Mike Maggio

DREAM FALLING


I’m falling furiously fast

and yet in slow motion

down 
	down 
		down 

out of the highest heavens

far above the clouds
		
		infinitely fast 
			
			and yet timelessly present

(like it might well have been for

those desperate World Trade Center 

jumpers who tumbled

and flew without wings

to their deaths)

But for me it was life, not death

that ensued since I

landed so softly in long lush grass

where I rolled 
	
		& rolled 
	
			& rolled

in ecstatic joy

All around me was green

		—the color of love—

She’s dying I heard a voice say

No said another voice

She just fell off her bike 

YES I responded as I woke up

YES.  YES   YES
 
Copyright 2024 by Joan Dobbie

Joan Dobbie teaches Hatha Yoga and Meditation at the University of Oregon, from which she also has an MFA in Creative Writing. She is presently president of the Emerald Literary Guild (A.K.A. Lane Literary Guild) based in Eugene, and co-hosts the WINDFALL Reading Series at the Downtown Eugene Public Library. Her poetry website is: joanspoetry.blogspot.com.

30 for 30 is sponsored by Potomac Review

Family Artsy Empire 

Tranquil Heavenly blue skies
Twinkling sparkling celestial stars.
Let’s get on with spectacular show, 
  something for everyone.
Lights, camera action!
Everyone in talented family is happy as can be.
Hearts filled with happiness and phenomenal glee.
Family Artsy Empire is formed by God given talents 
  and creative abilities.
Matriarch is Empress of Empire, dressed in glamorous 
  violet gown, trimmed in various precious gems.
Time to celebrate years of work.  Time to celebrate 
  good times. Time to celebrate God given talents.
Empress is ecstatic to be acknowledged for written 
  words of international classical song to be played all 
  over the world to bring attention to Hunger.
Brother stands proud under handmade exotic wood 
  stained glass shaded floor lamp with matching room 
  divider.
Melodies belting from his handmade  custom cello.
Wooden Works, thrives.
Sister’s International Irie Artistry of vibrant original 
  paintings flourished atmosphere.  From DMV, to 
  Jackson Square to cities all over world.
We run to the Hollywood Walk of Fame and kneel 
  before individual Stars carrying each of our names.

Copyright 2024 by Sylvia “Ladi Di” Beverly 

Sylvia Dianne Beverly, aka Ladi Di is an internationally recognized poet. Ladi Di is also called “Love Poet”. The late Dr. Maya Angelou is her hero. She is the proud Matriarch of her family. Celebrating Black History 2018, she and her family received posthumously for her Dad, a “Congressional Gold Medal” from the United States Marines.  She is a Poet of Excellence in Prince Georges County 2020 and Literary Leader in Prince George’s County 2022/23. Ladi Di’s upcoming book “A Kiss of Curiosity” and a classical CD, “Pitch In” are scheduled to be released May 2024. Poetry is her passion. you can reach her at syladydi@comcast.net, and on Instagram @lovepoet13

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I Dreamed of Home…

dirt road of rutted red clay leading past overgrown 
fields, tobacco barn, beyond trees posted, “No Trespassing.”

My dream of home so real: red brick, white columns, wide porch
we sat on in profligate thunderstorms, sky dark, emptying,
the only light orange glow from Mom’s Marlboro.

In my dream, night me roams sparse rooms, lapping 
circle layout, walking, no, flowing from one part
to the next, one fleet-footed step ahead of whatever’s in pursuit.

I wind up in the basement, pilgrimage of my 
subconscious among overstuffed boxes, old appliances, 
forgotten toys, Mom’s stamp collection, my banana seat bike,

vast unfinished space, like me.

Then a new house: a friend’s,
low-slung, adobe, stucco – cool rooms, quiet spaces –
I told them, “It’s changed! This isn’t your house.”

No response, just a smile, I might like 
this Southwestern style home if I can let go of the other – 
hush anxiety, accept a different version of a for-now bodily home, 

while night me travels, free of the corporeal:

lighter than one could ever feel in a body,
expanding, rising up – out into the atmosphere …
beyond, transcendent, away. 

Copyright 2024 by Kathy Cable Smaltz

Kathy Cable Smaltz’s work has been published in numerous journals, and she has one collection of poetry, Pieces. From 2016-2018 she served as Prince William County’s Poet Laureate and has been an educator for 29 years. A wife and mother of four, she and her family reside in Nokesville, VA. 

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Shapeshifting Nightmare

nightmare
apple tree freed
walking toward me
 
I rest at its trunk,
watch it teeter, push it back 
with hidden strength

nightmare
transforming heads
eyed to eyeless
 
transforming body
winged to wingless
will I see or will I fly?

nightmare 
cat in the microwave
hairless but alive.

am I the cat
alive 
and trapped?

nightmare
I am the tree
in a snowy forest

black pickup
barrels towards me
I am the driver

Copyright 2024 by Cathy Hailey 

Cathy Hailey teaches in Johns Hopkins University’s online MA in Teaching Writing program. She is Northern Region Vice President and Student Contest Chair of The Poetry Society of Virginia and organizes In the Company of Laureates. Her chapbook, I’d Rather Be a Hyacinth, was published by Finishing Line Press.

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Last night I dreamt of:

A New York City apartment
Unfinished with doors and window panes propped open
        and nails strewn about
We were roommates, once again like we 
        were in college
So much hope to get the apartment done 
        but it remained unfinished…

A car dealer, selling me a car
    He needed to reach a quota
but I never bought
     The dealer would be shut down if not 
enough cars were sold
       Gotta get that quota in…

A ride from I’m not sure where
But we were to be taken out of there
     In an open top bus
         And the rest is just a blur
As my brain tries to retrace my steps
                   of a dream
                           wafting away
                                    as I awaken
                                        to consciousness 
                                             and the possibilities 
                                                     of a new day

Copyright 2024 by Madeleine “Kitty” Templeton

Madeleine “Kitty” Templeton is a musician/ author/ poet in the Washington DC community. She was a former chair of the Poets on the Green Line, and author of the book Understanding Socialism. Kitty has 3 musical albums including Soul Coffee, Spirit in the Snow, and The Music in Me. Now she is currently writing Understanding the Dangers of Socialism for Students and hopes to publish. Her website is: www.AuntKittysCorner.com

30 for 30 is sponsored by Potomac Review

A walk with you, father							

There’s spirituality in a walk with you, father.

Our steady pace on city sidewalks gives way 
to a leisurely stroll on a far country lane.

Our strides match in tempo over pebbles 
dug in dirt, and we breathe in the sweet scent 
of honeysuckle stirring along hedgerows.

Years fall away as memories of my childhood
greet us in the tinkle of an ice cream truck 
ahead, with its promise of a summer treat.

Only people can make dreams come true 
you say, as you turn to look into my eyes.

A ladybug alights on the back of my hand.
We laugh and pause to watch her crawl
toward my thumb.

Didn’t her house catch on fire and her children 
were left alone? Fly away home ladybug!

Don’t you remember you were the magician 
and I the ballerina you brought to life 
out of the packing box in the closet?

How larger-than-life you stood in your blue cape 
and wizard’s wand mom sewed for us that day!

Being with you father is like attending church, 
in the same mysterious way my soul 
is strengthened for the daily routine of living.

We call out a greeting to a passerby,
and I bend down to tie my shoelace 
and finger a late blooming crocus.

You continue on before you realize I’m 
not coming. I straighten and let go of the bulb. 
The morning dew gently rolls off my thumb.

After all, it was part of my dream about you 
last night, and I follow in your footsteps.

Copyright 2024 by Liz Fortini

Liz Fortini has been reading poetry and prose for many years. In addition to translating poems of French and Italian poets into English, Liz also submits her poetry to Havik: The Las Positas College Journal of Arts & Literature. She lives in Northern California with her husband Ron, and their dog Jax. Liz is a lover of nature.

30 for 30 is sponsored by Potomac Review

Out of This Earth


There’s a narrow path along the railroad tracks
I follow to a small station.  I ask the stationmaster,
who looks like Carl Jung, what time the train 
for Duluth leaves.  He strokes his white mustache 

and ponders.  The train departs at twelve, he says.
I’m not sure if he means noon or midnight.
It’s now 3:30.  You could take the big bus to Duluth, 
he says, but you’d have to have a certificate 

stating you’re in good health.  I see my father-in-law, 
who’s a surgeon, on a bench reading a newspaper.  
He doesn’t seem to have heard the stationmaster.
I hear a loud blast and rush out to the platform.  

Some boys are shooting a shotgun at the pigeons.
The stationmaster comes out and yells.
Either he or I throw a rock at the stupid boys.
The rock ignites the dry grass.  Or did the boys 

do it?  They flee the flames, and so do I.
I enter a shack and arrange old boards
against the open slats so the boys can’t see me.  
In the back wall, there’s a small wooden door,
 
about three feet by three feet.  It’s your turn, 
says the woman dressed as a nurse.  She’s opened 
the small door and waits for me to enter 
the narrow shaft.  I refuse, I tell her, to crawl in.  

I’m now inside the shaft, tearing at the loose 
earth, digging and worming my way up.  I surface 
in a graveyard, gasping for breath.  On the gravestones, 
I see no names, no dates, only the last words the dead
 
leave us.  The stone beside me reads: Out of This Earth.



Copyright 2024 by John Bradley

John Bradley’s most recent book of poetry is Dear Morpheus, The Glue That Is You (Dos Madres Press).  A frequent reviewer for Rain Taxi, he is currently a poetry editor for Cider Press Review.

30 for 30 is sponsored by Potomac Review

Perchance to Dream

After reading the news, I dreamt of destruction
as if I’d been there.  Nothing is as it should be.
For instance, a country claimed to investigate itself
with pious transparency in the fog of war.
Using precision ammunition made in factories,
men killed aid workers with unerring accuracy.
But the country said there must be some mistake –
 
in war it’s too hard to know when we’re awake.
Besides, people die from natural causes,
like the ones sheltering in that hospital.
But this must be something I dreamed,
before the day unfolded like a tablecloth
to cover the rubble, the amputated limbs,
and the $18 billion in F-15 fighter jets.

Only drama without movement, 
said Simone Weil, is transcendent.
Nothing is as it should be; it must be a fake,
this dream, from the ivory gate in Homer's epic
and just not to be trusted, or else I’m complicit,
for I’d rather contemplate the solar eclipse
and dream of the coming invasion of cicadas.   

Copyright 2024 Bonnie Naradzay

Bonnie Naradzay’s manuscript will be published later this year by Slant Books.  Three times nominated for the Pushcart Prize, she leads weekly poetry sessions at a day shelter and also at a retirement center, all in Washington DC. Her poems have appeared in AGNI, New Letters, RHINO, Kenyon Review, Tampa Review, EPOCH, and other places. In 2010 she was awarded the University of New Orleans Poetry Prize – a month’s stay in the Dolomites, in Northern Italy – in the castle of Ezra Pound’s daughter, Mary.  Her web site is www.bonnienaradzay.com

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nocturne en plein air

islanded by nightfall, 
she forages for questions without answers 
under a canopy embroidered in stars,
a balsamic moon lanterns her 
silhouette's steps along winding footpaths 
blanketed in evergreen and spruce..

so careful not to leave a trail of crumbs 
this time for animals, two or four 
legged, she shrouds her hollow eyes
with a hood in sweatshirt grey, 
a unisex alternative to classic fleece, 
a red herring for the pack lurking, 
still lying in wait, ready to huff and puff 
and blow their privilege down on her.

when the ghost butterflies swarm, 
forming a halo above the sleepwalker, 
flickers of light threaten her anonymity 
from the bandwagon of bards with fangs
for keystrokes, wholly intent on eclipsing 
her persona, a portrait of truth 
with more tall tales, fables, and lies.

Copyright 2024 by Michele Evans

Michele Evans, a fifth-generation Washingtonian (D.C.), is a writer, high school English teacher, and adviser for her school’s literary magazine. Despite always wearing the color black, she is fond of blueberries, blue hydrangeas, blues musicians, and Blue Mountain coffee. purl, her debut collection of poetry, is forthcoming from Finishing Line Press in 2025. You can find her at awordsmithie.com or @awordsmithie on Instagram.

30 for 30 is sponsored by Potomac Review