SPOTLIGHT: American Apparell, the new Femmeglitch Art Collection from Kristine Snodgrass

Kristine Snodgrass strips bare social media advertising this powerful series of images. She tears apart the commodification of Feminism and reimages it back into a viable message. Through Glitch Art she remessages marketing whitewash into an Asemic Poetry of power. She tells a new story for Americans as she redresses a gimmick of fashion back into a statement. She is the writing on the wall.

~ Yrik-Max Valentonis, author of this is visual poetry, iDEAL, and 120 Days of Gomorrah

Kristine Snodgrass weaves some interesting glitch pieces in her new collection, American Apparel. Each piece is extremely detailed and you can tell she put a lot of work into these very unique and beautiful works of art. Highly recommended!

Robert J,W.- Author of Dusty Video Game Discs

SPOTLIGHT: Steve Brightman’s new poetry chapbook “Leaving the Flatlands to the Amateurs”

Blackberries In Glass

Lock unbolts sets free
the caffeine distract

Judges wear deaf ears
to all their parties

Blackberries in glass
are the strongest
voice out there

A snap of long fingers
and blackberries in glass

Past The Lumber

Ghost ride your voice
past the lumber
ghost ride your choices
past the factory
stoplight is changing
red to green
back to red from yellow
past the calendar
ghost ride this mess
past the lumber
absent with some
minor regrets
vacancy where there
used to be streetcar
and loose gravel


hot water earth blanket
wrapped around her

gold trinket lightning strike
racing to fall to earth

ten times the avalanche
silent comes forever

pillowbox daydreams
keystroke thunderstorm

wavelength plays
rhythm to ringing ears
over here

Behind Red Mad

Sparrows follow
hollow bones
to water edge
setting fire to salt
lights the night sky
burying faces
behind red mad
draperies and disguises
setting fire to night
lights streets and eyes
sparrows follow
anyone home

Steve Brightman lives in Akron, OH with his wife and their green parrot. He firmly believes that there are only two seasons: winter and baseball.

SPOTLIGHT: Jemelia Moseley’s new chapbook “Love, Joy, Tears, Beers and Poetry”


I wanted to stop

Take a minute out

But, we have all stopped

Every shop, gym, pub, club is locked

People are losing their livelihoods

People thinking I wish, I coulda, woulda, should

I cannot see a friend

I pray I get to see my ageing Granny again

I’m having nightmares

Actual visions

I feel like I have a Knee on my neck

‘’I can’t breathe’’

I may need a sec

Is the reaper coming for me?

Please, protect my friends and family,

as they go about their day and as they sleep

Worldwide, people losing loved ones and lives

UK, at our peak over a 1000 a night

This is not right

When this is over

I hope we all get to see the light

I hope when we look back,

we realize the NHS and all the Key workers deserve more than a weekly clap

For the sake of the Key workers and our children,

I hope Covid 19 leaves and does not come back

Dear Covid, please leave and do not come back


I closed my eyes

Rewind my mind

To that time

The first time

Innocent and pure

It felt so good against my lips

Taste buds tickled

It drips

A little bit of trickle

It seemed to grant every wish

Every ideology

Not at once but the feeling took control of me

Before I knew it I was drunk

My first time

My first ever glass of wine


I need you

But you don’t come easily

For others you are beautiful and free

To me you are a rare but sweet luxury

I adore you

I wish I could explore more of you

Maybe in you, see the future and the past

See faces that didn’t last

Go to places that I have never been

See things I have never seen

Maybe just dream

Hopefully,  this is not just a dream


One heart


Two paths

Now apart

Sunshine and rain equal rainbows at the start

Now we have thunderstorms and shattered cars

Pavements cracked

Everyone wearing winters hats

Umbrellas up

Sheltering from the storm

At home, wood fires, huddled on the sofa trying to keep warm

Knowing you and I again… will never be our norm


Black is beautiful

Yet they say we’re ugly and cruel

Black is bold

Yet they say we’re aggressive

No help or handouts

Came on the wind rush

But they don’t want to hear our pain

Say it’s depressive

But they keep us in chains

No in-between

We don’t all look or act the same

Yet these constant comparisons are mean

Can’t keep us in chains

We must be heard we must be seen

SPOTLIGHT: New Days by John Drudge

John Drudge is the poet as social worker. John writes, “pain will always pursue us” preventing us from knowing our true selves, and our higher purpose. These poems confront the reader with the certainty that many are running from damaged pasts and find no comfort in nostalgia. Nor is the hope for a better tomorrow served by clinging to idealistic fantasies. Beauty may be found in this world, by those with the courage to accept reality, and the capacity for honesty. For those willing to seek the good in this world, there are New Days ahead.

– Jason O’Toole, Poet and author of Soulless Heavens and Spear of Stars.

Judgement Days

We are rudderless
And lost beyond
The bounds of religion
Soulless and sterile
Impertinent to judgement
Cold rolled fragments
Of modern intoleration
Where the sickness
Is internal
And we must heal ourselves
Before we can heal
The outside world
A contagion
Of disintegration
A metamorphosis of the gods
Quiet and repentant
On the path
That leads us home

Beyond Simplicity

Dismantling loyalties
And attachments
To ideas
To find the candor
Buried in our privilege
A failure of vision
And compassion
And deconstructive
Emblazoned with hate
And false morality
Both wrong and right
In the illusions
Of our truth

Toy Boats

On a tilted chair
In the Luxembourg gardens
Beneath the chestnut trees
With my dreams
Playing out
Under the cotton-ball clouds
Of a mid-day sky
I longed for her
To come to me
Like a faint wind
Gently rocking
The lone toy boat
Marooned on the pond
And long forgotten
In the cerebral stillness
Of a stagnant summer day
Next to the pretty street
Who’s name
I’ve long forgotten

A Slow Roll

Into this
Creaturely existence
We are subsumed
By fright
By Arrogance
And tapped down
By the eternal struggles
Of an ancient morality
A slow steam train
Rumbling down
The railway line
Through the instances
Of small changes
And the long hibernations
Of our courage
Gathering speed
On faint hope
Like ripples in the mud

We are our Mistakes

I remember
Those times
That defined us
I remember
The mean clouds
That barked black
Upon the summer’s
Fading light
And nipped at our heels
As we retreated
Into timid shelters
And I remember
When you came to me
And wrapped
In forgotten dreams
To make
New mistakes
In a messy world


Objectivity is a lie
And everything
Is subjective
It is the heart
That beats the beat
Of distance
Between us
Far away
From the breathing
That creates us

Pound Foolish

In for a penny
In for a pound
Round and round
In blind ambition
An eye for an eye
And begone
Nation states
In perpetual motion
A clash of ideals
In a mad consumption
Of ideology
Locked in dance step
To the suffering tune
Of childish sorrow
With one world
Silently waiting
On the ever flinching
Of tomorrow’s
Quiet lament
And eternity’s
Last desire