Lazy Sunday Morning

She can smell it: the weather is still
too cold outside.
Four robins lift worms from the frozen
lawn; a late morning wind carries
dust and the musk of winter daphne.
A zipper taps in the dryer & taps. 
The neighbors’ excited squawking fills
the sidewalk. The woman continues
to hibernate despite caffeine & the tidy lists
she’s penned of things she will never do
before nightfall, despite the zipper’s tap
taps, despite this insistent typewriter
tapping out another wrecked plot.




About the Author: A professor of English at Cosumnes River College, Heather Hutcheson is founding editor of the campus literary journal, the Cosumnes River Journal, and she organizes an annual senior and student memoir conference. She spends summers teaching English in Oaxaca, Mexico. A former journalist for The Desert Sentinel and The Atascadero News and contributor to numerous other publications, she has been published nationally. She blogs at


It’s not enough
just to cry.
I need to explain why
I am lying on the floor, 
and who
pushed me down. 
It’s not
I need to
confess the name
of the invisible tumor
that must be eating my brain.

And if the whys aren’t satisfied,  
rumors will assume the truth.

I shiver without a fever.
I am terrified of shadows.
My pain does not qualify as serious;
not as chronic or sudden or serious, 
or as concerning as death.
But, I agreed not to put another
why in their minds. 

They have
enough already.

When asked to describe my mind, amplified:

I’m in fight-or-flight mode, 
but I don’t swallow moth wings. 
It’s not a joyous flutter I feel. 
In one blink, in one breath, I am feeling
with two shots of adrenaline on a no-sleep diet. 
My thoughts branch out and splinter into thorns, 
and from them fish bone needles fall. 
I’m expected to find a certain one, 
while eyes stare and a stopwatch ticks.
It’s as if I’m always waiting for a consequence. 
I feel life the same way I brace myself for anger to follow lightning.
And, for those who aren’t afraid of thunder, 
this translation will stumble back to doubt, as will I,
until the next time someone asks,
What’s wrong?



About the Poet Jada Yee: I’m a struggling human being who writes poetry. Music has always been an inspiring anchor; my writing coach that gently shakes the neurons out of bed. It’s the joyful, saddening, enraged vocals and melodies that make the inner gray ask for color, and sometimes, it’s the other way around. The escape into the rhythm of writing is one of the best natural highs. My little poems have appeared in Ibis Head Review, Greensboro Review, A Quiet Courage and elsewhere.

June Journal: Friday, June 7, 2013

The low pitched sonic boom of all-night
rain burrows through caverns of black. Black
woods. Black yards. Black clouds. Black sky. It flings
its bottomless pocket of marbles
down onto the deck. And the roof. From
both ends, its flashfloods flood the street in
raging runaways. They converge in
cascades at the bridge’s wall. They spout
into the black stream and mount the black
banks. Like pale spots of fleeting time—from
time to time—the clouds flicker and pulse.  
The flickers—from time to time—grumble.
The blackboard sky wipes its slate. Black clouds. Black
yards. Black woods. Low pitched boom. Black rain.



About the Author: Don Mager’s chapbooks and volumes are To Track The Wounded one, Glosses, That Which is Owed to Death, Borderings, Good Turns, The Elegance of the Ungraspable, Birth Daybook, Drive Time, Russian Riffs. He is retired and was Mott University Professor of English at Johnson C. Smith University where is also served as Dean of the College of Arts and letters. As well as a number of scholarly articles, he has published over 200 poems and translations from German, Czech and Russian. In the 1970s he published articles and review on Gay Liberation. He lives in Charlotte, NC with his partner of 36 years. They have three sons and two granddaughters.

Need More Be Said?

A sudden rush of wings above your head, 
behind your back, a voice whispers your name
but when you turn around, no one is there. 
It’s night, you’re all alone―need more be said? 

A fog horn moans out past the buoys while fled
is the music of every bird but the mournful “who”s
from one who asks no one. And just the same, 
it’s night, you’re all alone―need more be said? 

A doo-wop tune from a car dead ahead
croons of two lovers and a rendezvous
that never was. Today hushed your affair. 
But it’s night, you’re all alone―need more be said? 

Perhaps just this, those wings that rushed the air? 
Except the owl, every bird had flown. In your hair
                                                                    there’s a smell―like rue.



About the Author: Mark Mansfield's poems have appeared in The Adirondack Review, Bayou, Blue Mesa Review, The Evansville Review, Fourteen Hills, Gargoyle, Limestone, Magma, Salt Hill, San Pedro River Review, Scrivener, Tulane Review, Unsplendid, and elsewhere. He was a 2015 Pushcart Prize nominee. Currently, he lives in upstate New York.

My unfortunate Cookie

by Edgar Ted Davis

I cracked its shell today,
in an American Chinese restaurant.
A pity I thought, no paper inside.
Was it damnation, or blessing.
I pounded at it on the table,
with my soup spoon still
dripping with fresh
sour soup.
Damn them, or damn me.
No lottery numbers inside,
no promise of hell,
or of heaven.
No relationship predictions, no
romantic madness to anticipate.  
Fool am I to live
my life chasing lotteries,
that support school aged
children, through political hands.
And now I've come up
empty of contents,
within a Chinese, made
in Taiwan, sugary shell.



About the Poet, Edgar Ted Davis: Previously published in the 80's then resigned from creative pursuits until semi retirement led me back towards such...