WAILERS
"Poetry can change our hearts in an instant" -Andrea Gibson
Wailers are raw, unfiltered, and unrefined. These are the poems that didn’t just leap out of your brain, they clawed their way up and out of you to claim a space on the page and now refuse to be moved. Send us your first drafts, you late night ravings fueled by nothing but rage and monster ultra. Your hand written love poems, their pages still wet with dewy heartache, and any of your other work that needs to exist.
friendship of horses
—contrapuntal
Indigo Aves (they/them)
This poem's formatting is integral to the work, please expand to read.
Indigo is an undergraduate poet at Utah State University who loves talking people into making long drives to attend poetry events. They find fulfillment in commenting on the state of the world and exploring their emotional turmoils through a connection to nature.
Show, not Tell
Susan R. Morritt (she/her)
Susan R. Morritt is a writer, visual artist and musician from Waterford, Ontario, Canada. Her work appears in numerous journals including 34 Orchard Journal, Pulsebeat Poetry Journal, Cool Beans Lit, Cosmic Horror Monthly, and The Speckled Trout Review. Susan is a former racehorse trainer who has worked extensively with livestock, including teaching turkeys English as a Second Language.There is didactic spastic blather chatter clogging up my keyboard, while an engorged horde of bored ed-i-tors pass scores of gassy distain. Streams of unconsciousness splash waterfalls of rolling eyes, as cauldrons of words squelch a belch of forbidden rhyme. Ah… Relief, at last. -#-
That was the Year
Lynn White (she/her)
That was the year when politicians played on the stage of the New Theatre of the Absurd where empathy was dead as Roszencrantz and Gildestern and the victims of Schrodinger’s genocide both lived and died where Palestine was once and now it had no territory though it was a state, where Israel had a territory for Jews of families not born there in this millennium or the last when their lies became truth and truth became lies that no one truly believed and pretence was real and death was life and things could only get better and things only got worse before the curtain came down to end it all. " Lynn White lives in north Wales. Her work is influenced by issues of social justice and events, places and people she has known or imagined. She is especially interested in exploring the boundaries of dream, fantasy and reality. She has been nominated for Pushcarts, Best of the Net and a Rhysling Award. https://lynnwhitepoetry.blogspot.com and https://www.facebook.com/Lynn-White-Poetry-1603675983213077/ "
Contraptioned
M F Drummy (he/him)
I am a nothing name, a body set on fire. Bowel, husk, pustule of wonder, water’s breath, a tab of imbecility. From the first wedding we fled a thousand tongues, leaving behind the church smoldering in ridicule. Peace and democracy, hypocrisy of youth, bodies on fire. Unearthed, unsheathed, contraptioned headlong into our eighties, lighting out for the territories, mounted on downstate stallions, ordering clams casino from the early-bird menu at the motel restaurant off Exit 243 on the interstate, toothmarks on the pencil behind the left ear of our server, Jane. M F Drummy holds a PhD in historical theology from Fordham University. The author of numerous articles, essays, poems, reviews, and a monograph on religion and ecology, his poetry has appeared in dozens of journals, literary magazines, and anthologies, including Allium, Chamisa, Meetinghouse, Novus, Reverie, and San Pedro River Review. A 2026 Best of the Net nominee, his debut collection of poetry, Perdido, was published in 2025. Originally from Massachusetts, he and his way cool life partner of over 20 years continue to enjoy their retirement in the Colorado Rockies. He can be found at https://www.instagram.com/miguelito.drummalino/ https://bsky.app/profile/miguelito56.bsky.social https://www.pw.org/directory/writers/m_f_drummy https://substack.com/@mdrummy56
Options
James Rodgers (He/Him)
When he answered the phone, she was in full wail, answering his “Hello?” with, “I don’t want to die with THAT MAN as president!” He paused a moment, letting her cry, And then replied in his usual matter-of-fact way, “Well Mom, the way I see it, if that’s the case, you have two options. You can pass on in the next eight weeks before he is sworn in, or you can hold on for at least four more years.” She chuckled slightly between the sniffles and agreed to stay alive until THAT MAN was long gone from office. What he didn’t tell her, although he almost did before hanging up, was that was his plan too. James Rodgers has lived in the Pacific Northwest his entire life, except for vacations. He was the Poet Laureate for Auburn, WA from 2021-2023, published his first book of poetry, "They Were Called Records, Kids" by MoonPath Press, and has won multiple contests. He lives in Pacific, WA with his very patient wife and two neurotic cats.
My Anger is a God
Holton Lee (any/all)
To which I pray far too often. It is a god of all-consuming flame that spreads across me like a match struck to a dried forest. My anger is a god, and I come from a family line of its disciples. Raised in a monastery to its grief, to its shame, call it a home. Lashed to a cross- -split palate of grief and rage so succulent you could lie it down, Call it a lover you do not wake up to in the morning But still wear its lashings on your back. My anger is a god, And it is the same god as the god of worms, Or car batteries, Or horny teenage rebels. It is one that’s found in meadows, Or oceans, Or pilates classes at 7 am after your ex posted their wedding announcement. My anger is a god, It is Roman, And Greek, and in certain lights a bit Taoist. It is almost wholly Christian, And in that sense, perhaps I’m losing faith in this god, too. "Holton Lee (Any/All) is an emerging poet based in Salt Lake City, and occasionally in your dreams (yes that was them, you’re welcome). Their work centers around queerness, identity, and whatever comes to mind. You can find them in cat cafes, co-running Salt Cured Collective, and talking to the local crows. They hope you enjoy their poems. "
Because Sometimes, “Fuck You” Just Isn’t Enough
Chris Atkin (he/him)
Because no amount of middle fingers can match the force of brandished knuckles bashed into a fascists face, no vindication like the buckling of nose beneath righteous fist. Because combat boots are fucking sexy, when yellow laddered laces wrap around the legs of women with a score to settle, all clad in leather and pink knit caps. Because lately red hats look like white hoods when you see them on the streets, and for every kid who finds themselves while a Black Flag Album plays, a racist shits their pants. Because I can’t play guitar, or sing on tune, but I can make my sentences march in tight lines across a page like it’s 1963, and hurl adjectives at riot shields like cans of chicken soup. Because the right ideas can wound the status quo deeper than the bullets we carve them into, slice holes in their dogma like a butterfly knife. Because the government can ban books and tie our tongues, but they can’t stop me “accidently” letting spotify shuffle onto Rage Against the Machine while my students read. Because the fascists are too dumb to speak literature, They don’t know Animal Farm is not the same as Old McDonald, or that Guy Montag has more in common with Guy Fawkes than with them. So, we put pen to paper and mouth to microphone, write battle cries into being, then practice them at open mics before we shout them in the streets. We cry Anarchy for every anachronism, the ones we write into our poems and the ones they write into our history. We’ll make molotov’s out of metaphors, toss them high, let them shatter, until our fire spreads to every working class oxymoron who wrote “dictate me daddy” on their Presidential ballot. Because a wise man once said, all it takes for evil to triumph is for the good to do nothing, so we’ll pull up our big kid pants, and strap on our cute winter boots, because we may not be good, but we are all we got. Chris Atkin is an English Teacher, spoken word poet, and two time Pushcart Prize nominee living in Draper, UT. His work has been published in Last Leaves Magazine, The Rising Phoenix Review, and the Lascaux Review. Chris loves poems that push the boundaries between page and performance, take big risks, and speak to the things that make us human.
Knowledge Is Power But It Isn't Helping Me
Kate Lewington (she/they)
neglect is a pile-up of responsibilities - creating enough pressure to overwhelm - with my lips sealed - i’m fine, fine, fine frittering away pieces of paper on bulleted points of research on what might be going on in my head knowledge is power but it isn't helping me as a teenager i clung onto research - the non-fiction studies on self-harm and depression it was in the biographies on comedians, writers and musicians who had taken their own lives i searched for recognition how and why - what had led to the crumble of their mind how did it correlate with the cold writing of the studies - why is it that we plead with our demons alone and only the consequences bleed through we burn so brightly in eulogy but we couldn’t persuade anyone those out of character behaviours were a sign of concern when alive how we burn and burn until we are burnt out and done. From the South of England, Kate is a writer/poet and blogger. Their writing is largely based on the themes of belonging, loss, and wonder. They have been recently published by Roi Fainéant Press, Autumn Sky Poetry Daily, World Insane and TrashLight Press. https://katelouisepoetry.wordpress.com/
In One Way or The Other
(Inspired by Stanley Enekwe’s story – 1972, Eastern Nigeria, shortly after the war)
Isaac Dominion Aju (he)
Dear son We are not a defeated people I do not think so. The whole world charged toward us with ammunitions and bomber jets Even vultures feasted on our bodies But we are still here. Dear son I do not want to know whatever name they had labelled you You went to war And you came back with spoils And that is what happens when a war breaks out. Dear son I do not care what they have labelled you But You are a hero. Dear son Take this word from your own father You are not a failure You are not a disaster Though you are hanging there to be executed To experience the war again This time around in your own body I still love you Your ancestors are watching you They will receive you Your ancestors see you They will welcome you back Your ancestors know you They will take you as a full human being Your ancestors record everything In their language That everyone will taste what you are about to taste In one way Or the other Death will still visit every one of us.
In the Night/When CPTSD Speaks
Heather D. Haigh (she/her)
In the Night When bones creak, limbs grumble, and eyelids are heavy as chains, when the heart thumps a drum and flesh trembles, but blood is sluggish as mud, as hell-eyed ghosts linger, while twitch-nose rats skitter, or the hand of a most tender lover is lost to a breath, there’s nothing compares to the misery of needing a piss in the night. --------- When CPTSD Speaks Swallow those claws that ripped and burned, till they dug their way up to your throat to shred the words you wanted to scream, so now you must spit them as barbs. Heather is a disabled, working-class writer and poet from Yorkshire, published by Oxford Flash Fiction, Fictive Dream, Bath Flash Fiction, The Phare, and numerous others. She has won or been placed in several competitions, and is a Pushcart and BOTN nominee, and a cheese addict.
Footnote to a Footnote
—after Allen Ginsberg’s “Footnote to Howl”
Trish Hopkinson (she/her)
Jacuzzis are holy. Garage door openers are holy. Back-up cameras and recycle bins—all holy. Putting the red flag up on the mailbox, waving at the elderly getting my toes wet with dew—holy, holy, holy. Keeping my eyelids open and trying to sleep like fish, signing my name with less letters and more scribbles, counting crows feet, counting yellow toenails, counting haircuts, counting plucked whiskers, counting constantly. Bookshelves are holy. Missing dust covers are holy, magicians and black and white T.V. shows, Penn Jillette theories and Andy Griffith justice, Uncle Walt songs and Ginsberg poems—holy, holy, holy. Drinking beer before noon, drinking liquor right after, drinking it warm (or on ice) with a friend (or not). Waking up drunk, waking up sober, waking up tired, waking up hungry, waking—always holy. Table wine is holy. Candle sticks are holy, dishwashers and cloth napkins, the folk art cricket made from wire and a railroad nail, rock salt from the salt flats in a salt cellar—holy, holy, holy. Opening an empty cedar chest to still moths and crumbs, staring at stretched cobwebs immersed in the sun, swallowing nests, swallowing nectar, swallowing chimes, swallowing saliva, swallows—always holy. Self-portraits are holy. Ceramic urns also are holy. Tape recorders and keyboards, drawing pads and gold-plated ball-point pens, calligraphy and stipple—holy, holy, holy. Unfolding a letter, unfolding a chair, unfolding into downward dog, from child’s pose, into corpse pose. Picking apricots, picking green grapes, picking out a husband, a shower curtain, selection—always holy. Twist-off caps, dresser drawers, remote controls, carpeted stairs, revolving doors, product recalls, keycodes, passwords, restaurant reservations, last-minute invitations, cell phones, voice recognition, land minds, and secrets—holy. Holy word, holy water, holy book, holy soap boxes, bathtubs, soap dishes—holy, holy drains and draining, empty. Trish Hopkinson is a poet and advocate for the literary arts. You can find her online at SelfishPoet.com. Her poetry has been published in several literary magazines and journals; and her most recent book A Godless Ascends was published by Lithic Press in March 2024. Hopkinson happily answers to labels such as atheist, feminist, and empty nester; and enjoys traveling, live music, and craft beer. --previously published in Footnote, Lithic Press, 2017
101 ways to crack an Egg
Chris Atkin (he/him)
Today, I learned there are 100 different ways to cook an egg, and my English teacher brain immediately was like, “Well, there’s a metaphor in that.” Something to be said about how no matter if we’re poached or boiled, we’re still just fucking eggs. In high school I was scrambled, lazily dropped into a bowl with 3 dozen other eggs and beaten with a wire whisk while some hateful chef folded in hormones and angst like butter and heavy cream until I didn’t know which way was sunny side up. In college I was fried, but I'll be honest the clouds of sweat and smoke that clung to our shirts and skins in that crowded dorm room made it feel like we steamed, The point is we were high all the goddamn time. Lately I’ve been, I don’t know, raw? Not raw, like, safe and uncooked and tucked away in a comfortable carton. I mean raw like, my skins been peeled off and everything inside me is screaming because it’s not supposed to be exposed to the open air. I’m raw like, broken yolk raw, like the things inside me are oozing out no matter how hard I try to keep them in, raw. Like, i'm telling random people in the elevator that my favorite student hung themself on the way to school last week, that my sister has gone from anxious to agoraphobic, and everytime I go back to try and coax her out of my parents basement, she’s trying to drag me to the bottom of a well and drown me there, like I’m the bad brother for trying to keep my head above water. I’m raw like, two hours away from rotten, raw, Like, I’m splattered across the hood of car going 40 miles an hour, raw, like, last week I had dreams of being a rooster, and now I don’t know if I’m going to be an omelet, or a stinking puddle at the bottom of a dumpster. There’s like 100 different ways to cook an egg and right now I’d rather be cooked up anyway but this. I guess it’s a good thing that I’m a grown ass man instead. That I can wake up every morning after another worst night of the week and make fucking breakfast. That unlike the poor bastards swirling in my frying pan, when my shell cracks, it scabs, it flakes, and eventually, it heals.