Stone Circle Review

Fist

by Edward Johnson

Back when days were just like Legos
portals opened in the swaddling clouds
sudden wormholes of cornflower blue
in the blanket spray of gray.
These days it’s rare to see a wound
of sky big enough to punch a fist
through the cirrus sutures.
A plunge into this slant-lit lake
where we wait in our still-life skiff
the bow and stern in equipoise
between days lived and yet to live
the light disappearing into the waters
where the bigger fish are said to swim.

Edward Johnson lives in a log cabin in the North Cascades where he writes poems, watches birds and plays bad ukulele. For 30 years, he was a legal aid lawyer in Oregon where he represented people forced to live outside because of our lack of affordable housing. He has work out or forthcoming in Eclectica Magazine, Beatnik Cowboy, Indefinite Space, Main Street Rag, The Dissident Voice, Evergreen Review, Whisk(e)y Tit Journal, Abraxas Review, Second Coming Poem-of-the-Day series, Home Planet News, Amethyst Review, The Tiny Journal and other cool outlets.

The Editor2026-11-08T11:36:41-05:00November 8, 2026|

oh god of this

by E.B. Schnepp

specific wine glass, the smallest
shrine, oh god who ferments
to wine even when offered
only water. oh god of the coin
toss, the magic 8 ball, who always ends
inconclusive, on its side or ask
tomorrow, respectively. oh god
who does not say make yourself smaller,
but make this smaller. for you
I willingly fetal myself to hear you better.
the quiet under this comforter is nice
this time of year, the midwest exhausting itself
as it screams its way through winter. I say
I could live here forever and you say no
you can’t, you’ll have to get up to pee
eventually, go about your human life
and I flip you off and you laugh, echoing
from every kitchen cupboard. a raucous clatter
of dishes and faux wood doors.

E.B. Schnepp is a poet currently residing in Illinois. Their work has been featured in Poetry Daily and can be found in Gulf Coast, Mid-American Review, and American Literary Review among others. Their chapbook, Blueberries Stain Like Blood, is available from Bottlecap Press.

The Editor2026-11-07T10:46:21-05:00November 7, 2026|

Light

by Precious Iyoriobhe

After Amanda Gorman

Till the sun stops rising we will talk
About the kind hearts of the women
That raised us, the certainty of what
We thought was going to be their eternal lives,
Before we knew what the rain wanted from us,
When the roads diverged into the mountains
And borders were not borders, we will talk,
About running, and how this country has kept
Us at bay, Nigeria to Benin, to Cape Coast,
Everywhere we’ve been is a part of our home,
Its incense thick as nostalgia there’s so much
Gathering and so much loss, boys born in
Strange alphabet so we called them strangers,
The history of what they are thrown and forgotten
This country is our disease too,
Something alive in us long after we die,
What we tell ourselves, what we tell
Others—all together is silence.

Precious Iyoriobhe has taught literature for 15 years, deriving joy and fulfilment from helping little kids achieve their literary dreams. She writes stories, poems, and essays, while also being an ardent oral storyteller. A resident of Côte d’Ivoire, Precious is originally from Nigeria.

The Editor2026-11-01T11:23:35-05:00November 1, 2026|

Alarm

by Ana Johnson

Look down
at my would be
wedding ring… does it go
on the right hand or the left? Sore
fingers.

Maiden’s
hands, cut off. Can’t do anything
except please mother
otherwise she’d
rather

murder
herself; heard it
already few times
today. She’d rather die than grow
wrinkly

slapping
her cheeks in the front passenger
seat, opening chasms
of fear on her
aged face.

Ana Johnson, PhD, is Professor in Public Health Sciences, Queen’s University, who always has enjoyed writing through her academic career and has been expanding her writing onto the creative realm. She received mentorship through the City of Kingston Poet Laureate Program under Sadiqa de Meyer last year, in 2025. Her creative work has been published in Queen’s Quarterly, Fib Review, Devour: Art & Lit Canada, and monthly in the Kingston’s Neighbours East and Southwest magazine. She holds weekly writing workshops in the Kingston, Ontario, Canada area, and has just launched a six-week online workshop. Lately, she has been experimenting with “double” mirror cinquain poems (example submission above: “Alarm”). She is on Instagram @anajohnsonauthor and her web site is anajohnsonauthor.com.

The Editor2026-10-31T19:48:43-04:00October 31, 2026|

Figment

by Daniel Cartwright-Chaouki

the clouds are not really
white, they are all different
colours, it’s just the way we
see them with our insensitive
eyes, the kingfisher is
brown not blue, the polar
bear has colourless fur and
a thick black hide, the baby
cries just to get our attention,
and wears the face of an
older child, yesterday we
pretended to be real, with
our arms outstretched wide
we flew through the air, two
pieces of shrapnel, which land
and begin to grow, in the fire
a leafless tree with fingers
of ash, wisps of smoke from
the sun when we let it burn
for too long, yesterday is
nothing now, it is too far away,
your tongue is wrapped
around the ruined words,
you can taste the plastic
tang, the newness in the air,
a bow headed whale gulfing,
before it swallows us both,
whole, exactly where we stand

Daniel Cartwright-Chaouki is a gardener and writer from Birmingham, England. He writes about the scary world. His work has featured both in print and online including The Lincoln Review, Steel Jackdaw, The Vanity Papers, Ink Sweat and Tears, The Lake, Sextet, Alocasia and Mindfork.

The Editor2026-10-18T22:36:41-04:00October 18, 2026|