Issue 1
Gossamer Arts
Fall 2024
River Wing by Miranda Saake
Linda Crate
​​Bees Recognize Faces
bees recognize faces
five little
honey bees
got trapped in my
apartment,
couldn’t understand
the concept of
a window;
kept trying to fly through
glass—
so one by one i gently picked
them up by their wings,
and as i released them outside
they realized i was helping them;
four of them immediately turned around
to look at my face—
but the fifth was angry and indignant
until i put her on a dandelion,
and she realized i wasn’t harming her;
then she, too, turned around to look
at my face—
i later learned bees recognize faces.
​
​
​
Linda M. Crate (she/her) is a Pennsylvanian writer whose poetry, short stories, articles, and reviews have been published in a myriad of magazines both online and in print. She has twelve published chapbooks: "A Mermaid Crashing Into Dawn" (Fowlpox Press - June 2013), "Less Than A Man" (The Camel Saloon - January 2014), "If Tomorrow Never Comes" (Scars Publications, August 2016), "My Wings Were Made to Fly" (Flutter Press, September 2017), "splintered with terror" (Scars Publications, January 2018), "More Than Bone Music" (Clare Songbirds Publishing House, March 2019), "the samurai" (Yellow Arrowing Publishing, October 2020), "Follow the Black Raven" (Alien Buddha Publishing, July 2021), "Unleashing the Archers" (Guerilla Genesis Press, August 2021), "Hecate's Child" (Alien Buddha Publishing, November 2021) "fat & pretty" (Dancing Girl Press, June 2022), and "Searching Stained Glass Windows For An Answer" (Alien Buddha Publishing, December 2022). Linda has four full length poetry collections and a photography collection book. Linda is also the author of the novellas "Mates" (Alien Buddha Publishing, March 2022), "Managing Magic" (Alien Buddha Press, September 2022), and "The Queen's Son" (Alien Buddha Publishing, December 2023). Her first short story collection "King Quinlin" (Alien Buddha Publishing, March 2024) was published this spring. Her debut haiku collection in these ancient veins was published quite recently (Alien Buddha Publishing, May 2024).​
​
Socials:
https://www.facebook.com/Linda-M-Crate-129813357119547/
Daniel Lockeridge
Ruling Roots
Roots lay
like the hundreds
of bones
in my feet.
Roots name
my skin
a flower,
in the name
of the wind.
Roots tame
the crown
of my tiptoes;
they know
they’re not free
anywhere but here,
where streams run
beneath the arches
like the child
seen through the window
of my petal chest.
Before I know the type
of petal that I am
—
the type of flower
that multiplies
my spirited selves
till they are spread
across myriad continents
—
the roots lay
on my feet,
and a part of me
breaks through
the branches,
the petals,
the trembles.
Trembles,
trembles
the roots,
and I slow
to a tiptoe
void of the weight
of an imaginary
crown.
​Daniel Lockeridge is a thirty-year-old Australian who has self-published a series of poetry consisting of three collections. He has poetry and prose publications in Gasher Press, The Hemlock, Literary Revelations, Jacaranda Journal, Quillkeepers Press, Querencia Press, Wingless Dreamer and Reverie Magazine, among others. He shares his poems on Instagram: @danlovepoetry.
Miranda Saake
Cissus Quandrangularis
The bonesetter knows
every fault line. If he sets
his eyes on you, the map
of your body quickly
turns blue and betrays
your secrets. He’s not interested
in what you hide
under the floorboards
or your cruelty to animals.
What he sees is your felt
fury lying in wait. He’s logged
enough years treating
indigestion, worms,
hemorrhoids, gout. It
surprises him how few
broken bones need
repair. He prefers
slow bleeding.
We don’t choose
our gifts.
When you’ve seen so many
bodies crumple and fold, immortality
loses its sheen. People beg
for your potions.
Look closer if you
can manage.
Dogs whine
when he passes;
children scowl. The butcher’s
wife sees him turn
a corner, and hovers
closer to her
Blade.
Miranda Saake is a writer, teacher, and mother from Northern California. She began writing as a child, and has never stopped. Her work is deeply inspired by mythology, tarot, memory, rage, sex, love, and the unending beauty of this more than human world.
Madi Blue
Madi blue (they/she) is a mother, educator, emerging storyteller, and multimodal artist from New Brunswick, Canada. They create art in a variety of mixed mediums including writing and visual arts. Blue is endlessly inspired and guided by the natural world. Much of their current work is reflective of their worldview and the challenges they experienced as a misunderstood autistic child. Blue is currently living with chronic illness and their artwork is described as necessary for both healing and survival.
Following Unkindness
Oliver Carmichael
Volvere
after Alison Watts oil on canvas,‘Volvere’
​
Wintery blues chill the shadows.
Like any artist’s model, you rise.
Something beautiful left by your leaving:
the white current of a sail
billowing with love and its distances.
All afternoon we have spoken
the language of fabric:
grip, gather, tide, drift; curtains
gasping for air;
a wedding dress grasped
or tucked at the waist.
Now, by the window, you are still
and yet so moving.
To look is to go back and forth.
I am plunged down
and tossed up,
no rope.
In the snare of my ribs
a cello sounding
like the belly of the ocean.a
Oliver Carmichael was born and raised in County Durham, England. He studied English Literature and Creative Writing at Lancaster University. He was recently long listed for the Winchester Poetry Prize and the Aurora Prize for Writing. He is the recipient of the Michael Donaghy Award which supports a poet to attend the first Arvon Advanced Writing Programme.
Kenneth Pobo
Door
A saw shapes it into something
it doesn’t want to be. The tree
it comes from hears rumors
of trunks that become planks,
get loaded onto trucks and
driven away, the forest
now someone else’s home.
This morning we stand by
our door looking for the
Amazon truck. I ordered
20 tulip bulbs. We touch it,
creaky from rusted hinges.
Maybe everything is holy
or at least capable
of dreaming,
even a door,
opening to light—
and darkness.
Kenneth Pobo (he/him) is the author of twenty-one chapbooks and nine full-length collections. Recent books include "Bend of Quiet" (Blue Light Press), "Loplop in a Red City" (Circling Rivers) and "Lilac And Sawdust" (Meadowlark Press). Forthcoming from Fernwood Press is a book of poems called "At The Window, Silence." His work has appeared in North Dakota Quarterly, South Florida Poetry Journal, Amsterdam Quarterly, Nimrod, Mudfish, Hawaii Review, and elsewhere.
John Grey
The Old Woman in the Bar
“Just like that,” the old woman said,
imitating, with her right hand,
a sword blade coming down hard on her chest.
“One day, two breasts.
The next day, none.
Just a phony bra.
Pretend shape.
But what’s it matter.
I’m almost 87.
My purpose now is not
to look at myself in the mirror
but to keep on living
for as long as it suits me.”
She was up at the bar,
sipping on a cocktail,
and chatting to whoever would listen.
Men felt sorry for her.
Women worried that her fate
could be theirs.
The bar tender took orders,
filled glasses,
scooped up the money from the counter.
In a parable,
he would be the turning earth.
John Grey is an Australian poet and US resident, recently published in New World Writing, North Dakota Quarterly and Tenth Muse. Latest books, "Between Two Fires", "Covert", and "Memory Outside The Head" are available through Amazon. Look for his upcoming works in Haight-Ashbury Literary Journal, Birmingham Arts Journal, La Presa, and Shot Glass Journal.
On the Coast Highway
It is good to drive north
on the coast highway
with cliffs rising up
on our right
and dropping down
to the ocean on our left,
knowing that, if I were
to lean over and kiss you,
I could lose control
of the wheel
and we’d either
crash into a rocky wall
or fly over the edge
and into the waters below.
I learn a lot driving north
on the coast highway.
For example - love has its limitations.
Very few but often deadly.
Michelle Lynch
No Atmosphere
She drifts through the house
on currents accessible only
to the dead
and discarded birthday balloons
Body with no atmosphere
see-through skin blending
neatly into hardwood scuffs
In the den/still the cheater’s chair
she pauses a moment to watch
John Wayne movie on tv
two little girls twirling his mane
round and round tiny, pink sponges
her once upon a world caught in a
sliver of sun and dust/Lost
she floats in to sit on his lap
falls
right
through
Michelle Lynch is an educator, writer, and photographer in the metro NYC area. She holds an MFA in Creative Writing from Lesley University and has had her poems published in kerning l a space for words, Heron Tree Review, Iron Horse Literary Review, Memoryhouse Magazine, San Pedro River Review, NonBinary Review, Quarterly Journal, Lunch Ticket, Postcards Prose and Poems, among other lovely places. She is enamored of kindness, trees, and rivers.
Horchata Heart
In my dream you are holding
a parsnip-colored, heart-shaped
tuber with an aortic center root.
Arms outstretched, you call it
horchata over and over until morning.
Horchata googled means rice drink
in Spanish, not heart in a lost language.
I am not, after all, being sent messages
in my sleep. I am not being called on
to interpret tongues.
False heart floating on the fault
line of last dream’s earthquakes, sailing
the seam where oceans meet, but do not
mix – I try forging these approximations
into something to give weight to your
side of the bed.
Katherine Dering
My Loves
Like Lydia by Wickham
I was swept up by one.
Left stranded
by the incoming tide,
tossed heels-head-legs-arms
over and over by him.
In a tale male-written,
Juliet was only sleeping.
Even many women writers
fall into the trap.
We’re to believe Heathcliff
really loved Cathy
and she, he
(although she didn’t know it.)
Love too late discovered.
Left, the women were,
by rash men
who despaired too soon.
Loving, they were loved,
despite appearances to the contrary
and well, reality.
Jane knew, though,
Jane wished, but knew.
The seemingly inconstant love—
the unsure love—in real life,
seldom is found to have
a heart of gold.
Katherine Flannery Dering writes poetry and prose and lives in New York State. She has published a mixed-genre memoir, "Shot in the Head, a Sister’s Memoir a Brother’s Struggle" (Bridgeross) about caring for her mentally ill brother. Her poetry chapbook, "Aftermath," was published by Finishing Line Press. Her essays and poetry have appeared in many print and online journals.
She holds an MFA from Manhattanville University. Her website is www.katherineflannerydering.com, and she is on Facebook as Katherine Flannery Dering, author.
Lynn Fanok
Borders
A dirt road ran like a secret
between us and the weeds.
Our homes on the edge of town,
low-lying land, a river.
Floods.
Talk of paving the dirt road.
Floods.
Talk of building more homes
beyond.
Floods.
The dirt road, the land untouched,
Untamed.
Lynn Fanok is the author of the poetry collection, "Bread and Fumes" (2021). Her work has appeared in Painted Bride Quarterly, Schuylkill Valley Journal, Red Wolf Journal, Underwood Press, Tiny Seed
Journal, as well as the anthology, "Carry us to the Next Well" (2021). Lynn leads a monthly poetry series at an independent bookshop in Bucks County, Pennsylvania. Visit lynnfanok.weebly.com.
Ben Nardolilli
Antemeridian Overcast
The broken veins of moonlight crack
Down through the purple clouds
Around them, the nocturnal spaces
Are no longer dark and pulsate freely
Whatever shadows remain diagnose
A heartbeat in this shred of midnight
Ben Nardolilli is an MFA candidate at Long Island University. His work has appeared in Perigee Magazine, Door Is a Jar, The Delmarva Review, Red Fez, The Oklahoma Review, Quail Bell Magazine, and Slab. Follow his publishing journey at mirrorsponge.blogspot.com.
Billy Greene
Tectonics
Just a kiss at the bus stop
unfurls into must regret. & must I regret
churning my neck to turn back
to last year, pass you a note,
promising resolution?
After morning, I wax
into my own day with an earthquake —
clouds grace the carnal summits
& spires of blue pines
where cardinals, too, chirp;
& spines of young hikers all arrow
to that unobscured sun.
The air is chance.
See those windows of our town:
just out-of-sight enough
to shed their geometry
& surrender to that colossal contour of home.
As to breathe, I pat my pockets
& scan for your last light
or your caravan rumbling down
the interstate —
freckles’ surge upon a premeditated
laughter. Unrazed, I cackle —
I forgot to wear my good boots.
Billy Greene is a writer and musician based in Wisconsin. Their work oscillates across the unfixed aspects of travel, gender, and nature. They currently pursue English and Gender Studies at Lawrence University and the University of Auckland.
Honeymoon
Heathrow, Terminal 2
I measure
old couples in airports
bickering in billions &
hours early —
Early hours
flickering — you doubt
another night, which
I treasure —
I measure
our billions —
You treasure
my bickering —
James Milstead
Some Distant Sky
Hey, that’s some distant sky
And some left-alone fog
For the whistles we blew
And the summer’s torture.
James Milstead is a student studying English and Linguistics at the University of Texas at Arlington. He is the organizer of a poetry club at the university aimed at connecting the poets and poetry-lovers among the student population. In his free time, he enjoys playing guitar, learning about other languages, and of course, reading and writing. He lives in Forney, TX, with his family and two cats, Simo and Kitina.
Joy Laczny
Joy Laczny, who shares her work as Joy_laroid on Instagram, is a Polaroid documentarian who captures the beauty of everyday life through the unique lens of instant photography. Her work blends spontaneity with storytelling, celebrating the charm and nostalgia of Polaroid film.
Sun Kissed Memories
Immanuel A. Garcia
The Kitchen Floor Knows Me
I grew up on stilts
way above the truth I was told in person.
My hands can vouch for that.
Half a second of freefall
in the company of fellow life living breathers
can certainly jumpstart a slow morning deserving of more.
I wish you knew how smooth you make me feel
and how you make my nights scatter
like strangers in elevators.
Here, the kitchen floor knows my features.
Just slightly better than you did.
It knows how I love things to remain
just right.
French toast burns
Red velvet stains
the spilling of milk, guts, and ambition.
This is where I raised myself.
I, the melody that bounces off the scattered table scraps
you, the narrowed pen.
You allow me to find myself on scratch paper
and weathered marble tiles.
If you find me wandering the corridors of my head
two-stepping crevices collecting shotty excuses to clean up my fronted acts
try humming along with the very nonsense that makes me smile
as if my exit was a yellow light in need of a momentary thrill.
Trust in the fact that I will only ever teach the handle to this door how to dance in place.
Immanuel A. Garcia is a Queer & Hispanic writer from McAllen, TX. He is an abstract poet, part-time playwright, full-time learner, and professionally awestruck storyteller. Immanuel's storytelling lends itself to the process of dismantling dividers and ballooning open-minded acceptance. His work attempts to champion the marginalized and give power back to the oppressed in a creative manner. Immanuel's projects have been published in the University of North Texas’ North Texas Review, Otherwise Engaged Literature & Arts Journal, with forthcoming work in Yellow Dog Poet Society.
Liz Jakimow
Liz Jakimow is a poet and photographer who lives in the beautiful valley of Araluen in Australia, where she is inspired by the mountains and nature that surround her. After someone she loved passed away, Liz set herself the task of taking one photo everyday. At the same time, she was also expressing a lot of her grief through poetry. The photos and poems from this initial three-month grieving period came together in an exhibition and book titled "A Journey With Grief: Exploring Loss Through Photography and Poetry.
Wonder
Pelican in Flight
Rylee Foreman
Kitchen Poem
The poem asks of me,
“Put the dishes down,
Put everything down
to write these words.
Sit down on the kitchen floor,
beside the rumpled cloth,
under the quiet light
where we made dinner.”
Though my body is here
on this soft, glowing night,
I am cracking open
on a cliffside somewhere-
my soul hungry for thunder.
My arms are thrown wide;
the breaking sea—a door,
pours from my chest.
My heart—a bird,
shrieking wildly.
Rylee was born in Fairbanks, Alaska and moved to the solitude of the Green Springs of Ashland, Oregon when she was five where she spent her childhood and has lived in the Rogue Valley since. For many years Rylee has been a stay-at-home mother to her four children. Now she is also a practicing Birth Doula and a licensed Massage Therapist. Rylee has found a voice through the medium of writing and poetry since her middle school days. She aspires to always be an open vessel for the spirit of art this way and she hopes to compile her work into a collection of poems one day. She enjoys expanding her knowledge of psychology, rowing her cataraft on white water, playing the harp, and traveling and spending time with her sweetheart and her children.
Romy Morreo
The Work of Childhood
we sing together about pink slugs
invent funny walks
by the windows
sword fight with clothes airers
count down let’s race
when you’re ready, you can plant
the farm and feed the hippos if you know
what they like
potatoes
you think, and you know best
you’re the parent, after all
these eggs aren’t for eating
their square shells are cracking
watch
you build a glass house
on dirt foundations to incubate
everything
before you forget
and choose instead to shoot me in the stomach.
Romy Morreo (she/they) completed her MA Creative Writing at the University of Chichester. Her poetry has appeared or is forthcoming in publications including Transients Magazine, Dark Poets Club, and Cosmic Daffodil, and she received an Honorable Mention for the Dark Poets Prize 2024. She also has numerous published short stories and pieces of microfiction. She lives in the UK and can be found on Instagram: @romymorreo
