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

Lynn White lives in north Wales. Her poetry 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. Find Lynn at: https://lynnwhitepoetry.blogspot.com and https://www.facebook.com/Lynn-White-Poetry-1603675983213077/   The Cuban Dancers His hand was so rough, the Cuban dancer. I held it as we twirled at the after show party. Palms, backs, fingers al l so rough. I held his partner’s hands. Hers were the same rough rough,  rough.  Such delicacy  of performance with hands of hard labour. How could that be? © Lynn White (First published in The Gorko Gazette, October 2024)

Scott C. Kaestner is a Los Angeles poet, writer, dad, husband and man who knows enough to know he doesn’t know much at all. Google ‘scott kaestner poetry’ to peruse his musings and doings - maybe even buy a book. In a Jamaican Lagoon all alone on my back floating on a raft in a Jamaican lagoon magic mushroom vibes under the Caribbean sun greeting bliss with giggles knowing ecstasy is found in moments singular simple beautiful grateful high this moment engulfed with light in a Jamaican lagoon. © Scott C. Kaestner

Bruce Morton divides his time between Montana and Arizona. He is the author of Planet Mort (FootHills, 2024) and the chapbook, Olive-drab Khaki Blues , forthcoming from FootHills Publishing. His poems have appeared in numerous online and print venues. He was formerly dean at the Montana State University library. Lava Field Driving the Idaho interstate  Where dark, rich soil nourishes Potatoes destined for Mickey D’s. Memories erupt, then flow, as we Pass by lava fields. They are Frozen in time, stark, heavy, black  Rock strewn where it fell or cooled. Basalt dull, blunt, hard. Obsidian Sharp edged, smooth and glossy. Pumice, porous and brittle. And I, Ash from the father of volcanoes Settle wherever I am. Memory spews Never really dormant, vents heat. Tremors still rattle me to the core. © Bruce Morton

  Rhys Hughes was born in Wales but has lived in many different countries. He began writing at an early age and his first book, Worming the Harpy , was published in 1995. His work has been translated into twelve languages. He is currently working on a novel and new collections of prose and verse. Until I visited the country, I assumed that Portugal was a Mediterranean land lapped by a gentle sea. The truth, of course, is that its coastline is wholly Atlantic and bashed rather than caressed. My first trip there changed certain of my perspectives in various ways on sundry matters, including custard tarts, dried cod and the wisdom of paving streets with flat stone fragments in a mosaic pattern (pretty but also more slippery in the rain). Primarily, however, I won a respect for the sea that was quite different to the respect I already had inside me for that seemingly limitless expanse of blue. For the first time in my life I became aware that swimming in the sea on a perfectly fine day...