Cabin Fever

A poem by John Maurer


A snowcapped car crash
is idyllic in a morbid way
To see nature is still
something to be survived
despite all the property deeds
we don’t own this


The ecosystem will chew you up
and spit you back out as it has been doing
for billions of years to your earlier evolutionary stages
Corpses don’t own a thing and your assumption
that you won’t be one soon confuses me


I spend every moment of every day
astonished that I make it to the next breath
that my heart coincidentally keeps beating


John Maurer is a 26-year-old writer from Pittsburgh that writes fiction, poetry, and everything in-between, but his work always strives to portray that what is true is beautiful. He has been previously published in Claudius Speaks, The Bitchin’ Kitsch, Thought Catalog, and more than seventy others. @JohnPMaurer (johnpmaurer.com)

Empty Photo Album

A poem by John Maurer


Let the incense fall to ash until the religion does

See it as a hearth not a forest fire, from an arm’s length

Your enemy starts beating you as soon as you consider them an enemy

Once you forfeit the cranial square footage to them for squatters’ rights

_______________________________________

Second thoughts are like second children; mistakes

Another attempt at something you failed massively at before

At the risk and pain of others, in the name of narcissism 

No sacrifice makes up for ending a life or creating one

_______________________________________

Take only photos, leave no ancestors

Leave no survivor who is stronger than you

or accept that power isn’t beyond grasp

but not of worthwhile pursuit to hold


John Maurer is a 26-year-old writer from Pittsburgh that writes fiction, poetry, and everything in-between, but his work always strives to portray that what is true is beautiful. He has been previously published in Claudius Speaks, The Bitchin’ Kitsch, Thought Catalog, and more than seventy others. @JohnPMaurer (johnpmaurer.com)

I Wondered

A poem by John D. Robinson


How a poem could be written
about a beautiful
11 years old boy
who was hit by a car as he
stood in a safe-zone, waiting
for a break in the traffic to
cross safely;
he was air-lifted to a city
hospital and into emergency
surgery;
it wasn’t good, wired up
to a machine to breathe,
damage to his young
brain overwhelmingly
traumatic;
he would never see again,
never again look into the
eyes of his parents, he
would not be able to walk
or talk ever again; he’d
live in a world of numbness,
darkness and emptiness,
motionless;
cruelly robbed of the
beauty of life and love
and wonder of feeling,
of sensation;
he was just 11 years old
just starting out;
for nearly 2 weeks, an
eternity for the family,
the ventilator and the
medicines kept his little
body alive and no more
could be done and the
medics decided to stop
the medicines and then 3
days later, the ventilator
was switched-off;
for a few brief moments
the young kid struggled
and then he passed
and I wondered
how a poem could be
written about
something like that.


John D. Robinson is a poet from the U.K. He has published two chapbooks of poetry: When You Hear The Bell, There’s Nowhere To Hide (Holy & Intoxicated Publications, 2016) and Cowboy Hats & Railways (Scars Publications, 2016). His work has appeared, and continues to appear, frequently in small press and online literary journals.

Joachim

A poem by John Grey


He underwent a change, unable to believe whether it was day or night,
he drove a fast sports car in an attempt to matter,
the crash, of course, sent waves rollicking across the sea,
he became the past participle of a bent lamppost,
an attempted heist on the part of jewelweed and coneflower—

they warned him against all unannounced, unplanned rebellions
by recent graduates who piss on established fare,
wear the gaudy nomenclature—experimental writer—

he anchored the street for fifty minutes before the cops came,
he wore unleaded low-grade petroleum in his curly locks,
for a moment or two, his heart played drums in a soft-rock band,
then the occasion hauled itself back from a great dent in the scheme of things,
became just another accident—
the sun looked down on his future—
saw nothing but language poets, beats, white ants and castanets.


John Grey is an Australian poet and U.S. resident. His work has recently been published in Front Range Review, Studio One, and the Columbia Review with work upcoming in the Louisiana Review, Poem, and Midwest Quarterly.