by Charlotte Heotis, edited by Peter Heotis, 2022

Life is a tapestry

Woven with many threads

Light and bright

Dark and white

Of silk and knobby tweed

What every fills the need

Each weft and warp

Adds to the scene

Revealing the weaver’s theme.

by Anne Kelly-Edmunds, 2022

Even as multi-hued leaves release

         twirl toward earth

two bright blue

      morning glories bloom

open to October’s cool light

         protectively cup

yellow throats rich with songs

       welcoming this day

by Adam D. Fisher, 2022

Fred, whose car broke down,

didn’t have money to fix it

and lost his minimum wage job

because he couldn’t get to work.

Then, because he couldn’t

pay his rent, he was evicted

from his basement apartment.

Now he lives in the woods

off Rogers Road in a spot

among the bushes so he can’t

be seen even in winter.

He’s made a bed of old quilts

he found in a dumpster;

keeps a sharp knife under

his pillow just in case.

He collects bottles to make

a few dollars, stole a bike

he uses to get around

and ask for work,

eats in soup kitchens,

washes in their bathrooms.

Finally he got a job

as a night cleaner in an office.

He washes the floor,

empties baskets and cleans

the bathrooms.

At least it is warm.

Soon, he’ll save enough

to rent a basement apartment

but he won’t get a car—

won’t take a chance

on unexpected bills.

by Charlotte Heotis, edited by Peter Heotis, 2022

It was not north nor South

Neither east nor West

T’was where they met

This is a place of rest

It was not black nor white

Nor any shade in between

It was a blend of all

Just, one to be seen

It was there I met my enemy

I saw him eye to eye

We speak of keth and kin

Realized he like me

Hold all so dear

It was better to be friends.

We vowed right here and now

No more shall be war

That nothing here was his or mine

but all upon the earth was Thine.

So at a crossroads

Where all do meet

The cross is born

On all men’s feet

by Adam D. Fisher, 2022

Trying to keep

awake on the LIE

while going 70,

I blink, turn up the radio

lick my fingers to wet

my eyelids, catch

myself weaving

into other

lanes,

feel like a kid trying

to color

in the lines except

if I go over these lines,

I will get killed.

by Charlotte Heotis, edited by Peter Heotis, 2022

Those who fish for trout

Go where beauty is

Where air is incense, where

No poison strains.

Congenial friends may share

These lonely streams,

But they must stay past bend

Or waterfall.

Testing oneself is best

When done alone.

We try to learn the secrets

Of the stream

How currents run , what drifts

In quiet depths

0r sweeps around the stones

to tempt a fish;

what artifice can stir

the same desire

with feathers and some fur

a barb within

A trout is never trusting

We learn by using

Simple, ancient gear,

The history of an art-

And we learn patience, too,

Sometimes the hardest part.

The solitude,

Relief from care,

Frustrating doubt

About our angling skills-

These stay with those who fish for trout

by Anne Kelly-Edmunds, 2022

Her golden-petaled crown

surrounds a burnt-sienna center

seeded with possibilities.