my clock of you seems to have stopped

I imagine you‘ve moved the furniture.  erased the place.

I’ve been reading rilke about loss.  he speaks of meeting the pain.

finding a place for it.  inside.

what does it mean that words take so long to generate?


nothing and nothing and


then up from the belly through the chest out the throat

on to the page.

mouth wet to the page.

maybe it’s me.  moving the furniture.


Ditta Baron Hoeber

Ditta Baron Hoeber is an artist and a poet. Her recent poetry publications have been in Windowcat, Contemporary American Voices, the American Journal of Poetry, the American Poetry Review, Construction Magazine, New American Writing and Per Contra along with a suite of her photographs. In 2018 she received a nomination for the Pushcart Prize. Her photographs, drawings and book works have been exhibited nationally and have been acquired by several artist book and photography collections, including those at the Philadelphia Museum of Art, the University of Pennsylvania, MOMA’s Franklin Furnace Artist Book Collection, Oberlin College and Chelsea College of Art and Design in London.





A Sound of Wings

We pretend having our life,

even world’s life, always under control,

from past generations to present days.

Sometimes we feel close to that certainty,

and it is good that this should happen,

giving us some encouragement on the route.

We work with the mind and the heart,

science and desire, on outlining the future,

which we anticipate promising and happy.

Skirting around life’s corners, every so often,

we are faced with frightening facts,

perhaps echoes of ancient Greek tragedies,

poor of hope in the human renaissance.

Wars, revolutions, tyrannies and persecutions,

born on the drumming of soulless men,

have delayed landing in the promised land,

where milk and honey spur and light reigns,

preventing all evil once sown.

But we are already listening

the beating of the wings of the dove’s return,

like those of Noah, bringing in its beak

the green branch of the olive tree.


Edilson Afonso Ferreira

Edilson Afonso Ferreira, 75 years, is a Brazilian poet who writes in English rather than in Portuguese. Largely published in international journals in print and online, he began writing at age 67, after retirement as a bank employee. Nominated for The Pushcart Prize 2017, his first Poetry Collection, Lonely Sailor, One Hundred Poems, was launched in London, November 2018. He is always updating his works at

The Names Have Been Changed to Protect the Idiots

this quaint little town

is seedy as fuck

behind the Jackson Park ball fields

where the women pill up

and drink Marshmallow Cokes

at the Saturday Afternoon

Little League Games

and the men get drunk

and smoke dirt weed in the dug out

at the softball games

on Saturday Night

and across the parking lots

of second tier chain restaurants


where teenage hopefuls

dip dreams into bowls of alfredo

and those who’ve lost hope

dote on their husbands

who still wonder how a fuck

led to a family

so Jack Tanner

a prominent lawyer

uses his wife

to lure other women

married or not

to impress them

by getting them drunk

and hanging things off of his penis

and the judge Davey Richards

just takes drunk girls

from bar to car

and then swerves himself home

because who really cares

it’s a joke among

The Good Ole Boys

who sit laughing at round tables

of gin games and vodka drinks

in the stag lounge of

the country club

where women

are still not welcome

they make deals over pretzels

afraid of being anything else

and the two empty chairs

are from Walter and Frank

who need to be home with their kids

but wanted to stop by the Cozy

where the north end comes alive

and smells like ash trays and onion rings

and Bobby stabbed his cousin again

so no one can use the pool table

whatever you would use it for

as its two-dollar pints of PBR

and a buck for a shot of well whisky

until Phil gets back from an errand

with Bobby’s cousin’s wife

in the apartment next door

owned by the county treasurer

who watches behind a two way mirror

with his dick in his hand

as the bars close down

and Sunday brings the baptism of dawn

and church parking lots fill

with the faithful, the hungover, and the guilty

and baskets get passed

through toll-booth pews

of naively obedient servants

facing Pastor Best

who has lead them in prayer

and warned of the dangers

of Muslims and Homosexuals

but will get caught tonight

by his wife

writing letters to his old friend in Leeds

about the time they stuck it in each other’s ass

and called it male bonding

in the eyes of the Lord



Chad Kebrdle

Chad Kebrdle is an English Professor at Ancilla College and an MFA student at The Jack Kerouac School of Disembodied Poetics at Naropa University. He finds both frustration and pleasure from residing in the cornfields of Indiana, where he draws inspiration for his work.

Listed at Duotrope
Listed with Poets & Writers
CLMP Member
List with Art Deadline
Follow us on MagCloud