On the Ragged Beach by Steve Klepetar

“And Cohen himself was as still as a stone,
as he watched the woman he loved paw 
at the earth like a white wolf or a witch.”

Alice Hoffman, Drowning Season


And trees grew around her like shadows 
moving on a gray wall, as raw sound ripped 

from her throat. Tonight she was wind 
and green stones on the ragged beach 

where gulls shrieked and dove. She was 
drowning in salt air, her fingers turning 

to sand. In the darkness she owned nothing 
and her eyes burned with emptiness. Her wild

white hair tangled on her shoulders, and she 
tore at the earth and bled. Emptiness 

and grief and a voice charged with lightning 
and flame, lovers igniting at her touch, 

smoke pouring into the night sky, seared 
and branded with stars and wisps of cloud.







Steve Klepetar lives in Saint Cloud, Minnesota, but is currently a visiting scholar at the University of Notre Dame, Australia in Fremantle. His work has appeared widely, and has received several nominations for the Pushcart Prize, including for in 2016. Recent collections include A Landscape in Hell (Flutter Press) and How Fascism Comes to America (Locofo Chaps).

The Sun Has Left That Page Now...And You Should Follow Its Example by Paul Tristram

It has become an abandoned village
peopled by only memories and ghosts.
The stubborn place where you are standing…
is only a waiting room…
whilst facing the wrong way.
There’s a train right Behind/In Front of you 
steaming and a-whistling,
readying itself for departure.
You will not be here again… except in thought,
the next chapter begins elsewhere.
Wrap up your bindle with only necessities 
and shoulder, once more, your travelling cloak.
‘Waving Goodbye’ and ‘Letting Go’
are harsh learning curves
with a deferred reward system…
aching and breaking to begin with…
later, strengthening your learning soul.
We are all but Pilgrims and Passengers
to The Clock, Seasons and the intricate, 
inner-fluxing Emotional Landscapes.
The only ‘Roots’ we have are in our hearts…
the better to ‘Rover’ them safely around with us.







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 ‘Scribblings Of A Madman’ (Lit Fest Press)  http://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/1943170096.

Best Served Cold by Michelle Hartman

I made up games, like Hiding the Body,

and How Far on Two Dollars a Day.
My favorite was a special dinner menu
of infinite detail, resentment gazpacho
in hand-painted Royal Copenhagen
seasoned by a soupçon of intolerance, garnished
with insults and disdain. Main course, 
a steak tartar cloaked in highly spiced deglaze
of retribution on a bed of bruised dreams;
chased by a Tiramisu gloat, coffee and biscuits.
Every time a blow connected or a verbal
spear pierced, I added another course.  
Until it was a banquet fit for global
meeting of leaders, cooked by staff of hundreds.
Table decorations included heads on platters
and real digits in the finger bowls.

Michelle Hartman’s poetry books, The Lost Journal of my Second Trip to Purgatory from Old Seventy Creek Press & Disenchanted and Disgruntled and Irony and Irreverence, both from Lamar University Press, are available on Amazon. She is the editor of Red River Review. Her spare time is filled with a tiny fairy princess named Kaitlyn.  

A Downy Feather by Daginne Aignend

I knew the energy was different

A strange vigor, a diffuse light pulsating

from my shoulders into my biceps

I could feel the emerging strength

as I spread my arms, flapping

An exciting sensation came over me

when I levitated just a few inches

above the floor and hovered,

just before my feet touched the ground again

I blinked my eyes, pinched my cheek

but nothing changed

The soft energy glow was still all around me

My legs trembled when I jumped out of the window

Panic, in a freefall towards the moist cobblestones

Again I flapped with my arms, fluttering ...

Floating on the soothing airstreams

above the desolate streets at night

Gliding between the rooftops,

increasing my speed

till I was a powerful jet conquering the skies

I never knew what really happened

but my shoulders got more muscular

after that night

And occasionally, after waking up,  I found  

a little downy white feather on my cushion

Daginne Aignend is a pseudonym for the Dutch poetess Inge Wesdijk. She likes hard rock music, photography and fantasy books. She is a vegetarian and spends a lot of time with her animals. Daginne started to write English poetry five years ago and posted some of her poems on her Facebook page and on her fun project website www.daginne.com. She has been published in some online Poetry Review Magazines with a pending publication at the Contemporary Poet's Group anthology 'Dandelion in a Vase of Roses'.

Invitation by Joan McNerney

Would you like to unwind

an afternoon at the lake?

Solar sparks spilling over us

in showers of golden sizzle.

Put on short shorts, skimpy tops,

stick our toes into oozy mud.

Breezes will shake treetops

while we listen to birdsongs.

Why not float on new grass

facing an Alice blue sky?

Read celestial comic strips

from mounds of clouds.

We can count sunbeams,

chase yellow butterflies.

Devour bowls of cherries

painting our lips crimson.

This noontime is perfumed

with illions of wild flowers.

Let’s go away all day...be

embraced by the goddess.

Joan McNerney’s poetry has been included in numerous literary magazines such as Seven Circle Press, Dinner with the Muse, Moonlight Dreamers of Yellow Haze, Blueline, and Halcyon Days.  Three Bright Hills Press Anthologies, several Poppy Road Review Journals, and numerous Kind of A Hurricane Press Publications have accepted her work.  Her latest title is Having Lunch with the Sky and she has four Best of the Net nominations.  

Conquered by Winter by Linda M. Crate

the sun was a
fluke, a red-herring
i thought spring was on her
way;
but the trees are trembling now
i feel their cold
the crocuses are afraid to
open—
maybe it will be rain or maybe it will
be snow
for in these parts you never can tell
our weather is quite bi-polar,
and i remember once my father told me it snowed all
the way into july;
but i don't want to see that echoed again because
summer should never be conquered by winter and nor should spring be.







Linda M. Crate is a Pennsylvanian native born in Pittsburgh raised in the rural town of Conneautville. In addition to writing her favorite things are: nature (especially flowers, trees, and bodies of water), books, music, anime, and crime shows.

Little Egypt by David Gross

Would you like to receive a free poetry chapbook and also help a fellow poet? Flutter Press is offering 10 PDF copies of David Gross' latest chapbook of 26 poems, Little Egypt, in exchange for an honest review on Goodreads, Amazon.com, or both.

As you know, it's so difficult to find an audience for any writer. Poppy Road Review would like to help poets gain more exposure for their books. David Gross has recently been published at Poppy Road and just needs a little help getting his chapbook out there.

Little Egypt is a nickname given to the southernmost section of the state of Illinois which is geographically, culturally, and economically distinct from the rest of the state. The region is bordered on three sides by the largest rivers in the U.S.: the Wabash and Ohio on the east and south and the Mississippi to the west. Geographically it is more hilly and rocky than the rest of the state and many consider it part of the Ozarks. 

When settlers began to come in great numbers they came by way of the ever-available rivers and found southern Illinois a convenient region for settlement. The advent of the steamboat and the development of trails and roadways soon led immigrants to bypass the southern part of the state. It thus was left a somewhat isolated region, a kind of historical eddy. 

In this region a culture, reasonably advanced at the time of its coming, tended to become static. The customs, practices, and beliefs of the pioneer survived here long after they had passed in less isolated regions. It is against the background of this distinctive area that the writer would have these offerings viewed.

David Gross has published four previous collections, Cup of Moon, What We Never Had, Because It Is, and Pilgrimage. His poems have appeared in dozens of print and online literary journals such as, Big Muddy, Black Poppy Review, Blue Collar Review, Cape Rock, Common Ground Review, Hummingbird, Kentucky Review, Lilliput Review, Longhouse, Modern Haiku, Naugatuck River Review and Northeast. 

*If Interested, please send an email to the editor. The first 10 requesters will receive a free PDF copy. Reviews and ratings should be posted within two weeks of receiving the chapbook.  If you do not receive a copy, that means that your request wasn't one of the first 10 submitted.  Please only request this chapbook if you intend on writing a brief review and a rating.  Poppy Road intends on providing free copies of other poetry chapbooks at least twice a month or more, depending on how this goes.

And Go For A Birdsong Ride by Donal Mahoney

Spring will eventually arrive,

Tom tells his youngest daughter

looking out the window at the snow. 

Take heart, he tells her, 

and listen for the blue jays when 

they build a nest in the sycamore 

and chase away the other birds 

that fly unwelcome into the tree  

hoping also to start a family.

He tells his snowbound daughter

once she hears the blue jays' ruckus

spring will be here and she can wear 

her jeans and pretty yellow jacket, 

get on her tricycle with the other girls

and go for a birdsong ride.

Donal Mahoney lives in St. Louis, Missouri. He writes poetry, fiction and nonfiction. Some of his work can be found at http://eyeonlifemag.com/the-poetry-locksmith/donal-mahoney-poet.html.

An Unnecessary Gate by Paul Ilechko

The squeaking gate swings melancholy

above the tattered steps that lead

to a most conventional porch. 

The rusted gate:

an unnecessary appendage, left over

from a previous incarnation

of ownership. 

Give me a wire brush.

Give me a can of black enamel paint.

With such implements, I will make

of this gate a new and admirable

entryway, one that leads from the external world

to my personal approximation of heaven.

Paul Ilechko was born in England but has lived much of his life in the USA. He currently lives in Lambertville, NJ with his girlfriend and a cat. Paul has had poetry published and/or accepted recently by Third Wednesday, Sick Lit Magazine, Gloom Cupboard, MockingHeart Review and Slag Review, among others. 

Desire by Michael Keshigian

He could not decide if he saw her,

standing between the great white pines

on a bed of mulch just beyond 

the lake’s silent shoreline.

Might it be her in the shadows,

waving him on with one hand

while the other shielded her eyes

from the wind blown needles

the trees released that turned the air

to a softer shade of taupe,

her shawl into a prickly pile of fir?

He remained unsure, as he walked 

through the silent forest, scented with mint,

the thickening brush highlighted

with burnt orange the setting sun emitted.

Was it her, her silhouette enticing, floating, 

her face solemn as its shadow moved into his hand,

though the touch he craved iced his fingers?

Was her mouth finally against his

to commence an encounter not yet consummated,

a kiss that promised the beginning

of a passion they had once imagined?

Or was it the compassionate wind 

with misty lips that moistened his mouth

to ameliorate his loneliness?

Michael Keshigian from Londonderry, NH will, have his twelfth poetry collection, Into The Light, released this Spring by Flutter Press. He has been widely published in numerous national and international journals and has appeared as feature writer in over a dozen publications with 6 Pushcart Prize and 2 Best Of The Net nominations. (michaelkeshigian.com)

Second Hand Shoes by David Gross

Hand-me-downs from his brother,

one with a hole in its sole.

So he'd cut some cardboard,

placed it inside to keep his foot dry.

At a birthday party, kids were told

to leave shoes at the backdoor.

As he yanked his off, wet

corrugated paper dangled from his sock.

But a few days later in shop class

Mickey O'Keefe called him over,

removed one of his beat-up loafers,

thanked him for the idea and pointed

proudly at the pink linoleum

trimmed neatly into its insole.







David Gross' most recent collection is Little Egypt (Flutter Press). He lives with his wife in a one-hundred-year-old farmhouse near the center of the Big Muddy watershed in southern Illinois. He's ready for baseball season.

The Family in the Red House by Pat St. Pierre

While walking through woods

near a rambling river

I came upon a paint- peeled red house

barn like in appearance,

broken window panes,

tall grasses covering old cement steps

unattended for years.

Who inhabited this red house

and where are they now?

I entered cautiously through the front door,

looked around the open space.

Dishes with cobwebs adorned

the wooden kitchen table.

Shriveled food occupied the old refrigerator.

The scene appeared as though

a family simply disappeared.

Bedroom quilts covered most beds,

one bed remained unmade.

As I walked around

floorboards creaked like soft screams.

                                               

I slipped moving the small rug with my feet,

I discovered a trap door located in the floor.

Slowly, I lifted the rusty latch.

There in the hollow space

were piled skeleton bodies.

The family stayed behind in the paint-peeled red house.

Pat St. Pierre is a freelance writer of adult fiction, nonfiction, and poetry. She has had three poetry books published. The most recent “Full Circle” published by Kelsay Books. Pat's work has been published both online and in print. Some places are: Boston Literary Magazine, Poetry Pacific, The Camel Saloon, Three Line Poetry, Our Day’s Encounter, Sediments, Gravel, Whisperings, etc. Her blog is www.pstpierre.wordpress.com.

As Long As I Have A Roof Over My Head...Then So Do You by Paul Tristram

This bond which triumphs and towers between us…
was first seeded in Empress fires of the Eternal.
Strengthening with each passing season
and twin river-flowing through our souls.
The howling, demented winds
and screaming, slashing sleet and rain
are carefully observed
yet, penetrate the Truth of Us no longer.
There is a secret garden gate,
kept from all… but two.
A sanctuary not found in bricks and mortar, 
but, stronger for it all the same.
My beating heart yearns no more
as you breath and speak 
perfumed un-riddles and simple truths
with wide, ancient, chestnut eyes
which hold the key to the hidden corridor,
running behind the library shelves
in between both lands of Fact and Superstition.
Let canyons roar, mountains bow down low
and meadows of each magical moment
keep a-rolling on like warm Summertime, forever.

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 ‘Scribblings Of A Madman’ (Lit Fest Press)  http://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/1943170096.

The Breath of the Land by Bradley Thomas

Would you like to receive a free poetry chapbook and also help a fellow poet? Flutter Press is offering 10 PDF copies of Bradley Thomas' latest chapbook, The Breath of the Land, in exchange for an honest review on Goodreads, Amazon.com, or both (if so inclined).

As you know, it's so difficult to find an audience for any writer. Poppy Road Review would like to help poets gain more exposure for their books. Bradley Thomas has been published at Poppy Road before and just needs a little help getting his chapbook out there.

The Breath of the Land, a poetry chapbook containing 33 poems by Bradley Thomas delves, into how the “breath” is the life given to us to live as we choose.  These small works are crafted observations of life as he has seen it and lived it.  

BRADLEY THOMAS was born and raised in Chicago, Illinois and grew up in New Orleans, Louisiana.  He received a B.A. for Georgia State University in Business Administration.  He was an inspections manager for the government of Fulton County, Georgia and supervised a team of inspectors for the building, plumbing, electrical, and mechanical trades for new and retrofit construction.  On the weekend, he played electric bass for a top forties cover band and he currently plays electric bass for his church.  Bradley’s poems have appeared in the poetry anthology book Whispers of Inspiration and on online e-zines such as Poppy Road Review, Your Daily Poem, SubtleTea.com, and Black Hills Audubon Society.

If Interested, please send an email to the editor. The first 10 requesters will receive a free PDF copy. Reviews and ratings should be posted within two weeks of receiving the chapbook.  If you do not receive a copy, that means that your request wasn't one of the first 10 submitted.  Please only request this chapbook if you intend on writing a brief review and a rating.  Poppy Road intends on providing free copies of other poetry chapbooks at least twice a month or more, depending on how this goes.

This One Blush of a Moment by Martin Willitts Jr.

we are crunching dry pine needles

in the contour of land

wind glittering with light rain

tinking among the Douglas firs

we stumble on an uneven path

a banner of black-cap chickadees 

chase from maple branch to branch

like there is no tomorrow

often there is no certainty 

there will be tomorrow

right now

it is just this very good morning

surging wind ushering in fall

this one blushed moment

is what we need






Martin Willitts Jr is a retired Librarian living in Syracuse, NY. His poems have appeared in Blue Fifth Review, Inflecionist Review, Nine Mile Magazine, Comstock Review, and others.  He is the winner of 2013 Bill Holm Witness Poetry Contest; 2014 Broadsided award; 2014 Dylan Thomas International Poetry Award; and, Rattle Ekphrastic Challenge, June 2015, Editor’s Choice. 

Walking on Nubble Light Road by Marianne Szlyk

In the north, the light is clear and thin,

                scoured of smoke and clouds,

                                of his cologne and my onion rings.

I can see each blade of grass,

                each pebble nestling by the house,

                                each streak of red in the tulip.

I smell lilac in the cool wind.

                Salt blows in from

                                the ocean below this cliff.

I taste nothing.  I taste everything.

                I take a drink

                                of cool, clear water.

I hear music from the houses.

                Carpenters keep the beat

                                to songs of summers past.

In this spring I feel summer coming.

Marianne Szlyk is the editor of The Song Is... Her second chapbook, I Dream of Empathy, was published by Flutter Press.  Recently, she was artist in residence at The Wild Word.  She encourages you to send work to her magazine. For more information about it, see this link: http://thesongis.blogspot.com/.