December 2024
“So, how was your dayyy?”
By Anonymous
I see him hitching his way to maturity crashing with a stranger for a night for a twelvemonth they
think he’ll stay don’t know they dots on a broken body trendline mistaking collateral for tips why why why quiver lips, well
same reason Dadda hate Momma and Dada hate MoMA Lennon Lenin Levin go crazy hide the ropes make new nations on nothing
same reason man on moon and ham on rye and lab coat track disorder and still wake up in morn
same reason unread scattered pages decorated the floors on Brooks Ave if kicked out the window by wind the propaganda pamphlets would bring this all down
s’reason trees in soon season grow through these marble goggled halls while sleep slips down slipstreams of memory
s’reason grown babies be blobs of clay to hold the churching wheels that grind their guts into telecast towers of little light to keep them up in the dark of night that is to say
I don’t know why—
I sit dumb-faced I say temporary they say no excuse they say ties say breaking not fair so
I whittle away and wander back into the fog that their shelter gave momentary break from
I descend down to the oceans of myself where promised islands do not show but mirages plenty and thirsty sips the salt water so much the basin dries killing the fish Mea culpa! Mea culpa! Mea maxima culpa!
I stick out my tongue catch the snowing asbestos off the building tops
I twiddle the time to see if they all turn out alright and whisper temporary temporary temporary
I scatter knick knacks bonfire with new eyes build Cole’s empire sandcastle bridges wade in the waves
of one for a while till some of the water fills me up
I perform remorse, a drop from the cheek cleans these red hands no one behind the emerald curtain
I runaway from hereweareagain have a toast for the stragglers off this dotted line! A toast for the desert fox! The Wittenberg dropout! The stumbling Dublin drunks with near novels between their illiterate teeth! The disciple of Burns! The strongest of the strange!
Biography
Anonymous.
Midnight Ragas
By Lorraine Caputo
The end of another day
my mind floats on the flute
of a raga, carrying me
away from the banks crowded
with trash, rags, carcasses
carrying me
downstream, rushing
through a high-walled canyon
cold water frothing
splashing over the gunwales
soaking my earthen body
chilling me deep down
to spirit … a shiver rises
writhing, tensing my muscles
a shock throughout my being
throbbing to the rhythm of tabla drums
pulsing upward, exploding
through the thousand-petalled chakra
shattered crystals capturing
moon & starlight, cascading
like shooting stars
carrying me beyond, relaxed
floating, mind lightening
eyes heavy … body becoming limp
drifting, floating
into the DreamWorld …
Biography
Wandering troubadour Lorraine Caputo is a documentary poet, translator and travel writer. Her works appear in over 500 journals on six continents; and 24 collections of poetry – including In the Jaguar Valley (dancing girl press, 2023) and Santa Marta Ayres (Origami Poems Project, 2024). She also authors travel narratives, articles and guidebooks. Her writing has been honored by the Parliamentary Poet Laureate of Canada (2011), and nominated for the Best of the Net and Pushcart Prize. Caputo has done literary readings from Alaska to the Patagonia. She journeys through Latin America with her faithful knapsack Rocinante, listening to the voices of the pueblos and Earth. Follow her travels at: www.facebook.com/lorrainecaputo.wanderer or https://latinamericawanderer.wordpress.com.
Russian Roulette
By T. F. Jennings
A single lightbulb sways above
a card table, rolling shadows from one side
of the room to the other; the walls adorned
with portraits of those who have lost
and those we have lost; our eyes fixed vacantly
on the blank spaces and empty frames; the needle
and thread on a silver tray for suturing
stories into the folds of our lamenting hearts to carry with us —
a black rose beating in a vase hewn from our bones,
while a scythe-wielding figure in a blue
tuxedo sits on a bar stool
and pulls from an endless cigarette —
a miniature sunset at the tip;
ribbons of smoke threading
around an old-fashioned pocket watch
with a crooked hairspring, as the cylinder spins — then ticks,
then spins again, then ticks, until it doesn’t.
The itchy trigger finger of time;
the cool muzzle of the clock pressed firmly at our temples.
Spring Funeral in a Mill Town
By T. F. Jennings
They planted him
like Camas Lily
as if overnight,
he might bloom
brilliant and natural
as the unspoiled sun —
twining through the town
that cultivated him,
the tendrils of his fingers
forever gripping
the smokestacks
sown into the skyline;
deep blues and indigo
reaching above plumes of white;
his flowering arms
to hold you, a child again.
Biography
T.F. Jennings is the pseudonym of producer, songwriter, media music composer, and poet, Tyler Fortier. Born and raised in the Pacific Northwest, Fortier spent years performing under his own name sharing the stage with Frazey Ford, Dave Barnes, David Dondero, Matt Pond PA, and more. He has produced recordings for the likes of Jeffrey Martin, Anna Tivel, and Beth Wood, and as a media music composer his music has been placed all over the world. His debut EP In the Teeth of the Night was released April 30th, 2024. Fortier lives in Eugene, Oregon with his wife and two children.
A stolen holocaust lies under the pillow
By Mykyta Ryzhykh
Content Warning: Language
A stolen holocaust lies under the pillow
The air is saturated with the unspoken and unspeakable
The feet fall into the slippers and stick into the cemetery
The morning coffee is as hot as the body of a freshly killed migrant
I don’t want to jerk off in the morning at all
It’s scary just to imagine what is happening outside the window
Biography
Winner of the international competition Art Against Drugs and Ukrainian contests Vytoky, Shoduarivska Altanka, Khortytsky dzvony; laureate of the literary competition named after Tyutyunnik, Lyceum, Twelve, named after Dragomoshchenko. Nominated for Pushcart Prize.
Ear-Worms
By Lynn White
It’s a quiet time now in there
after the cacophony
no more songs
storming
and the wind has abated.
The blizzard could never have been,
never have happened
just be part of my imagination.
My thoughts are quiet
ordered one tune at a time
and at my behest.
But soon I know
the storm will move inside again,
inside my head
a blizzard of tunes
circling round
and round
drawing me into their vortex.
Biography
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 a Pushcart Prize, Best of the Net and a Rhysling Award. https://lynnwhitepoetry.blogspot.com and https://www.facebook.com/Lynn-White-Poetry-1603675983213077/
Evidence
By Ken Poyner
I climb out of the woman’s
Second floor bedroom window.
I hang awhile from the sill,
A man-shaped flag of
Indecipherable testimony motionless
Against vinyl siding, stretching
As far as I can, then dropping
To land initially on my feet,
Then vault backwards and
Remember to roll. No one
Peers out of the window: no husband
Hurling curses, no wife blowing
Kisses, no courtesan repeating
Promises made in navigable lust. In fact
No one is home. The curtains blow out
And back in the vacant framed
Space. This is one more
Adventure I have achieved to no purpose,
One more experience I can share
With people at the end of the bar
Wondering what glue holds their lives
Together, what gravity pulls them apart.
I am the one who remembers to roll.
Biography
Ken Poyner has nine collections of poetry, flash fiction and micro-fiction out there. He cheers his world-class power lifting wife at meets, and once worked wrangling computers. His individual offerings are strewn across the web. “Analog”, “Café Irreal”, “Mobius”, “Brief Wilderness”, elsewhere. www.kpoyner.com.
Moth Seminar
By B.A. Brittingham
It fanned its small brown wings at the window’s edge
where a late autumn sun came over the ledge.
I worked about it with utmost care —
though the sight of a moth was hardly rare.
That evening as I reached to switch on the light
it seemed to have folded its wings for the night.
I bent to look and expelling a breath
saw it tumble from its perch, rigid in death.
Tiny serrated borders along with designs
of gray and umber crossed by chocolate lines;
antennae now gently hooked down
a joint formation of eternal frown.
Amber and melancholy this season brings
a reminder again of the death of all things;
yet even now in its abject state
the small, powdered body seems to generate
this message: our lives are but a pantomime,
we gesture away and squander our time.
Biography
Born and raised in the grittiness of New York City, Brittingham spent a large segment of her adult years in the blue skies and humidity of South Florida. Today she resides along the magnificent (and sometimes tumultuous) shores of Lake Michigan with its ample opportunities for creative contemplation.
The author has published essays in the Hartford Courant; and short stories in Florida Literary Foundation’s hardcover anthology, Paradise. Recently published in WELL READ Magazine Aug. 2023 was the essay “Feed the Beast;” followed in Dec. 2023 by “Another View-Judas Season.”
Poetry has appeared in Kitchen Sink Magazine, the ocean waves, Words for the Earth, the Crone’s Words, Green Shoe Sanctuary, Halcyon Days, The Emblazoned Soul Literary Review, Dear You-Poems Through the Heart, Culture Cult, and About Time Anthology.
Little Egg Baby
By Julie Dron
She awoke with a yelp and a pain down below,
squatted on pillows and rocked to and fro.
Her hubby, alarmed, reached out for the lamp
and the light revealed wifey, all sweaty and damp.
A shadowy form like a great moaning spider
Wifey bawling and crouched on the down of the eider.
Hubby dithered and dathered, his world took a tilt
when suddenly, plop! an egg fell to the quilt.
Hubby noted the hues, so like his own
hair, skin and beard (that he’d only just grown).
The dark russet colours that covered the shell
the speckles, like freckles, like his markings as well.
He lifted a shoe box from the shelf up above
and lined it with tissues and socks and with love.
He scooped the egg gently between his two palms
and longed for the baby to rock in his arms.
An immediate bond, by his egg he sat tight
while wifey worked, partied, and snored through the night.
The gossip soon spread, at first tattled with mirth
“She laid an egg, is it true, a five minute birth?”
The ladies all gathered and rumbled and roared
and stomped down to London with banners and boards.
“We want to lay eggs!” they demanded and then
they stood in the street outside Number Ten.
“We want to lay eggs, of that we are certain!”
While the P.M. peered out from behind the net curtain.
“A quick easy birth” they began to explain
“We want to lay eggs, without any pain!
No nine months of fear, sick, throwing up food,
then hours of labour.” The men looked subdued
when they heard of the egg and the new information
they may now be required for egg incubation.
Meanwhile in the house with the egg in the box
that nestled atop an assortment of socks,
a wobble began, “Wifey come!” Hubby cried,
and they clung to each other, all fuzzy inside.
The shell cricked and cracked and the first thing they saw
was a hand bursting through, and then there was more,
two feet, pink and perfect, then finally unfurled
from the shell, a small baby to welcome the world.
Yawning and stretching and loud wailing cries
accompanied wife’s out-of-tune lullabies.
Hubby cuddled and stared at egg baby with awe
while feeding him coconut milk through a straw.
One thing stood out on egg baby’s arrival
a smooth flawless tummy, no sign of a navel.
No button on belly; neither innie nor outie
unheard of throughout all the births in the county.
And all through the people ran the little egg rumour
“No umbilical cord!” they laughed with great humour,
“Who wants a child with no knot in its tummy?
A child with no cord to connect it to mummy?”
Hubby, heart broken, hugged little eggy
as the mood of the people turned vicious and crazy.
A family of robots from far outer space!
They all declared. Yes! An alien race.
Wifey angry and hurt planned a clever escape,
she paced up and down while her thinking took shape
and sold her tall story to popular tabloids
‘A day in the life of a family of androids’.
They packed all their millions in Hubby’s knapsack,
locked the house, called a taxi, and didn’t look back.
Wifey and Hubby and little egg too,
boarded a liner and sailed to Kazzoo.
A land far away, where egg people thrived,
where common sense, inclusion and niceness survived.
A land where tummy buttons were considered quite grubby
“Best sew it up!” they advised wifey and hubby.
“It may grow potatoes, and soon become smelly”
They said when they saw each with a hole in their belly.
But for hubby and wife, it was never distressing
to live where no navel was thought only a blessing,
and sleep in a house that was made from bamboo
(because lots of it grew in the land of Kazzoo).
They rested all year and then every June
rented a purple striped hot air balloon
and took little egg baby (who now was quite tall)
to show him the sights, from the heights, see it all.
They taught him to follow his own special star
and to always accept we are just who we are.
Then one night hubby reached out for the lamp
and again saw his wifey all sweaty and damp
and squatting and groaning and sniffling too
but this time holding hands, they knew what to do.
Both excited to watch as a new life begins
First plop!
Then another plop!
Yes, it was twins!
Biography
Julie is originally from Liverpool and currently lives in Taiwan. She began writing in her sixties and has since been published in a wide variety of journals and anthologies, most recent being Sykroniciti, Syncopation Literary Journal, Dark Moon Rising Publications, West Avenue Press, Pesto Comics (Big Smoke Pulp) and many others. Twice nominated for pushcart prize 2024 and recently nominated for Best Micro Fiction 2024/5.
I try to speak French in a bar in Chicoutimi
By Ron Riekki
and the bartender tells me I sound cute or look cute
or she’s saying something about ‘cute.’ Maybe it’s
the name of a drink. Or maybe I don’t understand
the word and maybe she is saying ‘jazz’ or ‘movie’
or ‘house’ or ‘tiger.’ I’m so lost. But drunk, a bit,
buzzed, so that I am brave enough to try to speak,
and I’m not sure if she’s flirting or just doing her
job and her job is to flirt, but I think that maybe
she does like me and then she says that I sound
like a little boy and I realize I won’t be kissing
her tonight or tomorrow or ever, because you
don’t want to be seen as a little boy, and, yes,
I understand these two words—‘little boy.’
So easy in French. So understandable.
Two words made so that even little
boys would understand how to say
it, and I’m suddenly sad, my sad-
ness working its way through
the buzz, and later, when I’m
leaving, a friend has me say
goodbye to the bartender
and she leans in, kissing
both of my cheeks, and
it feels like God has
entered my body
and it feels like
sunset in my
chest and it
feels like
life will
be OK
Often, when I go to sleep, I fly, and
By Ron Riekki
there are no waits in terminals, no luggage,
no cancellation of flights, no TSA grabbing
me in places I don’t want to be grabbed, no,
rain, no sleet, no overpriced bad food; it’s
just me and the night and the air and a town
where I grew up, and the chimneys are silent,
and I am Peter Pan and Superman and other
names that rhyme and I’m where nothing
can touch me, and every time I dream like
this I always wake up feeling as if it was
real, that I actually was flying, this strange
sensation where I wonder, sometimes, if I
actually have flown like this, at night, like
sleepwalking, where you are asleep and
walking, in your dream and in real life, so
that I swear I’ve noticed the window open
when it was closed when I fell asleep and
I’ve noticed bits of moonlight left on my
pajamas and that my hair is blown back
like the wind combed it and I sometimes
could swear that I was really up above
the world and it feels so good to believe.
Biography
Ron Riekki has been awarded a 2014 Michigan Notable Book, 2015 The Best Small Fictions, 2016 Shenandoah Fiction Prize, 2016 IPPY Award, 2019 Red Rock Film Fest Award, 2019 Best of the Net finalist, 2020 Dracula Film Festival Vladutz Trophy, 2019 Très Court International Film Festival Audience Award and Grand Prix, 2020 Rhysling Anthology inclusion, and 2022 Pushcart Prize. Right now, Riekki’s listening to Magnus Lindberg’s “Odyssey.”
What My Mother Wanted To Know
By Joanne Monte
A book laid flat,
left open on the table
where my mother would begin
to grope her way through a forest
of pages, pruned with the smallest of caskets.
I sat with her through photographs,
various descriptions, a list from which
to choose: red oak or maple, black walnut—
depending on hardness—how heavy,
she wanted to know, would it be
to shoulder? And then there was pine,
a softer, lighter wood that could easily expose
the scrapes and scratches of crosses
and stars. There was nothing
in the way of color, no sunset bronze
or cherry, not even a trinity
of Crayola browns, no numbers
and dollar signs—the price, glossed over
and still missing for years, no matter—
having always been by far too much to bear.
Mother’s Sketches
By Joanne Monte
She would take out
her drawing pad, nine by twelve,
spiral-bound,
sit with it propped against the table
on every anniversary of her daughter’s birth—
like a ritual, she’d arrange
the sharpened graphite pencils
according to number
as though they were the years
stretched out like arms
awaiting an embrace,
but frozen as in the absence of time—
each pencil stationary
until she would pick one up
and begin to draw: first, a circle
for the head,
then the eyes—
a double Unicode in shadow.
Using the pencil with the softest tip,
she would then press down
two black dots for a nose,
drag across a straight line for lips—
followed on every anniversary
by larger circles
until the sketch personified
what it might have been—
a gradual evolution
that had begun
from infant to child to adolescent—
and then a woman
sketched more intricately in full dress,
but one she had only imagined in her likeness.
The Way Through
By Joanne Monte
In these times, we’ve been trying to find a way through.
The trail, having long ago darkened in its promise, divided us,
loosening like shoelaces into the woods
flourishing with red oak and maple that stood absolute
among the evergreens.
A map of that geography, tucked into our backpacks,
had more than disappeared. It was too late
to retrace our steps to where it all began
when we heard the melody of that one
and only songbird lodged in its own nest of light.
The landscape had already changed, and we were lost
in its hotspots, lost in the blinding winds that had mobbed us.
When we could no longer trust the signs, we followed
the cardinal points, tried in our way to climb over the boulders
that stood like sculptures in the ranks of misfortune.
We sweated as our skin bled, scraped by thorns,
by thistles on either side of a path too forked to lead us to safety.
Nothing is as dangerous as a fault line or a point in the road
where it divides ever so subtly into the shadows.
It was there that the trees were waving their leaves in farewell
to the hour and the day, locking out the light
that might have shown us direction. Some, among us,
went down the path where crowds of brown-eyed sunflowers
were brightening long enough to have pulled them in.
Some chose to hike the widest trail, doubting
there were danger zones before the winds had swung the branches
around in the air like clubs. Some of us did not know
we were lost, others thought that they could point out the way.
And some, knowing what we stood to lose,
cut their way through that part of the forest where weeds,
not native to the land at all, mobilized in force,
concealing the low-lying ground fog of pestilence
that had risen to strangle, to torture, and to kill. And yet,
many among us at the junction pushed aside every bit of foliage,
feeling our way through to the edge of an open field,
our presence unwavering, assimilating into time and place.
It’s where the doves were flying, high above the goldenrod
and the hearts-bursting-with-love,
their wings sparkling under the one and only sun.
It was here that we found our way through,
coming together as though the trail had never diverged,
one country looming before us with the promise of its spirit.
Biography
Joanne’s poems have appeared in Poet Lore, The Washington Square Review, The Red Cedar Review, and Sixfold, just to name a few. Her poetry collection, “The Blue Light of Dawn,” received the Bordighera Poetry Book Award. In addition to receiving a Pushcart nomination, many of her poems have received awards, namely The Jack Grapes Poetry Award, Sixfold, Princemere Poetry Award, and the New Millennium Writings Award.
Proximity
By Philip Miller
Outside my window birds alight
There’s also fluttering —
Helter-skeltering in zigzags
Small hearts palpitating.
I will never compete with them
The best of nervous days
I — in their eyes — sluggish giant
Bystander, mouth agape.
Verging — within reach — and yet not
At first glance, transparent
Threshold, non-existent till now:
Glass can be deceptive.
And fatal too. From the looking
Glass, our dreams chimeric
To a human eye, their beauty
Simple, enigmatic.
Toy Soldiers
By Philip Miller
A boy sits on the floor.
This is his bedroom and though plain and ordinary,
The room is nothing less than
His alter universe.
Why is it that only children get high from imagination?
See —
The bed is now a trench
The bat becomes a rifle
And still more impressive:
Plasticized figures — subordinates to the boy-general —
Placed with attention and care,
Are ready to the call
Each standing erect, the carpet,
A Lilliputian battlefield of synthetic fiber.
Today, he’s somewhere in France,
A village whose name he couldn’t pronounce if he tried.
Yet here he is — his atlas says so:
Page thirty-six, both country and town;
Just leave the rest to him.
He pauses, issues forth the requisition,
Thinks once more, then decides to reposition
The front line. A precaution —
Nothing else — he’s learned his lesson from before:
Loss of life, the bag emptied, there are no more
Soldiers.
Proxy wars
To live and die
On a whim;
A boy’s world —
Reality mirrored
Without flaw.
Biography
Philip Miller’s poetry has been published by The Rumen and Midsummer Dream House.
Philip is Associate Professor in Music Theory & Composition at the Ingesund School of
Music, Arvika, Sweden. As a graduate student, Philip studied creative writing with David
Wevill at the University of Texas.
Tractor Tanka
By Robert Okaji
I drove the tractor
one final time down the road,
without looking back.
Now, here, the winds blow warmer
lifting these soaring vultures
Upon Giving My Wife a Chunk of Zebra Calcite on Her Birthday
By Robert Okaji
Happiness dwells in this rock.
Or, the spirit of endurance: stripes,
rough edges, perhaps traces of aragonite,
this phantom stone unearthed only in Mexico,
not to be confused with the jasper
of Australia. How to explain the attraction?
I wanted to give an object of substance,
one that fit in the palm of your hand,
that suggested protection and self-compassion,
insight and empathy. And peace.
Something weightier than words compressed
in ink and afterthought, commerce
on cardstock. That whispered your secret
name. That hummed only truth
in your moments of doubt. A gift
that you might caress and hold close
and think fondly of in days to come.
It could rest on your desk, or lie under
an empty pillow or on a shelf with other
talismans — that elusive pen, a hummingbird’s
nest, remnants of an orb weaver’s web,
unspoken promises. What persists longer,
stone or love? One day my impermanence
will prove itself, but the rock will remain,
steadfast, true. And yours, always yours.
Biography
Robert Okaji served without distinction in the U.S. Navy, and once owned a bookstore. He was recently diagnosed with late stage metastatic lung cancer, and lives, for the time being, in Indiana with his wife—poet Stephanie L. Harper—stepson, and cat. His first full-length collection, Our Loveliest Bruises, will be published by 3: A Taos Press sometime in the future (not posthumously, he hopes). His poetry may be found in Threepenny Review,Only Poems, Panoply, Indianapolis Review, Vox Populi and other venues.
Swinside: Holy Engineering
By Loralee Clark
This is the balance and harmony: we care for the plants, the land
the animals, rocks, rivers and sea and so, they care for us.
We listen, learn relationship:
a small piece, a large piece is the same as the whole;
sacred map. All speak through our bodies,
molding, rotting, blossoming and changing
as the energy moves from the stars.
Study the patterns on a snakeskin, fish scales, flower petals;
the patterns of the stars above and the rocks under our feet.
Touch the spirals of a pinecone, a snail’s shell, a ram’s horn.
See closer, now–an apple’s core, beeswax cells,
the never-ending patterns of leaves, tree branches and limbs:
earth measurement, solid and sure.
Our experiences, emotions bounce off these patterns
as we share our stories and enact theirs: vessels of particles,
bumptious, desirous of connection and understanding
as we align ourselves with the stars’ patterns,
those sublime circles. We listen as the light guides,
protects, tells us the measurements and so
we mark the earth, dig and secure stones where lichens grow,
where cracks form, where ancient memories are embedded,
mark where they will comfortably live in the soil;
come to know us through our songs and breath,
give them a new home in this circle.
Time, that cyclical ancestor is like a
snake’s skin, is a slow-motion
deep dance affording the stones’ wiser agency;
we learn to see with these first eyes of the world
in dialogue with the sky
as we continue to lay this circle, this unity, potential.
We make this seed, move its shape 60 times,
carve these rough stones that scuff and callous themselves in our heart,
bring ourselves closer to sky’s energy.
This magic is embodied in our bones as we become
a key turning in a lock,
laid in this circle: knitted intimacy.
All the Leaves
By Loralee Clark
Steady, awake, she approaches,
her finger’s pads pausing along sturdy trunks,
lichen’s unreadable braille
playing underneath.
From her pockets
an arm’s length of thread
pilfered from a sewing basket
passed around a blunt, dusty
candle nub and a small needle
worked over and over into steel wool,
sharp and sure, an arrow
to pass cleanly through
cell walls, stomata, veins.
A carrot, she roots herself
between two maples
gathers handfuls of pliable, red leaves
along the ground,
slowly
carefully
placing the needle through
one by one
accumulating a string banknotes,
musty talismans,
protection against the future
to hang alongside the others
on her bedposts, on her door knob,
along her walls.
Walking home she stops in the field
asking a question and brings the leaves up to the wind
to read its answers.
Soon enough she becomes
a faded, tan talisman–a beech tree’s winter leaf–
clinging, twisting
in the cold
persistent
wind.
She pulls her favorite leaf from the bunch
string tearing its delicate body
to burn in the clay pot behind the house.
If it crackles with a high flame
Mina will sleep soundly.
This winter when the moon hangs round
she’ll sit in the frosty chill, crushing the leaves
one by one, making hummus in the clay pot
fingertips swirling in the detritus and ash.
After she throws the mix into the air,
she’ll draw the patterns that form on the dirt
continuing to search for the portents of meaning.
Biography
Loralee Clark is a writer who grew up learning a love for nature and her place in it, in Maine. She resides in Virginia now as a writer and artist, with two awesome kids and a loving husband. Her Instagram is @make13experiment. She writes poetry and non-fiction. Myth is her love language.