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Inventing Dinosaurs | A Poem by Ananya S. Guha

Even love becomes boring
When there is only the babble of
Animals around doing a gig
In a circus, the audience spellbound
That animals can speak, use a gun,
Kill. Delirious that the world has
Become mad. There is no need
To talk of love
Simply flaunt those machines
And mobiles that do the talking
I’ll tell you what
Banish love from face of the earth
And you will earn some money
Invent dinosaurs, once again
Upside down.

Art for Pete’s Sake | A Poem by Donal Mahoney

Pete reads a story about an artist
who never sold a painting until he was 80
and then sold one for a million dollars.

Finding the artist on the internet, Pete says
his work is just odd shapes in bright colors.
Another Jackson Pollock, Pete says, whose

work Pete views as dry paint dripping,
an acquired taste he has never acquired.
For him, abstract art has no appeal.

He prefers paintings of a velvet Elvis
or sad dogs playing poker at a table.
Pete has taste, informed as it is.

Visit Donal at

Mourning a Child at Midnight | A Poem by Donal Mahoney

Some choose not to have children
others maybe one or two
three seems to be the max now

it’s not like when Paul was young
and a family might have had six or more
the wife at home, the husband working.

Families were big back then.
Now families are considered big
when a couple has more than three.

Years ago Paul and Faye had five
but after she took that midnight call
and learned they had lost a daughter

Faye cried for awhile and then
hugged Paul and whispered
why didn’t we have seven.

Visit Donal at

Side Swipe | A Poem by JD DeHart

Don’t tell me you are blinded
we both knew this day
would come

Bits of glass decorate
our personal night sky light
a blinking tablet broken

A fantastic twist of fate
or just restless red light running
led us to this moment

A ceaseless but thoughtless gaze
or listening too loudly
to a static radio silence

When we should have prodding
reading and thinking
so we might have stepped aside.

The Least Puritan | A Poem by Ryan Quinn Flanagan

Absurd gloved man of Muskoka
heavy coat in summer
cling wrap scarf for the modern hangman
sulking over beaches in front of trailing dog,
must you always be a pianist?
Playing Bach because you adore it,
and for the Russians because they need it –
do not shake hands with the Kremlin
there are injuries to be had and hypochondriacs
to avoid them;
I love the Russians too, all those tanks
like never losing an argument,
applause are a force of evil, this is true…
hands slapped together devoid of glove and sanctum –
fine uncle Woof, humming through the variations again,
I think of you sometimes when I pat a dog.

Visit Ryann at

Ryan Quinn Flanagan is a Canadian-born author residing in Elliot Lake, Ontario, Canada with his other half and mounds of snow. His work can be found both in print and online in such places as: Evergreen Review, The New York Quarterly, Word Riot, In Between Hangovers, Red Fez, and The Oklahoma Review.