Poems for Persons of Interest

Born and raised in Plymouth, England, Jan is a father of three, a child of two, and a husband of one. He writes poetry and short fiction, mostly for adults.

J-T Kelly  is an innkeeper in Indianapolis. He lives in a brick house with his wife and six children, his two parents, and a dog. Candy she goes carefully, she does this one picks between with more deciding than the grown-ups imagine to let in the joy particular only the correct fits what comes out of the mouth she understands what’s in taste like the soul has no position the self itself yes me the being among larger beings mercy defenseless violet and across the heights to see hawk-sharply the slick

Felicity Teague features regularly in The HyperTexts, Snakeskin, and elsewhere. Her second collection, Interruptus: A Poetry Year, is forthcoming in 2025. The Koala Machine   Click the red switch and it all starts to whirr, duh-duh-duh duhhh on repeat; plastic forms whizz by in grey–whit e– brown blur, spurs on their hands and their feet…   We are the koalas who climb and then slide, Dusty and Snowy and Alf, scaling the tree for our yellow ramp ride, routine is good for our health…   All through the season, we sit and we stare, under a strange Christmas spell, watching the koalas speed down with such flair, after ascending so well…   We are the koalas who climb and then slide, Dusty and Snowy and Alf, scaling the tree for our yellow ramp ride, routine is good for our health…   Poor Alfie’s arm breaks; the batteries die – off to ACE Hardwares we go. Superglue gets us a little bit high! K-dudes resume their slick show…   We are the k

Danny Fitzpatrick   is the author of a few books.  He lives in New Orleans and  edits a journal called  Joie de Vivre. The Comedy's Hallows Some of my dreams have subsided, While some of my wakings have stayed, And all of the promises muttered Have died on my lips as I prayed. Heaven and hell and the mountain between Have sweetened our angers, tra la! No, none of the dead will consume you, Though none of the dead will be gone When the blood that you swore had receded Has crept up at last in the dawn. Hell and the mountain and heaven above Have feasted our madness, ha ha! The silence can no longer summon The promise of deafening sleep As leaves down the walk rush and rattle And stricken hounds fawn on the deep. The mountain and heaven and hell down below Still linger beside us, la la! The morning is mounting to fever To scream the night’s sickness away While the candles and liquors and curses Are crowding the lips of the day. Still heaven, hell, and the mountain of shades Go singing

Coleman Glenn lives in Bryn Athyn, PA with his wife and their six kids. His poems have appeared in  Light ,  Autumn Sky Poetry Daily ,  Blue Unicorn ,  THINK , and other publications. Starsong Our grandfathers’ grandfathers sang of the light Of a star that would rise with a King; They turned their eyes heavenward night after night — But none ever saw a thing. Now most of the world has forgotten their word And although we remember, we feared That neither would we see, for all we had heard, That star. Then the star appeared.   What infant rests under its silvery gleam? Who waits for our incense and gold? The Light to Whom kings and all nations shall stream, The Sunrise so long foretold.   We followed it here to Jerusalem’s throne, But the Sovereign we seek can’t be found. They say, “Search in Bethlehem”; no more is known. Where is He, this King uncrowned? The palace is dim. We step into the night. Have we journeyed for nothing so far? Then over the

This one isn't strictly from the contest, because it's mine, but it fits the theme. Carol of the Shades Fear and fleeing autumn brings – Blow! Blow! Rain and snow! Creeping, crawling, cruel things – Blow! Blow! Blow!   Blow! Blow! Winds all blow! Bad times come and good times go! Blow! Blow! Winds all blow! Blow! Blow! Blow!   Tears and terror autumn brings Blow! Blow! Tears and snow! Devils dance and Satan sings – Blow! Blow! Blow!   Blow! Blow! Winds all blow! Mourning comes and joy must go! Blow! Blow! Winds all blow! Blow! Blow! Blow!   Death and dolor autumn brings – Blow! Blow! Blood and snow! Killing prophets, priests, and kings – Blow! Blow! Blow!   Blow! Blow! Winds all blow! Funerals come and families go! Blow! Blow! Winds all blow! Blow! Blow! Blow!   Man’s damnation autumn brings – Blow! Blow! Hell and snow! Trapped inside infernal rings – Blow! Blow! Blow!   Blow! Blow! Winds all blow! Death

  Jeffrey Rensch has been writing poetry for 50 years.  He is not a big fan of free verse. Carol of disarray Birds in the temple fly and their catchers elude – they are too beautiful to buy but all their twittering is free. Their song is loud and good. The chaos does feel good. The virgin feels the world release disorganized and full of peace – the chaos is like peace. The sexton charges in dismay, his kingdom is in disarray. The Lord rings loud and good. His message is for good.

Ben Morgan is a writer based in London, UK. His sequence  Medea in Corinth: Poems, Prayers, Letters, and a Curse ,  is published by Poetry Salzburg. It retells the myth through poems, spells and songs. He has also published poems at The High Window, Oxford Poetry, Alchemy Spoon, One Hand Clapping, Stand and elsewhere.  Let Us Praise the Autumn Birds   Praise The boring autumn birds Of Regent's Park. Their beaks like spoons Scoop honey light From sepia lawns at dawn. Their quiet cannot be drowned out By Baker Street. Their wings - fieldfare, mistle thrush, sparrow, tern - Never - barely - glow nor burn, Would win no medals From Paris, but praise, Now, their glamorous subtlety, Whose bashful glories Nest like jealousy By Chester Terrace. The same intensities Riot in their breasts As in the eagle's, So commend their wise restraint, To leave those glassy lakes A bloodless grey. Winged September peonies! Bob-headed ambassadors Of fan

Liv is an urban monk, a poet, a storyteller, and a student of Christian spirituality. When she’s not writing, Liv practices gardening, pipe-smoking, leather-working, and mischief. A Contested Carol ‘Twas a day of whimsy when My friend sent forth his call— ‘Send me your poems. Twelve hours, my friends, I’ll read them one and all!’ Light-heartedly, I typed and tapped And words spilled ‘cross the screen. A poem to keep the judges rapt. The best they’ve ever seen!   But I’ve only twelve hours to write My magnum opus poem. And forty lines is kind of tight To bring this whole thing home. ‘Send me your poems. Twelve hours, my friends, I’ll read them one and all!’ Perhaps after my dinner, then I’ll have something to call   A carol for that is the theme. Oh, muses, meet me here! Bring meter and a rhyming scheme, Something to bring good cheer! No music though, for I am no Composer, I’m afraid. But these words still sing, I hope, And aren’t too ov

I am pleased to announce that the winner of the 12-Hour Carol Contest is D.W. Baker, for "Alchemists' Hymn."  D.W. Baker is a poet, father, and teacher from St. Petersburg, Florida. His work appears in Identity Theory, The Pierian,  and  Voidspace Zine , and has been nominated for Best of the Net. He reads for several mastheads including  Variant Lit . See more of his work at  www.dwbakerpoetry.com .

Adam Strauss lives in San Diego.  Poems of his appear in the Brooklyn Rail , Prelude , and New American Writing .  H e adores the works of Marc Chagall.​ Sigh Dog—dog—loose Like a gotcha-gotcha goose In a patch like denim Where plenary mocks plenum. Thus this, and thus venom Brightens his leg as would a bruise. They told him he would choose A blue eclipses green, should sense Prevail, nor should he hawk phlegm: hum Evasions, like diapasons through a lens Focused on refractions tang its throat, Tantivy factored by tens—and Tennyson’s moat.

Elizabeth M. Johnson is a lawyer, poet, and transplanted Chicagoan living in Detroit.  She is the granddaughter of immigrants. Brood X Before you’re gone again, you’ll leave your mark: dirt burrows in the yard, the twig’s worn bark. The paw paw trees will lose their boughs. Cypress, willow, and ash. Just think how ravenous -- seventeen years! In vast numbers, you sing. You’re shock and awe, a mating call springing from a buckled rib, a hollow abdomen. You’ll leave your mark before you’re gone again. An ancient symbol of insouciance? To me, your wide eyes don’t say innocence. No lovely sibilance, no gentle hiss, instead continuous, cacophonous, your whirring cycles faster in the heat. I’m crunching carcasses under my feet. Abandoned exoskeletons remain: you leave your mark. And you will come again.

Steven Searcy is the author of  Below the Brightness  (Solum Press, 2024). His poems have appeared in  Southern Poetry Review ,  Commonweal ,  UCity Review ,  Autumn Sky Poetry Daily , and elsewhere. He lives with his wife and four sons in Georgia. The Spirit Makes Its Case The body begs with brash insistence to take the path of least resistance. The spirit, on its best day, yearns to go the way that chafes and burns, to seek the peak with sweeping views, to sweat and strain, to brave the bruise. The body pleads for rest and pleasure, uninterested in hidden treasure. The spirit looks into the future when every wound receives a suture, seeing how much there is to gain by bearing temporary pain. The body’s time is transitory— the spirit says memento mori and tries to teach the body how to look beyond the here and now.

Ethan McGuire is a healthcare cybersecurity professional and a writer of essays, fiction, poetry, reviews, and translations who lives in Fort Wayne, Indiana with his wife and their two children. Old Gods After Matthew Buckley Smith   God sits upon His throne, that golden height, And holds worlds in His palms, withholds His might.   The Muses by His side both come and go And whisper in our ears the good we know.   Old Satan rules the bowels of Earth’s black flame And wields his damned, wild reign, the King of Shame.   The Furies scour the land and boil men’s blood With coals—and with knives loose a crimson flood.   The Fates dispense and cut threads they contrive And make men meet mean ends or come alive.

Frances Boyle is a noted Canadian poet and fiction writer. Her poetry collections include Openwork and Limestone and Light-carved Passages . Gag Ordered                         The blank page awaits; it’s time for a poem I can read them, critique them, think that I know ’em   but the slippery old words slide just out of reach. Why won’t they fall in my hand like a low-hanging peach   not hide among brambles like the worst kind of berry? Is it hard to write humour?  You might say so. Very.   It’s not that I’m trying for a veritable saga or rhymes that will twine endlessly like a raga   just a snippet of verse with lines that ring true (oh, and something that’s funny, I need that part too).   So I give up and press save on this fine piece of doggerel ―just don’t mention, I beg you, that my dog is a mongrel.

Liv is an urban monk, a poet, a storyteller, and a student of Christian spirituality. When she’s not writing, Liv practices gardening, pipe-smoking, leather-working, and mischief. The Task While all creation held its breath, The young man’s hitched inside his chest. The knife raised up. The old man’s hand Stopped at its zenith, shaking and After a prayer, he let it fall While listening for some new call. No god worth following would ask Of him this vile and senseless task. Better to keep the gods of home Than with a faithless god to roam. ‘I thought you different,’ Abram prayed, Then turned to find the ram arrayed.

Felicity Teague features regularly in  The HyperTexts ,  Snakeskin , and elsewhere.  Her second collection,  Interruptus: A Poetry Year , is forthcoming in 2025. Rock Trio Ciao , all! I’m Gabbro and I’m igneous. The fiery type! I formed from mafic magma, hot as Satan’s own puff-pipe! With other rocks around me, I cooled slowly. We were snug! A group of grey guys gathered in a hot humongous hug.   Hola! I am Coquina. I’m a sedimentary sort. I’m made of shells. I love the beach. I’m not so fond of sport! For many years, I braved the waves and sailed the swirling seas. Now I can sunbathe with my friends, enjoy a life of ease.   Ah, Guten Tag . I’m Augen gneiss! A metamorphic make. My name means ‘eyes’. I seem to stare. I’m always wide awake! My birth involved high heat and pressure, two great strengths combined, to merge some granite and some feldspar. Now, let’s rock! Let’s grind!

Danny Fitzpatrick is the author of a few books.  He lives in New Orleans and  edits a journal called Joie de Vivre. Howl You heard it first, that loneliness aloft against the purblind sky, the certain, soft advance of six coyotes through the oaks. We shrank, admiring how the moonlight smoked upon that song, how the scavenged reek shone and shrouded those sleek ghosts of tongue and bone. That night you ’ d taught me how to see the past as part of what was promised us at last. You touched my throat and whispered they were gone, and soon we too arose and soon went on, hunched against the cold without a word for future griefs the hounds had overheard.

Coleman Glenn lives in Bryn Athyn, PA with his wife and their six kids. His poems have appeared in  Light ,  Autumn Sky Poetry Daily ,  Blue Unicorn ,  THINK , and other publications. WOE, WOE, WOE   We heard his word and something stirred — a nerve vibrating, resonating as if strummed until we thrummed, until we found his voice’s sound had seized us fully, left us wholly rearranged. We thought we changed.

  Jeffrey Rensch has been writing poetry for 50 years.  He is not a big fan of free verse. Being I was the master, no, not really that, the servant of something, I don’t know what, my fate?    I didn’t really have a fate to speak of or was ignorant of it, I mean, I couldn’t really lose my way without some way to sense the destiny I didn’t have, and this was more than loss, more like a robbery, I felt furious at… someone but I couldn’t figure out a single enemy to single out, for what was maybe my own clumsy doing, not to have even the remotest being. 

Bethel McGrew is a freelance writer based in Michigan. Her articles have appeared in various national and international outlets. Find her Substack at  furtherup.net . Ode to a Controversial Pizza Pie T hey say that pasta never goes on pies But they ain’t Jules, and Jules says otherwise. Guys, check this out, let’s take it from the top: A mozzarella base (Jules pies don’t flop). Pasta (no spoon, I like to use my hands). You like my tan? I got it in the sands Of Montauk with the family. Now let’s throw More cheese down. Pecorino: Make it snow Over that vodka sauce. You think I’m done? Guys, come on. Jules is having too much fun. OK, the chicken’s tucked in for the night. And now it’s showtime, gang. Let’s do this right. Pop in the oven. Wait, wait for it, wait… Boom! OK guys, now it’s your turn to rate My masterpiece. Come check it out today, Let Jules make all your worries melt away. It’s hot, it’s here, it’s now, it bends the rules. It’s Penne Vodka

I am pleased to announce that Ella Harrigan is the winner of the 12-Hour Couplets Contest for her poem "Mother."  Ella Harrigan is a poet and student at Swarthmore College, where she is a senior editor at the magazine Small Craft Warnings . She was the 2020 Virginia Ball Creative Writing Competition winner, the 2021 Claudia Ann Seaman winner in nonfiction, and has been published in Polyphony Lit and the Swarthmore Review. Mother yes, imagine it. what, on accident, i took from you. the apartment bright and piled with books   rising from the floor like hills. flowers from a friend on the windowsill.   and you, in the shower, humming, washing your hair. your beautiful long hair.   imagine me unborn, my brother sitting in his old bedroom, home for the summer, picking his nails. his guitar untuned.   you love him. the red that shines through his beard reminds you of your father. the rest isn't clear.   in the kitchen, your mother calling on the pho