Dashboard Horus: A Bird's Eye View of the Universe

  Liam "Lee" Balmeo is an emerging poet & activist. I.  You can feel it, can’t you? The ominousness present, on the sand. All around the hand that held life in its fingertips, the people in its grasp. But we know that something’s wrong, that offtone sensation of emptiness in our stomachs. The ocean and sand do not fall with the tides but follow the season’s games as clouds shelter the ones under its brow, caressing the ocean with its shadow. We smell the brine sweeter than its carcass, changed with the lips of Mother’s kiss while holding the gritty sand of pebbles spit unevenly across the ocean floor. The rocks have been turned by time and glazed with rough edges. They’ve been waiting—they’ve been longing for someone to set them free. The land and its living steer clear of this zone—but only the ones that can see it. Palm trees sway crooked in the raging winds because their limbs are removed in the form of delicate leaves; their shrubbery below has stolen the sunlight and...

  Getting Off That Train         The Expo Line train turned north after stopping at USC. It rumbled along, full of passengers heading home from work or school or heading to work, depending on their schedules. There were elderly ladies with shopping carts and young men with dreadlocks holding phones that played hip-hop. A couple of old men were nodding out, slumping in their seats. A girl who may have been a student was burying her face in a book while another student was reading his Kindle one line at a time with his finger.     The train came to a stop. It was not the next station. No one said anything because trains often stopped for a minute or two for unknown reasons. But the train stayed still and silent for more than a couple of minutes.      “Not again,” said a young man. His friend nodded and remarked “Third time this week.”       People continued to do whatever they had been doing but there were a few murmurs. ...

  James Barros lives in Los Angeles. He is an active mason and thelemite. Icarus I found Icarus dead hung from a tree his parachute unfurled  like clouds of celestial halls  and blood at his feet  like the wet flapping end  of an infantryman  I found Icarus dead  by the side of the road  his body still warm  scent still there  and his holes defiled  by beast and and man  I found Icarus crying  and begging at my feet  to silence the noise  of rushing air   © 2025 James Barros

  Pediatrician  Kelley   White  has worked in inner-city Philadelphia and rural New Hampshire. Her poems have appeared in  Exquisite Corpse, Rattle  and  JAMA.  Her recent books are  Toxic Environment  (Boston Poet Press) and  Two Birds in Flame  (Beech River Books). She received a 2008 Pennsylvania Council on the Arts grant. Aquedoctan At a place called Aquedoctan Paugus Bay meets Winnipesaukee, Here dwelt Abenaki people Long before the current era Here they fished in spring and summer Traded food and strings of wampum Feasted, prayed, danced and courted Made alliances with each other Tribes that came to gather winter Supplies and share the new news Of other people’s dealings further To the North, South, East, and Western And the doings of the English Who soon enough a man called Endicott Came from the stolen land of Massachusetts And he claimed a rock that guarded The stoneworks long relied on To support the basketwork weirs ...

  Carole Mertz is the author of Color and Line , a collection of ekphrastic and other poetry. Her recent work appears in World Literature Today, The Ekphrastic Review, and Quill and Parchment. Carole is Book Review editor at Dreamers Creative Writing.  An American Student Abroad   Time was—when I walked the cobblestones of Salzburg   heading across the river  to my music lessons. Those   who lived in Mozart's town knew the best places to buy yogurts   in glass jars, eaten and returned for a penny. Not many    in my class were yogurt fans,  suspended as they were   between U.S. and Austrian fare. I enjoyed riding the   tram, enjoyed calling out “Aussteigen” with my most   Germanic flare. The word I knew best, the word   I hoped somehow would carry me back to the U.S.of A. © 2025 Carole Mertz 

                                                                    Photograph of James Baldwin from the Carl Van Vechten Collection Writer/designer, Pam Ward just released her poetry book Between Good Men & No Man At All , World Stage Press. She’s published two novels, Want Some Get Some , and Bad Girls Burn Slow , Kensington. A UCLA graduate, recipient of a California Arts Council Fellow, and Pushcart Poetry Nominee, Pam has published in Chiron, Calyx, Voices of Leimert Park and the LA Times and is currently writing a novel about her aunt & the Black Dahlia Murder. Contemplating Baldwin Inside Café de Flore             “For every James Baldwin, there are a whole lot of corpses, a lot of people who went under.” -“ James Baldwin Baldwin almost did it, once.  B...