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  • 06/23/15--07:30: John Attah - Two Poems
  • Heal These Bones

    Heal these bones that lie on this valley
    Where the cloud gathers
    Where the rains fall
    And thunder barks the testimony back to heaven
    Lift them up like the bronze serpent
    And let there be flesh in this valley of bones
    For bones are not for eating
    The flesh is the beauty hiding the bones
    Free and heal these bones.

    Whisper Slowly Into Those Ears

    Whisper slowly into those ears
    The ears that listen less
    And listen as the mouth proclaims
    All it has heard, true and untrue
    For out of proportion, the words will flow
    And the tap of oratory unfixed
    While the lips churn out words
    Words that bear no meanings
    Words that ears prefer to take
    To listen to and be merry
    Let this whisper still be slow
    The ears still listen less.

    Ojonugwa John Attah is a Nigerian poet and short story writer. He also loves taking photos of nature and writing songs as well as messages. His poems have been published online and in print.

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  • 06/30/15--09:21: Timothy Pilgrim - One Poem
  • Traitor Joe
    Be assured, not an easy task, even aided
    by fine wine, a Cote de Rhone --
    in fact, I did not actually plant the wheat, 
    grind flour, sift it, grow greens,
    force-feed geese,  take their livers, 
    make Foie gras from scratch,
    hor d'oeuvre served with Cornichons
    prior to our main course, Coq au vin, 
    for which I had hunted  mushrooms, 
    slaughtered hogs, killed my cock.
    I did, however, drive the Porsche
    to a trendy market, spend much time,
    find these delicacies, endure checkout,
    pass it all off to you as mine.
    Timothy Pilgrim,  a Pacific Northwest poet  in journals such as Windfall, Cirque and Carcinogenic Poetry, is co-author of Bellingham poems (2014) and included in Idaho's Poets: A Centennial Anthology (University of Idaho Press), and Tribute to Orpheus II (Kearney Street Books).

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  • 07/10/15--07:00: Richard Schnap - Two Poems
  • Wardrobe

    In the morning she woke
    With hope for the new day
    A white dress embroidered
    With flowers and stars

    Then in the mail
    Arrived three overdue bills
    A grey smock frayed
    At its collar and sleeves

    Next came a call
    From her depressed ex-husband
    A blue robe stained
    With tiny dark drops

    And finally a text
    From a man cancelling a date
    A black gown riddled
    With cigarette burns

    Profile In Black

    He was raised
    By a lost father
    And a gullible mother

    Attended a school
    With identical students
    In both dress and cruelty

    Worked at jobs
    Soliciting strangers
    In cage-like cubicles

    Married a woman
    That changed from a dove
    To a ravenous vulture

    Wrote many poems
    That piled up like leaves
    From a burnt forest

    Watched the stars
    And saw constellations
    That no one else could

    Richard Schnap is a poet, songwriter and collagist living in Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania. His poems have most recently appeared locally, nationally and overseas in a variety of orint and online publications.

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  • 07/13/15--08:33: Emily Ramser - One Poem
  • I Am In Lesbian Space
    Your nipple is my spaceship,
    as I am an astronaut
    exploring the space of the body
    my mother told me I shouldn’t touch.
    I have landed on a comet
    bearing your name
    and I must radio home
    to tell them I have found God
    and She
    is beautiful

    Emily Ramser just published her first full poetry collection, I Forgot How to Write When They Diagnosed Me, this past January. Her next chapbook, Conjuring Her, is set to be released later this summer through Weasel Press. You can find more of her work at her blog,

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  • 07/14/15--07:30: Jocelyn Mosman - One Poem
  • Neurosis
    I am dark matter, white noise.
    I can’t fall asleep
    in midnight’s unrelenting
    The quiet makes
    everyone and everything outside
    disappear and
    I feel alone.
    I don’t know how to be alone
    without losing my self.
    Anxiety sets in
    like mist.
    I evade shadows,
    lose focus as the sun
    rises and
    Some days,
    I can’t keep up.
    I need to breathe
    but I can’t.
    I am trapped
    on this blue planet,
    silently spinning
    through space.
    The world I was born into was
    a muted scream made audible
    in the emergency exit
    of my mother’s belly.
    I have made 20 revolutions
    around a sun
    I cannot control,
                a cycling of
    waves, planets, bicycles, periods,
    This noisy rhythm is dull
    against my
    The compression of blood
    in and out of ventricles
    in and out of veins,
                out of me:
    like the ocean
    washing the beach
    after footprints litter
    its pristine shoreline;
    like the final squeeze
    of catsup before it reaches
    its sputtering and anticlimactic
    like you
    sighing, begging me
    to stop being
    so neurotic.
    Each year, a twister
    that sweeps me off my feet
    day after day,  but I always find
    my way home.
    I don’t know where home is,
    not anymore,
    but being here with you
    seems right.
    The snow is silent as dots
    falling from the darkness
    of the heavens
    onto spindly trees
    The world is quiet here,
    except the wind
    on the window pane,
                and you beside me.
    You hold my hand,
    our body heat colliding
    in the darkness and
                I can’t let go.
    Jocelyn Mosman is a junior at Mount Holyoke College, but will be studying at the University of Kent in Canterbury, UK this fall. She is a member of the Northampton Poetry Slam Team to compete at the National Poetry Slam in Oakland this August. She has previously published two volumes of poetry and is currently working on her third. 

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  • 07/15/15--08:00: Gary Beck - One Poem
  • Curtain Call

    Broadway show
    open and close
    rarely making an impact
    on the general public,
    more and more immersed
    in social media,
    computer effects movies
    diluting the impact
    of live theater,
    foolishly competing
    with hi-tech cinema,
    stage emotions mistrusted
    by commercial producers
    nurtured on twitter.

    Gary Beck has spent most of his adult life as a theater director, and as an art dealer when he couldn’t make a living in theater. He has 11 published chapbooks. His original plays and translations of Moliere, Aristophanes and Sophocles have been produced Off Broadway. His poetry, fiction and essays have appeared in hundreds of literary magazines. He currently lives in New York City.

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  • 07/16/15--07:00: Taylor Bond - Two Poems
  • The Last Three People on Earth
    The lovers made their bed of flowers
    and I watched from the baseball fields
    cheeks hot against the chain-link fence
    the echoes of metal bats cracked in the distance
    perhaps far enough as the memory, life existing
    even when it does not.
    I was intruding but it was too late, 
    I had left this world and entered alone
    into the world that was shared between hands
    and sticky August sweat, the type to swallow
    skin as its own, hungrily, greedily
    the rinds of watermelon embraced as its frames
    letting everything spill over. Here, loneliness
    was a comfort. Here loneliness meant the dissolving
    of two into alone,  a sacred emptiness
    everything a -ness that I watched
    so sweet it coiled in my stomach and I groped
    for the walls, a blindness an escape
    I could not find
    and next to the door was only
    an empty vase where the flowers should be.

    From Dawn To Dusk
    One daylight is different from another
    there are kinds that steal and others
    that give the night a peace against
    it’s own borders, weary darkness fades
    at last, and in the flakes of gold and pink
    that remind of the tucked inside of a shell
    a remnant of a beach only the wind remembers
    flowers relax then tighten tender spines
    unfurling against the day, a former invisibility
    discarded in pursuit of chasing the sun

    Taylor Bond is a 2014-2015 Lannan Fellow, a writer, and a freelance photographer. Her work has appeared, or is forthcoming, in various publications including Underwater New York and the Belle Reve Literary Journal. Her personal website can be found at

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  • 07/23/15--09:09: Raymond Keen - One Poem
  • In The Caked Meat Of Our Circumstance
    On graduation day
    We vomit in our plates.
    For years we had eaten our skin
    So we could obtain membership
    On the Skin-Eating Committee.
    We had completed our studies
    To determine if gravity is weakening.
    A cannibal God,
    Our studies had shown,
    Is in a coma until December.
    Using giant mirrors,
    Gay theater critics
    With poison egos
    Had reviewed the War.
    Standing on Frankenstein’s shoulders,
    We developed a good vocabulary.
    Hence, bald American women
    Skinning the monkeys alive
    In the hospital,
    Or Dr. Teller
    Playing the piano
    Over the H-Bomb site,
    Is the new paradigm.
    If we’re right,
    Then all of this means nothing.
    Raymond Keen was educated at Case Western Reserve University and the University of Oklahoma.  He spent three years as a Navy clinical psychologist with a year in Vietnam.  Since that time he has worked as a school psychologist.  Love Poems for Cannibals was published in 2013.  His play, The Private and Public Life of King Able, will be published in 2015. 

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  • 07/24/15--10:03: Eric McClure - Two Poems
  • Genetically Mutated Dwarf Mouse

    I was born on an operating table; under the topaz
    twilight of amethyst surgical-lights – all Frankenstein-like.
    My first breath was spent mistaking a knife
    for my mother; I recall the way I extended my ghoulish
    paw out towards the starved steel of the scalpel.

    The tree outside the laboratory’s window was split asunder
                by the thunder of my first heartbeat.

    I spent my childhood scrambling awkwardly in my wheel,
    trying to learn the unkind mechanics of my design –
    my legs were not created equal – and learning to operate
    my asymmetrical spine without fumbling across
    the imaginary tripwires required half of a lifetime.

    I cannot dance, but now I know – my body isn’t a song,
                but a metronome. I keep time.

    I am a pendulum in an enormous Victorian-era
    antique clock, my whiskers mimic a split pediment,
    my tail is a sundial’s gnomon – none of this was an accident.
    Now I know why one leg is longer than the other:
    because it catalogues the minutes, not the hours.

    I can only assume that I was created to be the King
               of the Dwarf Mice. I have seen my reflection.

    My albino pelt glistens against the midnight’s pallid
    shades of pyrite. And in the night, my eyes, my snout,
    my tail, glow fluorescent green – the way a construction
    worker’s neon vest reflects against the testing tone
    of passing headlights – my jacket shines. And at night,

    amidst the laboratory’s unsettling absence of light,
                my eyes look like fireflies – two dancing shards of jadeite.

    Psalm for a Coastal Diner

    The restaurant’s patrons quietly stared
    as Death Moth entered. The sackcloth outlaw
    came to rest upon the pardoning paw
    of the Japanese ceramic cat on the counter –

    the slipshod-mask a Rorschach-forecast
    for the brackish ocean’s perpetual
    foreverness – a strange attraction to static.

    All murmuring collapsed into quiet
    as his legs lifted off of the Bobtail,
    turbine-body in trail towards the center
    of a ceiling-light, and as Death Moth’s

    oscillating wingtips twitched below
    the orange strobe, all knew that all that was
    was the crepuscular messenger’s

    sobering imprint,  forewings’ stigmata
    glissando – a nocturnal arrangement
    where for so long, there hadn’t been any music,
    just noise – white unquiet, an empty of all.

    Eric McClure has his BA in English from the University of Illinois at Chicago, where he
    was the winner of the Paul Carrol award for outstanding achievement in creative writing. His
    work has appeared in The Red Shoes Review, the Shot Glass Journal, Prairie Margins, and The
    Rusty Nail. He lives in Chicago where he is currently a graduate student at DePaul University.

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    I Miss The Old Old Lantern

    I miss the old old lantern.
    When I was young and innocent,
    It was you who brought me downstairs;
    Carrying this little old old lantern,
    On the day when the moon was full.

    I was afraid,
    Afraid that the lantern would be burnt,
    Afraid that the candle would be hot,
    Afraid that you would leave.

    Your caring hands,
    However just comforted me,
    In that frightening moment,
    You just held me,
    Across the festive path downstairs,
    Carrying the old old lantern.

    It was my happiest time,
    When warmness is no longer in scarcity
    When family is no longer in dream.

    I am still afraid,
    The lantern would be burnt,
    The candle would be hot,
    And you would have left.

    You really left.

    The day when the moon was full could no longer be the same,
    I cried,
    But please don't worry,
    One day,
    Under the full moon;
    I will hold your hands again,
    To show you what I have done,
    To honor what you have dedicated to me.

    We will play the lantern together again, one day.

    I miss the old old lantern.
    I miss you.

    As a Director of an app development company in Science Park Hong Kong, Kelven Ka-shing LIT believed Science is Magic but as time goes by, Science is just too weak to be with our Life. He fills this gap with Literature, and finally a way out comes by.

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  • 08/07/15--09:43: Stephen Mead - One Poem
  • Bathing Amid Danger

    Garments shed, five layers, a bullet
    Proof vest…
    Now he is thin:
    Ribs jutting, the hips, a canoe’s middle,
    The legs, something to be swum, the wrists
    Too fluid for shackles…

    In the tub he’s almost invisible.
    Smell warmth, languorous.
    Smell lanky skin,
    Mild, pliant on arms…
    Fingers dip under.
    Steam slips from waves, skims air…

    Here, he’s as much without gravity,
    The bathroom a moon element…
    Lids close, dreams press out
    The ceiling:  geese & clouds reflected
    About bony shins, elbow crooks…
    Canals & dark gondoliers…

    Straw hats shield their eyes.
    Long staffs work the current,
    Frozen now, an Edward Hopper scene,
    Lush but remote…

    Hear pan pipes beginning?
    It’s a solitary fanfare, some song nearly
    Broken but sustained by notes…
    Level after level, this is his voice rising…

    Trickles bead from limbs, the neck’s hollow,
    The swirling hair presently lifted, wrung out,
    Damp black from a back
    Unaware of its nakedness or what armor

    This water music needs.

    A resident of NY, Stephen Mead is a published artist, writer, maker of short collage-films and sound-collage downloads.  If you have the time feel free to Google the words "Stephen Mead Art" for various links to his multi-media work.  Oh yes, and he works a day job.

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  • 08/24/15--09:34: Matt Babcock - One Poem
  • Qaddafi’s Granddaughter

    Not long after bombs stop plunging
    from the skies over Tripoli, I invade
    the “Mommy and Me Class” at the local pool. 
    A storm broods.  Lightning slithers
    through murky clouds. The chance that steered
    the wayward bird of artillery that killed
    the general’s four-month old granddaughter
    threatens to march us to the break room
    for a politically correct safety video
    in which Longfellow, a cartoon whale
    in Florence Nightingale bonnet, tells the tale
    of the only black kid in a gang of four white kids
    to get sunburned.  For now, our sleek
    teenage teacher floats in a cheerless hub
    of eight tubby moms and eight girlies
    in pig and peppermint suits.  My son and I,
    the only males, keep the far-off dreams
    of deposed kings behind the forged passports
    of our smiles.  Chilly hypocrites, the adults sing,
    “If You’re Happy and You Know It,”
    paddling the hands and feet of rebel kids. 
    Each turn of the matriarchal wheel sends
    an overcast look of ethnic cleansing
    in my direction.  Who can splash off the stain
    of not belonging?  What dark weather
    decreed us too heavy for this year’s styles? 
    What tyranny snared me in the whirlpool
    of fatherhood?  My son, pure Viking, hair as white
    as Arctic light, eyes of fierce democratic blue,
    senses the shift in regimes as we slip
    single-file into The Lazy River.  Under guard
    of a goofy fiberglass moose, I learn I must
    dunk him three times, which I do, loving him more
    each time he comes up screaming curses
    at this world in which every small life matters
    as long as we, the newest circle of leaders,
    obey the command to drown our hearts
    and immerse our young in the lessons of death.
    Teach writing at BYU-Idaho.  Poetic stuff in Alehouse; Bateau; The Cape Rock; PANK; Poecology; Quiddity; Rattle; Slant; The Sow’s Ear Poetry Review; Spoon River Poetry Review; Terrain; and Wild Violet. Earned the Dorothy Sargent Rosenberg Poetry Award and a PhD in Literature and Criticism from Indiana University of Pennsylvania. 

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    Civilization and its Discontents

    I bite my lips, pinch my thighs,
    pray I don’t pound you into the
    ground or chuck myself off
    the twenty-second floor terrace

    we are standing on as your sip
    your Singapore Sling, munch on a
    pretzel, pontificate over climate change,
    feminism, the lack of civility in American

    society and your aching feet that I’d like to
    stomp on each time you say “what is this
    world coming to,” “politicians are liars and
    crooks,” “bring back the good old days” as if

    I don’t know I want to disappear and become
    a Trappist monk obeying a vow of silence
    with my fellow monks who also don’t talk
    but love each other because how can you

    not revere someone who doesn’t bore you
    to death or make you want to kill them
    with their washed-out platitudes and
    monochromatic conversation that

    dyes Technicolor discussions drab
    and weary gray.

    Martin H. Levinson is a member of the Authors Guild, National Book Critics Circle, and the book review editor for ETC: A Review of General Semantics. He has published 8 books and numerous articles. His poems have appeared in The Potomac Review, Rattle, BRICKRhetoric, Occupoetry, Specter Magazine, First Literary Review East, Penumbra,  Literary Mama, Third Wednesday, Freshet, Musings, Message in a Bottle, Mindset Poetry, and other publications. He holds a PhD from NYU and lives in Forest Hills, New York.

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  • 10/16/15--07:30: Richard Schnap - Two Poems
  • And The Winner Is

    He sometimes felt
    He was just a character
    In someone else’s film

    Acting a role
    Set down in a script
    By an unseen hand

    For the story of his life
    Seemed to mimic those
    He’d see on TV

    Especially the ones
    Said to be based
    On real events

    But maybe he was wrong
    And the movies he watched
    Were modeled after him

    Making him believe
    That in some strange way
    He could never die

    Landscape in Grey

    I have walked
    Down one way streets
    That led me to
    Sudden dead ends

    Where ashen houses
    With broken windows
    Stood like skulls
    In a deserted morgue

    And in each one
    I found orphans in rags
    That could barely
    Remember their names

    As they filled their veins
    With doses of poison
    Hoping to forget
    Them for good

    Richard Schnap is a poet, songwriter and collagist living in Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania. His poems have most recently appeared locally, nationally and overseas in a variety of print and online publications.

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  • 10/17/15--07:00: Tom Montag - Two Poems
  • Tear and Take Us

    vulture, bird of
    darkness, across
    the chasm to

    the light. Across
    the emptiness
    to the holy

    silence. Take us
    to and through and
    past the face of

    God, lord of death, 
    until we find
    our rest. Amen.

    Only Dust
    Only dust down main
    street, paint faded, peeled.

    All this emptiness,
    people gone from here.

    Heart full of ashes.
    Only ghosts remain

    Tom Montag is the author of In This Place: Selected Poems 1982-2013, and a contributing writer at Verse-Virtual. In 2015 was the featured poet at Atticus Review(April) and Contemporary American Voices(August). He has poems at Hamilton Stone Review, Little Patuxent Review, Poetry Quarterly, Provo Canyon Review, Third Wednesday,and elsewhere.

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  • 10/26/15--10:31: Colin Dodds - One Poem
  • Bluff, Utah

    Waiting by the tumbleweeds
    for my laundry to tumble dry
    in a jerry-rigged moment of solitude.

    In the Valley of the Gods,
    the stone towers and shattered canyons
    defy symmetry and elude explanation.

    With its billion years, the canyon wall confronts.
    Its striations continue for miles along, miles in,
    broken only by paint, ravines and drill bores

    like the irregular face of God,
    marked and interrupted by our prayers,
    distorted and illuminated by our investigations.

    A silence greets me, nourishment enough
    that I may turn from my heart of crumpled paper,
    toward an unforeseen transformation.

    Colin Dodds is the author of Another Broken Wizard, WINDFALL and The Last Bad Job. His writing has appeared in more than two hundred publications, and been nominated for the Pushcart Prize.Colin’s book-length poem That Happy Captive was a finalist in the 2015 Trio House Press Louise Bogan Award as well as the 42 Miles Press Poetry Award. Colin lives in Brooklyn, New York, with his wife Samantha. See more of his work at

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  • 10/27/15--07:30: Alan Steele - One Poem
  • Bottomland

    Our Trinity reached its banks today. Pooled,
    First time in recent member, begging
    My spirit away from my menial tasks,
    A haze instilled to the afternoon, thus
    Making three o’clock more like seven; touched
    The depth where whiskey turns green umber then back.
    Ripples stir perch to life, dancing beneath
    A pair of mallards intent on their sprint,
    Wings a whisper from twigs and Johnson grass
    Afloat.  White discard lies as if anchored,
    Tiny pillars of pulp brace water high,
    Ever as preventing structural fail
    From weight of the flock’s straggler members, each
    Individual v in the flying
    Zigzag across smooth amber glass surface, face
    Buried deep in the ripples.  There, again,
    Goes the two-some, post reincarnation
    Of some girl’s childhood you, searching for
    A home to call own in  river stand in
    Ocean foam, artificial along the
    Bank—homage, final Mexican Gulf home—
    Nature stops well short with a mini train
    Above the steep fall from grass to murk, a
    Separation of two legs from none, and
    To look through myself floating atop
    Fluid depths, lying on those pillars, this
    Other me among white caps wanting flight.
    Desire to float, in continue my dry
    Path to home, to my own blue, Gulf Delta.

    Alan Steele holds degree in English and Law.  He lives in Burleson, Texas, just outside of Fort
    Worth with his and kids.  Alan has been previously published in Aries, Apropos, Poetic License,
    BL Poet, Verse Unto Us, New Mirage Quarterly, and Thumbprint.

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  • 10/28/15--07:30: Anna Sykora - One Poem
  • The-rapist 

    what was in your mind Dr. A
    did you believe you were helping me
    that’s what you told me in our sessions
    that’s what I tried to understand
    I was eleven maybe younger
    I had no breasts yet didn’t matter
    when you embraced me and defaced me
    when you defiled me and destroyed me

    when you enjoyed me in your manner
    when you repeated I'd get better
    better and better oh
    how did I gain the guts to go
    crazed and fierce and out and alone
    after you turned me to a stone
    Anna Sykora has been an attorney in NYC and teacher of English in Germany.  To date she's placed 367 poems, genre and literary, in the small press,  and 139 stories. 

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  • 10/29/15--07:00: Desi St. Amant - One Poem
  • The Words She Wore

    When she first spoke,
    words were leaden with bookish facts
    sandwiched with rehearsed one-liners
    like a stiff, over-sized suit: It was pressed,
    it was clean
    but could not conceal her slouch
    and anxious smile,
    with pointy shoulders
    and boxed silhouette 
    heaping years onto her youthful façade.
    with practice and wheeling seasons
    she continued her quest for knowledge
    exploring the narratives of sages
    uncovering truths from storytellers,
    playing match-maker for her
    ambitious neurons, phrases, and clauses.
    soon, her words became a
    faded, well-worn band t-shirt
    fitting her like a glove
    mapping the unchartered curves, twists and turns
                                                  she always knew her mind held.

    Desi is a new writer, and her work is inspired by the countless people who have touched her life somehow: loved ones, complete strangers, and estranged acquaintances. Currently, Desi teaches 9th grade English and 12th grade AP Literature in Southern California, where she lives with her artist husband and two adventurous little boys.

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    Seeing Infinity
    Focus not on the forest
    or the trees,
    look for the small animals 
    beneath the leaf litter:
    snakes, toads, turtles.
    Look closer, 
    find snails, beetles,
    fungus, worms,
    and microscopic 
    amoeba, paramecium, bacteria -
    transforming rot into resources,
    creating vital nutrients.
    The lowliest comprise the base 
    of all life where they digest and recycle.
    Process everything at this lowly level;
    find the atoms and split them,
    transform matter into energy-
    mushrooming above the canopy, 
    through clouds, beyond our atmosphere.
    to planets with their rings, moons, storms
    to stars: giants, dwarfs, dying, birthing, 
    headlines from hundreds of years past-
    to the edge of our Milky Way, 
    to Andromeda and
    billions of other galaxies 
    created by our searching,
    beyond imagination.
    See infinity in the smallest and the largest. 
    Recognize the parts in the whole 
    and the magnificence of universal light, 
    feel insignificant 
    except for the wonder of having a place
    and a purpose to love all of it.
    Susan Beall Summers is a positive and lively Austin poet. She has been published in Ilya’s Honey, Texas Poetry Calendar, Harbinger Asylum, Small Canyons & Anthology, Di-Verse-City, Yellow Chair Review, Cattails, Nothing. No One. Nowhere., and others. Mor info at

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