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

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 was shortlisted in the Theatre Cloud 'War Poetry for Today' competition and has been nominated for a Pushcart Prize, Best of the Net and a Rhysling Award. Her poetry has appeared in many publications including: Apogee , Firewords , Capsule Stories , Gyroscope Review, and So It Goes .  Find Lynn at: https://lynnwhitepoetry.blogspot.com and https://www.facebook.com/Lynn-White-Poetry-1603675983213077/ An Alphabetical Error   We had a map,  of course we did! And the names of the streets  were clearly written in English. The names on the streets were also clearly written but in Cyrillic Greek, of course they were! This was Athens in 1966 and we were struggling  to find the Folk Museum.   Then we had a stroke of luck! We spied a grand building  with s

A dual citizen of Ireland and the states, Greg Patrick is an Irish Armenian traveler poet and the  son of a Navy man. Greg spent his youth in the South Pacific and Europe and currently resides in Galway, Krakow, and sometimes the states. He now writes and travels.  "Never forget what you are, for surely the world will not. Make it your strength. Then it can never be your weakness. Armour yourself in it, and it will never be used to hurt you.” ― George R.R. Martin, Tyrion Lannister, A Game of Thrones Call no man “stranger” who knows his own heart.  The caravan fires burn like pyres to the day’s dreams, red dreams in which one looks so intently  as to be lost in the silence of one’s own thoughts as each strays from the song played before all.  The ashen daydreams brought by each one like an offering to cast to the flames and betrayed in a  gleaming behind the depth of eyes alone. Not a reflection of the circle’s fire like starlight  microcosmed but one’s own nomad fire, as much birt

Bio: Michael Dean Clark is an author of fiction and literary nonfiction whose essays have most recently appeared in Drunk Monkeys, Angel City Review, The Other Journal, Punctuate , and The Jabberwock Review among others. He lives and writes in Southern California. Follow him on Twitter at @MDeanClark.   A Small Compensation The last time I went fishing, I was 13 and with my dad, dropping lines into a glass-topped lake reflecting the Eastern Sierras of Kings Canyon at portrait quality. Around us the air hung drenched in post-modern silence: not a car or plane or mechanical noise in earshot. The sun dipped toward the tops of the peaks to our west and the hope was fresh fish for the dinner fire Mom was building at our back country campsite.  The scene should have been an ad for the National Parks or Hamms Beer. It could have been, except almost everything about that moment was painful.  When I should have been enthralled with the gift wilderness hiking has always been for me, I was inste

  Kenneth Hickey was born in 1975 in Cobh, Co. Cork Ireland. He served in the Irish Naval Service between 1993 and 2000. His poetry and prose has been published in various literary journals in Ireland, the UK and the United States including Southword, Crannoig, THE SHOp, A New Ulster, Aesthetica Magazine and The Great American Poetry show . His writing for theatre has been performed in Ireland, the UK, New York and Paris.  He has won the Eamon Keane Full Length Play Award as well as being shortlisted for The PJ O’Connor Award and the Tony Doyle Bursary.  His work in film has been screened at the Cork and Foyle Film Festivals. He holds a BA and MA in English Literature both from University College Cork.  His debut collection ‘ The Unicycle Paradox’ was published by Revival Press in November 2021. He still resides in Cork. Metro Watching strangers kiss on the platform Of Odeon Metro Each street, each corner Of that fabled city, named for a lovelorn Trojan,  as he imagined it was in his

  Tak Erzinger is an award-winning poet. Her collection At the Foot of the Mountain, (Floricanto Press California, 2021) won the University of Indianapolis Etching Press, Whirling Prize 2021 for best nature poetry book. It was also a finalist at the Willow Run Book Awards and Eyelands Book Awards.  She is an American/Swiss poet and artist with a Colombian background. She lives on a foothill of a Swiss alp with her husband and cats. Resident Alien   They’ll believe they’ve tamed her  house broken in a quiet pasture but never leave a stray alone she’ll discover unexplored corners to rip apart, open places long drawn closed and forgotten.  At least, she’ll aim to please     memorising every trick, trying to compensate for misplaced words. Novelty, it wears off with any pet, they’ll say she’s settled now and won’t visit anymore.   Citizen: if you can talk the talk and walk the walk— you know, when in… But it’s still me: from the wild west heart beating to a different rhythm, I’m still kee

  “My work has been published in various print and online journals, including Margate Bookie, The Blue Nib, Capsule Stories, Watchung Review, Peacock Journal, Boston Accent Lit, and Italian Americana. Newtown Literary published an excerpt from my novel-in-progress. I can be found at: https://jaegerwrites13.wordpress.com and on Instagram @jaegerwrites.” Apgar Grab     Who knew that trying to get a campsite could be such an adrenaline inducing experience? But Glacier National Park is so insanely popular and camping so wildly in demand, that the process of trying to secure a place to sleep at Apgar Campground could make for a reality TV show. At Apgar there are no reservations. It’s a first come first serve campground with nearly 200 sites. Not bad. Looking at the numbers one might guess there’d be plenty of room. Guess again.     We — my spouse, my eleven-year-old son, and I —  had done plenty of first come first serve campgrounds in Michigan the year before and we never had a problem. A

                                                                     © 2022 Vincent Zepp                        the weather was the warmest since 1947 seeing the rejuvenated blue of van gogh's slapkamer my soul did a philippe petite from my mouth my nap at zandvoort with a pillow of hashish took me gate gate parasamgate beyond dreams the chicken fall at akbars indian restaurant an opened mouth kiss of fire the tulips shared their very cunnus with me you know what i mean a spiritual photoshop amsterdam vinny is a such a sweet guy i love being with him i cry when we say goodbye last night i dreamed i ran into my mom in amsterdam she had a girlfriend also named alvera with young long black hair dark flowers painted on the ends my mom’s hair was short black with an impasto of gray they seem happy and a bit hip i hugged her girlfriend thanking her for taking care of mom and being sentient enough to bring her here we all agreed wed meet later on in a coffeeshop in my day dream im dating