Connor Doyle



Connor Doyle

Connor Doyle is a photographer and filmmaker based in the Chicagoland area. Using a number of analog film formats, Doyle’s work focuses on the idiosyncratic details of daily life in Northern Illinois, specifically his native Wheaton, IL. Though often trivial, his subjects capture the formal beauty and potency of these everyday sites, urging his viewers to reflect on the significance of their lived experiences. Connor’s work has been published in the Hole In The Head Review, Humana Obscura, the Parliament Literary Journal, and Burningword Literary Journal. You can visit his website at


“The raft is not the shore” — Thich Nhat Hanh, Being Peace.

Sinless dung,

oak tree preach,

buffalo boy’s grass, bowl of milk.

Let understanding grow.

Rock, gas, mineral,

water wash feet —

cosmos meditates on cosmos.

Escape is no escape.

See suffering.

Avoid stacked coins.

Ocean salt, ashes in a velvet bag —

truth knock.

Straw on mud,

blanket on concrete,

hydrant draped in silk.

Work no harm.

Gaze, even on vomit.

Vent noxious.

Bike monk,

breakfast with tree,

84,000 doors,

a raft, a finger pointing.

No browbeating.

No gossiping.

No lying.

Cloud in paper,

waiting for hawk flight.

Footprint of a prophet,

ripped veil.

Let live.

Answer door.


Afraid of height, terrored of road,

insect-burdened, undesiring,

plant blank paper.

Every manner of thing will be well.

Book not yet performed.

Translate a single bird song.

Patrick T. Reardon

Patrick T. Reardon, a three-time Pushcart Prize nominee, has authored eleven books, including the poetry collections Requiem for David (Silver Birch), Darkness on the Face of the Deep (Kelsay) and The Lost Tribes (Grey Book). Forthcoming is his memoir in prose poems Puddin’: The Autobiography of a Baby (Third World). His website is His poetry has appeared in Rhino, Main Street Rag, America, Autumn Sky, Burningword Literary Journal and many others. His poem “The archangel Michael” was a finalist for the 2022 Mary Blinn Poetry Prize.

Cathy Hollister

The Local


oak and leather corner pub

warm glow of Guinness

tensions softly fold to sighs

beyond these walls





That widen in surprise

Tear in sympathy



That writes of playful things

Whose ink spills out in flourishes

Drawing pictures in words


That clicks with musical beat

Whose letters speak to screen

In engineered friendship


That explodes, whispers, cries

a tale I don’t want to hear

but I can’t turn off


That speak of love

With the softest caress

on the cheek


Muffled by mask

That can’t hide the smile

In the eyes

Ode to Candle Stub

Wax almost spent, wick bent and blackened

dripping life blood of self in service

sleeping old soldier

bivouacked in the back of the drawer


found when pawing for pen or twist tie

always ready, willing to accept

the sweet kiss of fire, illumine

the great pool of dark as strong as

younger, taller, more fortified

tapering heights

Service to the end of life

Service to the depths of self

Service highly valued

to the stubby end

Cathy Hollister

Cathy Hollister is an older writer whose poetry often explores the treasures embedded in age, isolation, and continual readjustments. When not writing you might find her on the dance floor enjoying the company of friends or deep in the woods basking in the peace of solitude. Her work has been in Silent Spark Press, Humans of the World Blog, Open Door Magazine, Beyond Words Magazine, The Ekphrastic Review, Smoky Blue Literary and Arts Magazine, Poet’s Choiceanthologies, and others. She lives in middle Tennessee.

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