Weekly Write: “through the cracks” by Kat Heatherington

through the cracks

once on impulse, i planted a hollyhock seed
in a crack between flagstones
near the spigot, where the swamp cooler
dripped erratically in the summer.
the first spring, it put up
four small sturdy leaves,
and i watered it whenever i remembered.
that winter came new love and large changes,
and what with it all, i moved away
leaving the hollyhock to live or die in that crack.
most of the rest of the garden
died of inattention.
two years later, i drive down that street
and glance by reflex toward my old front door,
and i can’t even see it
for the height of that deep green hollyhock,
big leaves bushing up from the flagstones,
not just alive,
but thriving.


Kat Heatherington is a queer ecofeminist poet, sometime artist, pagan, and organic gardener. She lives south of Albuquerque, NM in Sunflower River intentional community, sunflowerriver.org. Kat’s work primarily addresses the interstices of human relationships and the natural world. Her work can be read at https://sometimesaparticle.org.


Weekly Write: “Colic Weather” by Gary Beaumier

Colic Weather

The wind was a bombardment
of ice and snow
that morning when
you returned from the barn
to say your old gelding
had died of colic.

Later I winched him
out of his stall
and carefully dragged him
behind the tractor
to a clearing beyond the pasture.

His plush winters coat
could not conceal
the articulated bone over
his once muscled flank
We knew his last days
we’re nearing.

As you cut off a portion
of his tail with
your pocket knife
for a remembrance
you say to me
“ I never partnered better
on any horse then him.
Too bad humans aren’t
that easy.”
You gave me a hard look
as you snapped the knife shut
and walked toward the house.

The ground
yet unfrozen
yields to the back hoe
and I pack
the earth down over him
so coyotes won’t
dig him up.

When I return to the house
you make me tea
as a peace offering
but that night I hear
the yip and cry
of a pack
over your restless sleep
and I worry things
won’t stay buried
…but then I worry
things will.


In his later years Gary Beaumier has become something of a beachcomber and has self diagnosed with “compulsive walking disorder.” On a number of occasions he has cobbled together wooden sailboats.

He is a finalist and semi finalist for the Luminaire Award for several of his poems.
He has had three poems published in Flumes Winter 2017 and one poem in Third Wednesday as well as one poem in Chaleur Magazine, The Piltdown Review, The Esthetic Apostle, The Internet Void, an upcoming issue of Raw Arts Review and a recording in Lit_Tapes. He taught poetry in a women’s prison.




“Like”, “Share”, and comment on this poem to nominate it for the Annual Swimming with Elephants Publications 2019 Anthology.

Click here check out Parade: Swimming with Elephants Publications Anthology 2018 available for only $10.95.

Weekly Write: “Automatic Guns” by KB Hadley

Current World State: Automatic Guns

It never should have happened
they say as they examine the bodies
scattered on the cold tile floor.
Police tape draped haphazardly
across the glass front doors.

Where was the security guard?
He ran at the sight of an automatic
gun barrel pointed down the hall.
He didn’t run away as some say
he ran to begin the lockdown protocol.
Clearing out kids in the open courtyard,
such an easy target for the AR-15
and the kid behind the metal.

We lost seventeen today.
How do we come to terms with this loss?
How have we come to a point
where kid on kid violence
is just another massacre?
We turn the other cheek.
Yet children still wake in nightmares
while the world continues to sleep.

KB Hadley earned her MFA in Creative Writing, Poetry from Augsburg University, and her work can be seen in Twig and Barstow & Grand. She also works as a mentor with the Minnesota Prison Writing Workshop. KB lives in Minneapolis, Minnesota, with her husband and dog.

Weekly Write: “Perfection” by Andy Posner


I had thought I lacked for time
And spent my days frantic,
As though life were a web
And death a looming spider, his
Approach inexorable, his mouth
Large enough to swallow whole
My ambitions.

I had thought I lacked for time
And arose each dawn to make up
For yesterday’s failure,
To promise that today I would be perfect;
I bribed the gatekeepers of perfection
With my promises—
“O, let me through!” I begged.
And at night I’d rub my forehead
Where the iron had held me back,
The currency of my promises
Still glistening like anxious sweat in my hand.

For years I pressed my nose to glass
And watched sun, wind, rain, snow
As they whirled past my stationary self
Like a riderless bicycle balanced
By something, someone, I couldn’t see.

I had thought I lacked for time
And raced to outrun the bell
Whose ring might rouse me from my dream,
Only to at last find I was awake and tired
And still holding coins no deity, no therapist, no poet
Would accept—a pauper with a home, a job, a six-figure net worth,
Wanting for nothing, suddenly with time to spare,
Unable to afford even a moment of calm self-reflection.


Andy Posner grew up in Los Angeles and earned an MA in Environmental Studies at Brown. While there, he founded Capital Good Fund, a nonprofit that provides financial services to low-income families. He has had poems published in the Noble / Gas Qtrly, The Esthetic Apostle, and Burningword Literary Journal.




“Like”, “Share”, and comment on this poem to nominate it for the Annual Swimming with Elephants Publications 2019 Anthology.

Click here check out Parade: Swimming with Elephants Publications Anthology 2018 available for only $10.95.

Weekly Write: “Monville” by Gabriel Jarman


Not alone, I am married to the revolution
we just have this schedule conflict
affection passes in a brilliant flash, a match struck in a power outage
while loneliness yawns and calls me back to bed
my official title is Steward, since I don’t just wash dishes
in this spirit I address the janitors as sanitation commandos
ils ne comprennent pas
my giant metal baby caught lime disease
curled up in the womb of the industrial dishwasher
scraping inelegantly like a back alley butcher
sous chef complains about Lamaze class with the girlfriend
how old would my kids be now?
I do not wish to remember anymore, this must be burnt out
slam me through the scalding love of the machine
where did I learn that pain is the cleanser?
my past intrudes upon my present cajoling me for something
no one else remembers
pushing me out, making me worry and worry and worry
I am a satellite with a misfiring thruster spinning out into the void
the universe, I find, is a sentient being that delights in making us eat our words
so laugh
work steadies me
after mopping I stand in the doorway, chin on the pommel
onion skin penumbras of my co-workers re-enact snippets of the day
empty workplace like a cathedral after mass
where echoes of holiness resound


Gabriel Jarman is a largely unpublished author who was born in Victoria, B.C. grew up in Fredericton, N.B. and now lives in Montreal, QC.


“Like” and “Share” this poem to nominate it for the Annual Swimming with Elephants Publications 2019 Anthology and click here check out Parade: Swimming with Elephants Publications Anthology 2018 available for only $7.95.