Wednesday, February 6, 2019



The conclusion of the matter
Was a question of perception
It was never quite decided
Who was wrong
As we filter through the wreckage
There’s a pile of old excuses
As if lyrics from
An old familiar song
To replay a thousand questions
As we justify the reasons
Anyone can see the end result
Was right
For the truth remains a constant
Through a fog of indecision
Like a beacon to illuminate
The night
As we struggle with the construct
Of a book of explanations
To make sense of past mistakes
We both have made
There is nothing left to publish
But a manuscript of edits
Missing most of what
We truly want to say
So we have this little story
Like a chapter in a novel
Or a history condensed
Into a line
It’s the sum of our neglecting
That gives pause to our reflecting
As we tell ourselves
We both are doing fine
TM DiSarro
©2019 TM DiSarro/MindScapes Publishing

BIO: Writing is my passion and poetry occupies a significant block of my creative energy. When the time is favorable, I plan to publish a collection of poems and short stories, but until that time follow me on: Instagram@tmdisarro


“Labyrinth” by Kyle M. Salazar

Lost tendrils',
Cataclysmic whisper.
Death's eventual,
Icy air grows crisper.
Beneath a starry eternity,
Every path in this labyrinth.
Toward the only certainty,
Till eventually we rest.
Beyond the last moon's kiss,
There is nothing to be done.
Watch branches exist,
Stretching to what sun?
Leaves have retreated,
This bleakness feels surreal.
Like so many shattered pieces,
In these shadows, defeated;
Destiny does not come,
It is honed skills,
So many setting suns.
To truly be fulfilled,
There is work to be done.
You have to step out of the way,
Allow yourself to be someone,
That could be an entirely new page...
In a book larger than ourselves.
Set free from mortal cage,
So deeper we may delve.
Finding a purpose and a cause,
That exudes from within.
Finding time for pause,
To totally transcend.
May you find your passion,
The reason you are here.
Avoid the distractions,
Mission adhere.
Sometimes the purpose is not ours,
But simply to inspire.
Even wilted flowers,
Can start a remarkable fire.


BIO: Kyle M. Salazar.  I was born in Albuquerque, New Mexico and moved around a lot growing up. I decided to make the most of it; and made friends with different groups of people whenever we moved. I was a nerd, a skater, a jock, and even hung out on "smokers corner"(even though I didn't smoke). I wanted to see things from every perspective. I dropped out in the 10th grade; and have been working since I was 15. I received my GED, with double honors, in 2006, and went on to study at San Juan College in Farmington, New Mexico.

I am passionate about the art of poetry; the way you can paint a picture with your words. I have a strong appreciation for art, antiques, collectibles, and antiquarian books. I could have done anything. I chose a more difficult path. I suppose I never lost the desire to see things from all perspectives. I aspire to write. I am happiest when I can articulate and convey raw emotion, or be able to invoke them in another through written word.

Peter Magliocco

Plight of the Homeless Words

by Peter Magliocco

To hear what words say in the ear of the beholder
inspires an ongoing dialogue with something
tied to the existence of beginnings.
I posed as the homeless derelict once:
shouting epithets into the ears of passers-by
who refused my panhandling entreaties
with a deafness of the damned,

Hearing no melodies or worthy sermon
from lips of a ruddy transient
loose on the streets of Vegas where
he tried to disembowel time,
to burst forth sounds of disenthralled agony
as mothers & children, unaware, shuttled by
on their snacking-or-sipping ways.

In tourist fashion they abhorred my intrusions
of a brutalizing, verbal onslaught,
disdaining my ranting denunciations
dissolving into mere word-puddles only
a stray dog licked curiously, barking finally
at the vicious vowels its fangs lacerated
into silence.


The Liquid Horizon

by Peter Magliocco

No more is solace a mind game
for those who feel they truly feel
at the expense of others,
the way some would share grief being
trapped inside the collodion photos of Sally Mann.
With no exit from the Southern climate
the photographer sees & captures a revenant eyeful
of textures from an irrefutable history
that is past & present images of the earth,
giving way to a hallowed landscape
of eternity within the everyday fact
of an almost unbearable mundaneness.
I was pinioned inside her picture of reality
more real than any vision could possibly perceive,
watching the eyes of a dreamer torn out
so that fantasy was something only the mad saw
creeping from the mourning dove’s dying spirit.
There remains a photo of time itself caught
in the spirit trap of our orb’s desire,
what flashes slowly across the dawn’s horizon
when you ultimately see something akin
to an emotion of awe crystalized,
for the first time, in a vision no one’s tears
can keep you from ever seeing again.


Not the One, But Still

by Peter Magliocco

You are not the one who brings me grief
but the smallest figment instead
my blinking eye sees as the mote’s revenge:
or the insect on the lip of time
reminding me of its evanescence.

Or that bend of the road convincing me
there’s no direction home if I’m lost
to the destination my nature takes
(& my nature, what is it?) for
any real human being, tragic or good,

in its perverse seasons of becoming:
how each death of springtime rattles
when winter eventually approaches to
singe with frozen heat a missing summer,
& the glitter of something gone

to become my realness, my other grief.
You are not the one: but still
Jigsaw gnaws at my baring leg
with his saw’s artful blade,
cutting me from the puzzle.


BIO: --Peter Magliocco writes from Las Vegas, Nevada, where he’s been active in the small press for several years as editor, writer, and artist. He has poetry in The Literary Yard, The Pangolin Review, Midnight Lane Boutique, Ariel Chart, Pulp Poets Press, and has been nominated several times for the Pushcart Prize and Best of the Net.

Friday, February 1, 2019

Black Steed

"Black Steed" by Lea Boyd

In a cloud of dust 
He slid to a stop
Nostrils flared
Snorts of steam
Pawing the earth
Thundering hooves
Demanding attention
My ride has arrived
Black as the night
Eyes full of fire
On his back I climbed
As he bolted
I awoke from a dream
Bus hit a pothole
It was no
Black steed...


Bio: I am A Murky Mind, just a small town girl out to see the world. I have 2 books published of dark verse and poetry, working on short stories. You can find me on Facebook, Instagram, Twitter and some other places. Books are available on Amazon, Kindle and where ever books are sold. If they don't have it, ask them to get it. Thank you, you can reach me at or social media.