What happens when Man chooses to represent or portray the natural world? The same thing throughout the ages, all over the world. Enjoy Kelly DuMar’s answer.

The greatest innovation in the history of humankind was neither the stone tool nor the steel sword, but the invention of symbolic expression by the first artists.

~ Chip Walter

Veronique packed a picnic. Patrice drove us all to the cave above Pont-d’Arc to see the ancient panel of horses. Not the real cave, a replica faked to enchant us into witnessing: Chauvet.

Inside the dank chamber––Grotte Chauvet 2––torch-light illumines thirty-thousand-year-old horses a first artist charred a torch to draw, galloping over that shadowy wall. While the cave’s bears were out hunting food!

We exited, I sobbed.

Bears and bison, the snow leopard and lions––long gone, but the ancient stone arch over Ardèche River stands and I swam in the cold and we ate our cheese.

Ages earlier, in the first universe––childhood––I drew visions with crayons––created magnificence. In school, Mrs. Dole passed out mimeographs of blank fish, to color by the rules of the Color Wheel. I mixed mine wrong.

Your fish are the color of mud, she said.

I rose that night of Chauvet, from my guest bed, surrounded by walls of stone, one ancient window, no moon, in the commune of Fortunat-sur-Eyrieux.

In the wobbling, dark as an unlit cave, my floor heaved, waving the walls, my low ceiling tried to topple me. Help, I hissed––my husband lit our lamp, balanced me back into our bed––it bucked

on my waves of vertigo. In the tilting, unlit chamber, horses, hand drawn by a fistful of charcoal, galloped over my walls. Dawn, a taxi took us to the Paris train, another taxi to our plane––still, so giddy I could not stand up straight. I flew home over a fish filled sea–

–playing, rewinding, re-playing:

firelit fingers, a torch, a gallop, a smear.

Kelly DuMar is a poet, playwright and workshop facilitator from Boston. She’s author of three poetry chapbooks, ‘girl in tree bark’ (Nixes Mate, 2019), ‘Tree of the Apple,’ (Two of Cups Press), and ‘All These Cures,’ (Lit House Press). Her poems, prose and photos are published in many literary journals. Kelly serves on the Board of the International Women’s Writing Guild (IWWG) and produces the Bi-Monthly Open Mic Writer Series attended by women worldwide.

To view previous Editors’ Choices from Issue 17, please visit:
1997 – Tony Gloeggler
The Rabbit Looks Away – Issa M. Lewis
The Child Born – Virginia Laurie
but i am only fiercely dreaming – Perla Kantarjian

Boy meets girl. Yesterday meets today. Poetry meets prose. Nice conventions when you can get them, all are, shall we say, “challenged” by this uppercut by Tony Gloeggler. Enjoy.

When you find a letter mixed in with tax returns and medical bills
from a woman you were much more into than she was ever into you,
you can’t help thinking about your first night at her place: Dust Bunnies
by Bettie Serveert, an Indie band named after a tennis player, spinning
on the turntable. The lead singer looked like a down home Blondie,
sounded like Lucinda and their songs still grace your mixed CDs.
You remember hummus, flaky pita bread, pickles, olives, sliced
cheese and making out on the couch.  When Nancy stood up, turned
around and lifted her shirt as she mildly criticized herself for falling
in line, joining the latest fad while explaining she did design it herself,
she asked if you liked the slinky snakey shape emerging from beneath
her left shoulder blade, winding down past her hip, teasing the crack
of her ass. Knowing you would have loved her with or without it
undressed, you dropped down to your knees, sang hallelujah. Amen.

Circling a Village Voice personal ad, dialing numbers and trying
to locate your late night Barry White voice and making that first date
to meet outside The Bottom Line, her legs longer than advertised.
You listened to five folkies you would never hear of again in a Friday
night showcase, before strolling down Lower East Side streets where
she leaned in, tried to place a quick kiss on your lips in mid-stride
as you flinched away, surprised. You still wish you had slid your hands
down her sides, held her hips and guided her to the nearest tenement,
to press her against the bricks for an urgent, make-out session
that lasted until sun rise while passersby slowed down to watch,
wishing they were you. And there’s that one kick ass poem you wrote
about Nancy, and her white fuzzy, just bought, Betsey Johnson top
that hung below her waist to brush her dark bush as she runwayed
across the bedroom floor, street light spilling through torn shades.

Only six months long, there wasn’t a whole lot to you and Nancy:
Dion at Tramps singing Ruby Baby, her thinking it was a Steely Dan
cut, putting down her glass and clapping along as you sang Lovers
Who Wander too loud. Mentioning an early morning meeting, putting
the children’s science mag she edited to bed, she bicycled east
while you headed to the subway, dick in hand. After spending a week
upstate with her family, she called the Saturday she returned, talked
about who knows what, your cock pressing against your fly. Somehow
you never said why not catch a cab, come over, hang out, you’ll order
Chinese, Mexican or Spanish and she never said anything about wanting
to come by, finally see your place. The night she ended it, she offered you
a goodbye gift. If you wrote you left her something to remember, to miss,
would anyone guess that you couldn’t get it up, just kissed her neck instead,
the double-lock latching tight as your shell tops down the hall, the staircase?

Tony Gloeggler is a life-long resident of NYC who’s managed a group home for developmentally disabled men for 40 years. His chapbook One On One won the 1998 Pearl Poetry Prize. His first full-length collection, One Wish Left, published by Pavement Saw Press went into a 2nd printing in 2007. Until The Last Light Leaves, published by NYQ Books, was a finalist for the Milt Kessler Book Award in 2016. NYQ Books released his new book What Kind of Man in June of 2020.

For previous Editors’ Choices, please visit:
The Rabbit Looks Away – Issa M. Lewis
The Child Born – Virginia Laurie
but i am only fiercely dreaming – Perla Kantarjian

Artwork © Ryn Holmes, 2020

Wait, what? 2021?

Congratulations, you made it. But let’s not fool ourselves that a page-turning is alchemy …

No matter the date or circumstances, we love to bring you “a wide array of fine writing.” We do notice incidental motifs in our submissions. This time, it’s insects and long, winding sentences. Of course, there are plenty of other fine works of all types included!

As always, we thank our contributors for favoring us with their talents. (You’ll notice more than one debut writer this time!) And of course, we thank you, readers, for spending a little time here. We hope you continue to find this publication uplifting and enriching.

All our best for a fine year!

Andrea, Jeff, and Ryn, Editors

Contents
1997 – Tony Gloeggler
Aphrodite and Mars – Jakub Svanda
Argyle Forest – C.B. Crenshaw
Awakening – Stephanie L. Harper
but i am only fiercely dreaming – Perla Kantarjian
Celestial Navigation – Diana Dinverno
The Child Born – Virginia Laurie
climb, fall, sober-up – Kelli Allen
Creatures in the Last Hour – Julia Watson
The Depth of Water – Marsha Lewis
Every Dream Holds a Meaning – Sophie Aay
Fireflies – Moinak Dutta
First Artists – Kelly DuMar
First Flight – Nathan McMullen
For Me and For Greta Gerwig – Naomi Hurley
Heisenberg in the Suburbs – George Franklin
Her Face Streaked with Tears – Zvi Sesling
hesperides – Kolbe Riney
Himself – Stephen Ground
Homeless  – Sekhar Banerjee
the hour before – Mike Jurkovic
I Am Not Writing About the Rose, I Am Making it Bloom in the Paper – John Milkereit
In His Dream – Ann Howells
Inventory – Stacie Kiner
Kulturaustausch – Sean Kelbley
‘Merica the Insidious – Mike L. Nichols
Pairing Mantids – Paul Jones
Paper – Hugh Anderson
Path of the Dragonfly – Marc Janssen
A Published Poet’s List – Rha Arayal
The Rabbit Looks Away – Issa M. Lewis
Rainbow Connection – Jaelyn Singleton
The Reception – Leonard Temme
Red Dress – Katie Mcilroy
River – Mallory Kellum
Ryou-Un Maru – Joseph E. Arechavala
The Simian Line – Joanne Clarkson
Sorrow – Bruce Meyer
Spider – Robert Okaji
Split – Francine Witte
Sweet Retreat – Emily Jacko
Table – Catherine Arra
Tea As Indicator for Weather – Lenny DellaRocca
Tragedy – Sheree LaPuma
Twilight – Makenna Dillon
Where To Find My Body – Cleo-Paulo Valentino
White Tulips – Carter Vance
The Writer – Kelsey Hontz
Year of Firsts – Joseph Kerschbaum
You Tell Me It’s the Worst Album Ever – Kate LaDew
You Must Share the Secret of Eternal Life With Someone You Love – Sandra Cimadori
Zen Shirt – Joseph Hardy

Do you have a chapbook that will be published between now and mid-June? If so, we may want to write a review! You can scroll down to see our previous reviews. Chapbooks poetry only, please, no full-length.

Your publisher must allow us to publish a review even if it precedes the publication date. (We aim for reviews 90 days on either side the (anticipate) publication date.) There are other basic conditions, including the right to publish the cover art, your headshot, etc.

If you’re interested, please respond here and/or on our Facebook page (Panoply). We’ll reach back to let you know the next steps.

We wish everyone the best of the holiday season and a fine ringing in of 2021!

Andrea, Jeff, and Ryn, Editors

“The greatest gift you ever give is your honest self.” – Fred Rogers

We hope you’ve been enjoying Panoply, all the gifted writers, and their fine work. We enjoy producing 3 issues, 3 chapbook reviews, our nominees for the Pushcart Prize, and Editors’ Choice videos with each issue. But as we say, “bandwidth ain’t cheap!” We donate our time and much of our treasure to Panoply and ask that you help us defray the cost of site hosting and submissions management. We do not charge reading or other fees except for contests which offer cash prizes.

Please consider donating whatever you can. Simply click the link in the right-hand margin to donate via PayPal. Thanks for reading Panoply and for any financial contribution you can make!

Enjoy the holiday season and stay healthy!

Best wishes,

Andrea, Jeff, and Ryn, Editors

Ready or Not, by Robin Wright
Finishing Line Press
ISBN 978-1-64662-303-7
28 pages
$14.99
Reviewed by Ryn Holmes, November 2020

A reader must indeed be ready or not to follow Robin Wright into her sensitive, plain-speaking new chapbook, “Ready or Not.”  Ms. Wright delivers as she promises, bringing brave readers along as she tackles the big issues of life: birth, love, death, loss. Her title is at once provocative and apt, giving a clue to the themes of the consequences when living the fullest of lives.  Indeed, it would have been easy for the author to cluster the pieces into sections under those headings; however, she has been far too clever to resort to such an obvious approach although there is an ordered progression between one topic and the next of each poem. For our purposes here I shall unify and spotlight those themes.

I begin with the brief audacious attitude shown in the opening poem, “Fringe.”  Although she speaks of others with envy, it is clear this young woman is her own person and fairly bold,

…I stood wrapped in a leather jacket,
raked my fingers across the fringe.

No one is going to outshine her.  Next thing we know, she confirms that by boldly asserting her needs in “What This Woman Wants.”

…I want you to want me
like wind, blowing through you
not stopping, not slowing…

That resolve falls to betrayal and insecurity in “A Night at Charlie’s Place” where she has come to watch her lover and his paramour perform together in a band. Here, she masterfully paints a scene in a somewhat shady dance hall/club, bringing the writer along for the night out.

…Nothing to do but
stop, adjust, try again…
His fingers press and slide the strings…
the sounds ring through…I down the shot and wait.

Through “Sex and Margaritas” to “Renters” and then “Side Trip,” we have a variety of experiences from the sensual to a foreboding that all may not always be smooth.  “Sex and Margaritas” begins in an obvious tropical setting as the protagonists

…stretch out on the porch like fat
gold cats, waiting
for more.

“Renters” shows hope inherent in the first home together along with the bonding of impending parenthood. They are disillusioned by an infusion of the realities of life when

…The apartment doesn’t look like
the model. Bare floors, vacant windows,
curtain rods left hanging
by loose screws….

A disturbing experience in “Side Trip” casts a note of gloom as the attendant reveals the hopelessness he feels and how stuck in his life without options, causing a young couple to ignore his desperation and quickly think of the escape for themselves in their upcoming vacation. Yet they can’t quite forget

…says his wife moved in with the sheriff.
He longs to get away from this station…
We’ll swim, laugh, sip drinks with umbrellas…
But on our minds,
the gas station, the man, his escape.

Focusing on “After You Left,” “Breaking Up,” “After the Funeral,” “Services at a Later Date,” “In Memory of Randy H,” “Trains in the Night,” and “Alzheimer’s” provide psychological insight into direct and implied loss, including those of love, life, body and cognitive functioning.  We feel the acute longing for lost love in “After You Left” and “Breaking Up.”

…All around me birds cooed,
as if they knew
your leaving didn’t change
water, earth, or sky….

She carries on indignant that nature has remained unchanged and fails to acknowledge her loss.

The Madrid Fault opened
her earthen mouth…
…but you escaped
untouched.

“After the Funeral,” “Services at a Later Date, and “In Memory of Randy H” bring us to the graveside, in reality or metaphorically when unable to attend the rite.

…Uncle Mike, past but no longer present,
locked in the minds of those who viewed
his silent ash….

…I claw
the soil, bury what’s left
of the flowers, push
my palms together, pretend
I know how to pray.

…Forty years later the local paper
spun your obituary, weaving the fabric
of your life….

Most immediate and relatable to those of a certain age are the losses of body characteristics and cognitive functioning bringing confusion, disorganization and death, “Trains in the Night” and Alzheimer’s

…The train’s requiem slow, sorrowful;
a low moan cried through the bruised night.

As a side note, “Alzheimer’s” has multiple color references, including blue, black, gray, red, yellow.  The subject is rightfully befuddled

You stand on the sidewalk, head down,
staring at your shirt….
You reach out your hand,
pull it back
empty…
stumbling away
from what you once knew.

The final three pieces are not readily categorized and are about different subjects.

“Runaway” is about random sexual encounters and paints a grim picture with an inference of having witnessed domestic violence.

…How long
since she watched her mother paint
lipstick over swollen lips….
She lights a Lucky
Strike as he jerks o pats, leaves
her slumped on the edge
of the bed, damp with sweat,
dirty with memories….

“Like This” was perplexing to parse as it contains many themes within its 18 lines including digital tracking/spying, mental illness/paranoia, parental concern for a child and duplicity by a parent.  It isn’t a tight fit into the themes of the other pieces.

…He’s upset about a Wisconsin company
ready to implant microchips
in hands, to unlock doors,
make a purchase, track location…
A rice-sized pellet injected
into a hand …
like the one I’m using
to hold my phone.

Finally, I saved the ephemeral “Ghost Orchid” for last because I felt its erotic message of hope makes a lovely coda to the chapbook and, if in actuality had been the final piece, would have perfectly bookended the others.

Those few weeks of summer
after the sphinx moth strokes you with its tongue,
your slender white petals float from thin stems,
drifting in air, no leaves for a partner,
while your dark roots, barely visible, cling
to cypress, pop ash, or pond apple trees,
never touching ground, never appearing
connected to the earth.

Ms. Wright writes of profound topics with a light touch that manages to project safety.  She kindly balances love with loss, life with death managing to trustfully deliver them.  And finally, she is an admirable master of a definitive and tidy stanza closure.

For previous chapbook reviews, please visit: Previous Chapbook Reviews

Continue reading →

Photo courtesy of and copyright ©2020 Ryn Holmes.

Welcome to Issue 16! We hope you have remained hale and healthy through this crazy time of year. Loaded with verbal endorphins, this issue should help you maintain your artistic and spiritual health. 

One thing we continue to learn is how permanent art is in our lives. Sometimes we overlook it; sometimes we misunderstand it; sometimes it moves us profoundly. With all the basic underpinnings of art and the human condition, expressions change, formats change, and so on. But what lies beneath the white spaces, the compositions, the rhythms and contours, is that eternal element of what it means to be alive. 

So whether today finds you up or down, ecstatic or forlorn, attentive or distracted, remember that the world of art, of human expression and interpretation, with all its crazy mutations and side tracks, will be with you always. 

Here’s a tiny utterance among the eternal voice, with thanks to our contributors, whose words breathe life into our days. 

Make it a great day. Stay healthy!

Best wishes,
Andrea, Jeff, and Ryn

Contents

#11 – Ann Pedone
After Crossing the International Date Line – K Roberts
As Kids Back Home –  Mark Madigan
Barroom Dust –  Ana M. Fores Tamayo
Bell the Cat – Emalee Long
Buckboard – Mary Anna Kruch
Calendar Pages Yellowing – Steve Gerson
Can You Download Whatsapp So We Can Text While I’m Here – Jimmy Fay
Cleaning Helga’s Grave – Kevin Ridgeway
Cream No Sugar – Michael Estabrook
Cyclic Convulsions – Casey Roland
Dawnlessness – Nancy K. Jentsch
Drama – Edward Kos
Eulogy – Joel Fishbane
Fall Dinner – Martina Reisz Newberry
Father’s Foreign Cars – Gabrielle Grilli
Fissure – Syd Shaw
Grandma’s Song – Irene Fick
The High Priestess – Sherre Vernon
His words are plump – Sabina Khan-Ibarra
The History of Emptiness – Jack Ritter
I love what you did with your eyeliner – Sambhranta Bashy
I Went West – Ben Mast
In the occasional contact with life – M. Ait Ali
Jerome – Sally Vogl
JiM “80” – Max Heinegg
Let My People Go – Mark Hammerschick
Letter to My Iranian Lover – Alicia Viguer-Espert
Marvelling Upon Your Rouge Halo –  Andrew LaFleche
Melody in Shades of Blue – Sophie Foster
moonlit eve – Victor Pambuccian
My dead father visits me on my birthday every year – Scott Ferry
My Window (Champaign, Illinois) – Gerald Friedman
Network Opportunity – Tobi Alfier
No Escape – Elya Braden
Old Man Winter on the Marsh – Stephen Scott Whitaker
On Reading “Skeleton Keys” by Brian Switek – Roberta Schultz
One hundred dollars – Michael Griffith
Orpheus Calls Their Bluff – Julian George
Penitence – Brigidh Duffey
Porcupine – Dave Gregory
post newtonian – Alan Gann
Prowl Me Gently – Sarah Pobuda
Robot Factory – Patrick T. Reardon
Sack and Hammer – Kristin Fullerton
The Sermon: First Baptist, 1988 – James Miller
Solanaceae Battles – Frank Babcock
Soundtrack – Gena Killion
Stealing – Michele Randall
This Flag Is Not Waving – Jack Mackey
Tongues of Fire – Ann Howells
Unwilling/Vacillating/Waiting – Scott Wiggerman
We could use poems right now – Hari Bhajan Khalsa
What Are You Glittering About? –  Marianne Lyon
What the Breeze Brings –  Steven Deutsch
Writing Night – Robert Nisbet
The Winding Road of Sunshine and Snow – Daniel Paton

Photo courtesy of Ryn Holmes. © 2020 Ryn Holmes.

Welcome spring! And welcome to Issue 15. Our theme for this issue is “Paper.” We encountered some lovely, expansive interpretations which we hope you’ll enjoy. While the world is abuzz with constraint and restraint, we hope this respite rejuvenates your spirit and lessens any burden you bear.

Once again, we tout the artistry of Editor Ryn Holmes, whose original photography graces our masthead. Pretty inventive and quite original!

It’s been a strange spring. We do hope this finds you healthy and fit, in all senses of the words. Some of us are facing difficult circumstances. We send what we can: our deep love and support. Take your solace, faith, and hope where you can find it and make it. We look forward to seeing you again for Issue 16 and beyond. 

As always, we thank our readers and contributors. Peace to you.

Stay healthy.

Andrea, Jeff, and Ryn, Editors

Contents
Anonymous – Pavle Radonic
Aphasia – Anna Winham
Armchair Tourist – Sandy Deutscher
Body Memory – Karen George
Censoring Letters Home – Jim Ross
Cleaning House for Mother and Me – Karen Mandell
Future Textbooks – Warren Woods
The Grey Heron – Mark Heathcote
A Heads-Up Dream for Peace – Mark Blickley
I am – Mandira Pattnaik
In the Wind – Hugh Anderson
Inheritance – Dorian Kotsiopoulos
A Lesson in Colors – Kimberly Williams
Making Books at Hull House – Cynthia Gallaher
Making Do – Michele Waering
My First Poem, Age 12, For Sharon – Steve Gerson
My Mother Reads the Obituaries Out Loud – Susan Barry-Schulz
Nakamura Lock – Rich Renner
Ode to the Tree – Deonte Osayande
On Reading the Sky Between Essays – Vivian Wagner
On transcience – (Rizla™) – Henry Bladon
Paper Skin – Alan C. Smith
A Poet Reads on Instagram – Aileen Bassis
The Poet’s Writing Shed – Robert Nisbet
Polish Dining Ring – A Msou
Précis – Betsy Mars
Prosthetics – Brian Rihlmann
Sharing My Canoe – William Doreski
Snail Girl – Chuka Susan Chesney
Spaghetti – Samn Stockwell
Thin Sheaf – Susan Tepper
Tit for Tat – Lindsey Heatherly
Uncharted Waters – Christine Rhein
Underneath Your Sleeve Sketches – Roz Weaver
Uproot the Hobbling Magic – Hibah Shabkhez
Venus Did What? – Karla Linn Merrifield
Weeks of Repetition – Sudanshu Chopra
Writing Space – Angela Weiser
Yellow Wallpaper* – Holly Van Hare

Photograph © 2019 Ryn Holmes

Welcome to Issue 14. For those of you returning, we thank you for joining us once more. For you first-timers, we hope you enjoy what you find here. One special feature of posting an issue just after New Year’s Day is that we compile it over the holidays, smack-dab in the middle of the season, our spirits growing and flowing. It’s a gift to and from so many, and the warmth it brings to us is one of the highlights of the holidays.

You may have noticed we switched our masthead theme from flowers to abstract photography by Co-Editor Ryn Holmes. Pardon the plug, but it’s fascinating, innovative stuff. You’ll see more of these as the issues continue.

Meanwhile, Issue 14 should keep you artistically occupied and satisfied. We tend to see motifs from issue to issue. One of this one’s is women’s experience and consciousness, particularly as girls become women. Not all is princessing, it’s clear. But the art is just as sparkling. Naturally, the fine work here covers a, dare we say it, panoply of subjects, something for everyone.

We must admit that due to a glitch in our submissions process, we received far more submissions than usual, a good problem to have! That helps explain why we’ve included more contributions than usual. They’re all so deserving and gleaming.

Thanks again for your support and attention. 

Best wishes,

Andrea, Jeff, and Ryn, Editors

Table of Contents

2059: Cut Off – Alan C. Smith
Airness – Pablo Saborío
Apollo 11 – Sharon Scholl
Augury – Greg Friedmann
Being Made Ready – Maria Berardi
Beneath My Feet – Sarah Valeika
The Birds – Ian Ganassi
Borrowed – Sean Bolton
A Child Says Morning – Max Heinegg
Civilized – Daniel Edward Moore
Crumbling – Stephen Ground
Dawn By The House of Stone That Jack Built – Vassilis Zambaras
The Days We Meet – R.T. Castleberry
Dying in Paradise – Christy Bailes
Endurance – Molly Fuller
Exit Wounds – Andy N
Feeling Empathy Outside of Santa Maria del Fiore – Adam Webb
Fell in Love with You – John Grey
Finches Prefer Chopin – Raymond Byrnes
Half Light – Doug Bolling
Hard Jazz – DS Maolalai
He’s Dead – Patricia Walsh
Heather in Bloom, Morning – Gerald Kells
A House of Your Own Making – James Diaz
In Line at Banco Central – Tim Hawkins
In Memory of An All-Girl Band (A Cento) – Andrew Sunshine
In the Fog – Steve Klepetar
Is Your Forgetfulness Normal? – Barbara Daniels
Kitsch – George Franklin
Last Days of June – Corbin Louis 
The Last Voyage – Howie Good
Leave-takings – Robert Nisbet
Lines Composed on First Regarding Godzilla after An Uneasy Serenity of Fifty Years – Bruce Robinson
Lullaby for a Politician – Jennifer Bradpiece
The Made and the Unmade – Carolyn Adams
The Music at Montreaux – Matthew James Friday
My English Teacher – Michael Minassian
My Mother’s Ghost Knits a Scarf of Chain – Robert Okaji
Mystery Confirmed – Megan Wildhood
Near Salt River Road: An Elegy for S.D. – Rita Chapman
Nectar – Christopher Wilson
No end to wonder – Hugh Anderson
Pantoum of the Thoughts That Have Been Turning Over in My Head Since I Moved Out a Month Ago – Jacob Bennett
Pareidolia – Megan Merchant
Parallax View – Betsy Mars
Pathing – Vivian Wagner
Patriot’s Chain – Anthony Dennis
peace has its season – Disha Trivedi
Pink Bee – Cliff Saunders
an excerpt from “A Place, A Feeling, Something He Said To You” – Alexandra Naughton
Playing Guitar at Ritter Park – Ace Boggess
[A position we’ll all get] – Blake Francis
Praying Mantis – Penelope Schott
Raven – Kathryn Jordan
Record Low – Russell Rowland
Refugee/fugitive – Sean Urbina
Salsa – Jacob Butlett
Sarabande – Robert René Galván
She Takes a Taxi – Gemma Cooper-Novack
Shifting, Too Anxious to Be Fully Aware – Jonathan Yungkans
That Other Guy – Lenny DellaRocca
This can’t be right – Giovanni Mangiante
Time Flies – John O’Hare
Tuesday in the Home Town – Tom Willemain
Two – Nitya Gupta
Vasculitis – Jared Pearce
Violation – Claire Massey
Warren’s Weathered Barn – Keith Moul
We’re Just Talking – Melissa St. Pierre
What Jesus did do – Dennis Finnell
What Words Cost – Sandy Coomer
When a ’54 Fender Stratocaster Becomes a Fetish – Karla Linn Merrifield
When Coburg Lake Became a Kyrenia Wedding – Angela Costi
Wildfires in Iraq – Sarah Mills
You Cannot Strike a Bargain – Nancy Levinson