold Rambler

Sugary sweet, without a hint of substance. A taste divine, she is everything you want and nothing you are permitted to sample. As you excuse yourself, a lie is best told under the guise of want and unbridled desire. Temptation is but a momentary restraint. Meet me alone; a full moon’s promise, a cold winter's truth. Entangled within these confines, only the demons bear witness to her exquisite perfection. The rapture of release, the confession of guilt. To push the boundaries is ever so easy as so is to cross that razor's thin edge. So very sweet was the taste, so cold is the soon-to-be corpse. Empty windows reflect a broken trust. Tragedy of an all too eager lost soul’s forced departure. So sweet was the taste of a blue-tinged kiss. All monsters are human, as in nature, there is only one purpose, where within man lingers insanity. Alone is the beauty sleeping eternally, as only the stars bear witness. Goodnight.   John Patrick Robbins, is a Southern Gothic writer his work has ...

patron saint of the unhinged rant, poison pen of the revolution, who wrote his theses in blood, give sparks to my words that i may light a fire to burn the very concept of money. the bastille is rebuilt in america. they laugh at our suffering. they scoff at our power. they will know we are better without them. Marty Shambled is a Pushcart nominated author. Poet laureate of railroad tracks and greasy spoons. He’s been published in a lot of places you’ve never heard of. He lives in Texas and has a GED.

She tells men keep your hands to yourselves and some hike theirs into their sleeves Ah, she says amputation is an answer Then she taps, says dancing alone is just fine but don’t let chorus line thoughts slip into your minds No ballrooms either, swine Fret not I love you all -- Rainbow trout have no arms to handle a bicycle Spot the link? Catch a need? I have no fins to fan and soothe your fragile egos Peddle your bikes No trophies for navigating one hand two or none to my mountain retreat where I’ll turret tap to the rattle of the useless oysters fouling your wicker baskets   Thomas M. McDade resides in Fredericksburg, VA, formerly CT & RI. McDade is twice a U.S. Navy Veteran serving ashore at the Fleet Anti-Air Warfare Training Center, Dam Neck Virginia Beach, VA and at sea aboard the USS Mullinnix (DD-944) and USS Miller (DE / FF-1091). His poetry has ecently appeared in Rat's Ass Review.

Late November New England. Deep freeze, 4:45 PM, sun already set as we walked back to the locker room. Heads down, bodies ached, minds numb from thirty mile per hour wind gusts, our helmets locked on frigid heads, shoulder pads stiff and stifled, refusing to leave our bodies. A self-indulged path to ammonia for sophomores, who have the inevitable task of picking up all the blocking dummies and equipment and throwing them into the rusted shed…God forbid they forget anything, for it will be laps tomorrow. Channel 4 is predicting snow. Another year of being crushed on Friday nights…being the poor stepchild of the Tri-Valley League, beaten week after week by our big brothers. 45-7, 32-0, 52-6. Preparing to play Westwood on Friday.  Another fast exit to a weekend of doldrums.  Where Saturday morning we watch film of ourselves getting our ass kicked. Then spending Saturday night hoping to get someone to buy beer for our team of thirty players. Sunday…spent in bed, dreaming of my Alg...

In the street from the trees the extraordinary birds sing a common song if you pay attention. They make the mundane something to look forward to. I see many things through the trees, the sun shining, the singing birds, the moon and stars at night, people traveling in the sky, a door to space, and if you believe - a miniature horse. Born in Mexico, Luis Cuauhtémoc Berriozábal lives in California and works in the mental health field. He is the author of Raw Materials (Pygmy Forest Press, 2004), Make the Light Mine (Kendra Steiner Editions, 2016), and Make the Water Laugh (Rogue Wolf Press, 2021). His poetry has appeared in Blue Collar Review, Escape Into Life, Mad Swirl, Triggerfish Critical Review, and Unlikely Stories).

I watched the man crossing the path underneath the cascade of the waterfall. It had been part of the route wine was carried from the high lands, to be sold on the coast. Back in the old days, that was. But the old days weren’t very long ago. He seemed confident as he placed a foot carefully in each of the footholds hacked into the precipitous rock face. He gripped the thick metal hawser attached to the rock with strong metal rings. Gripped it firmly and proceeded slowly one step at a time. I had a camera and I thought that it was a picture he would like to have when he was dry and safe back on terra firma. Then I thought, suppose he falls, falls into the waves, to be smashed against the rocks far below. I didn’t want to have such a picture, a picture of someone’s last moments and I thought, to take it may jinx his journey and even cause him to fall. So I never took the picture. But it made no difference. The man fell anyway.   Lynn White lives in north Wales. Her work is influenced...