Carpe Diem by Gerald E. Greene

Carpe Diem Series

Some days “Seizing the day” comes easy, while other days it is not all it’s cracked up to be. Gerald E. Greene shares with us today an incredibly relatable poem!

My Favorite Line, “So “carpe” isn’t what I’m meant to be.”

Carpe Diem

“Seize the day!” she said in hurried tones,
As if I didn’t want to carpe diem.
I wasn’t sure how to respond to the
call to cherish moments, or how to use them.

One cannot argue with the pristine thought
of going after what you want, achiev-
ing best results with what you have to give.
It is a fact I know and do believe.

While others work all day and stay up late,
I fall asleep while watching my TV,
and go to bed by nine, five nights a week.
So “carpe” isn’t what I’m meant to be.

Go seize, if that is what you want to do,
and use each second to its full extent.
Take control of all that comes your way
and measure with precision how each minute’s spent.

But I am lazy, have no energy
to tackle projects in a zealous way,
and so I amble, nap and take my time,
unwilling to rise up and “Seize the Day!”


Gerald E. Greene

Author of “Kaleidoscope” poetry collection Published by CreateSpace, 2017 and “Turning Losing Forex Trades Into Winners” Published by John Wiley & Sons, 2008.

His blog is “Short Stories Rated G” on Facebook

His short stories or poems have been published in Guide Magazine, Insight Magazine, Compass Magazine, The Flash Fiction Press, Deronda Review, A Story in 100 Words, Tiny Seed Literary Journal, Glide, Not Far From Me, and Jordan Journal Collective.

When You Smile & Other Poetry by Walid Abdallah

Carpe Diem Series

Prepare to be moved by the tender words of Walid Abdallah! In a world that is filled with heaviness, his poetry brings a much needed light and romance.

My Favorite Line, “Because of her, I forget every pain
Her love flows smoothly in every vein”

When you smile 

When you smile to me
I drown into your see

A smile wipes away the world ugliness
It settles down my heart’s mess

It gives my life a meaning
It stops my heart’s bleeding

It makes me alive again
It gives the desert rain

It makes me forget anything bad
It makes me happy after being sad

It lightens the darkness of my night
It gives the sun much more light

It stops wars and hurricanes
It eliminates all people’s pains

It creates a unique state
It brings the best fate

It makes the sky in joy fly
It makes the rock in joy cry

Your smile is the secret of my happiness
Keep smiling, it is truly priceless

Palm tree

I am a palm tree in the vast space
The desert is my home, my place

The Arabs are my folks everywhere
They water me with love and care

I am the symbol of their glory and wealth
I am the source of their dignity and health

In the middle of the desert standing upright
Witnessing every moment of joy and fight

My roots go down to the deepest earth
I protect Arabs from famine and dearth

I feed everyone passing by and every astray
Every animal feeds on my leaves and hay

I am the first food Arabs ever know
I stand still whenever storms blow

I have saved people of desert through the ages
Read history books and tour religious pages

I have been the shelter of the different prophets
I have been the wealth of Arabs and their profits

I am the beauty of desert, I am the palm tree
I am the absolute beauty man’s eyes can see


All my life,  looking for my soulmate
Sent straight from my good fate

Carrying eternal happiness in her eyes
Having a tender heart that never lies

Her smile lightens the whole earth
Her eyes are the world’s wealth

On seeing her, I forget my name
My breathing stops and can’t blame

Because of her, I forget every pain
Her love flows smoothly in every vein

With every beat, my heart calls her
Saying her name, longing for her care

When she shows up, birds swing
My heartbeats dance and sing

Opening my eyes, seeing no one
Her beauty exceeds the warm sun

In a very cold lonely night
Her eyes hold me so tight

She is the love I always wait for
She is the love I never tasted before


Walid Abdallah is an Egyptian poet and author. He is a visiting professor of English language and literature in Egypt, Saudi Arabia, Germany and the USA, his poetry includes “Go Ye Moon”, “If you were here”, ” Dream” and “My heart still beats”. His books include Shout of Silence, Escape to the Realm of Imagination, My Heart Oasis and Man Domination and Woman Emancipation, and his co-translations with Andy Fogle of Farouk Goweda’s poetry have previously appeared in Image, RHINO, Reunion: Dallas Review, and Los Angeles Review. These translations won prestigious prizes in the USA like “Cause”, “Egypt’s Grief”, and “Strangers’ Cross”. 

State of Arcane Art? & Other Poetry by Gerard Sarnat

Carpe Diem Series

Gerard Sarnat reminds us of the preciousness of life and how fragile it can be. Take a moment to read his remarkable work and let it encourage you to make the most of today and everyday!

My Favorite Line: “But in the looking, you may find freedom to ask,

Thusly, what is truly happening here now?”

State of Arcane Art?

up poobah…
here I am, a doctor
who practiced
in two meccas,
Stanford/ Harvard
med schools,
back during
relative Dark Ages,
today read
enlightened treatment
for COPD
with supplemental 𝑂2
& “handheld
fans” (!!!!)
still fundamental
Rx before
resort to opioids for
of breath.


i. Post Traumatic Growth Doomsday

Almost 75 years, sequestered, counting her/our fears, separated
from only companion she could touch —
last shelter dog left in kennel after run on that gloomy market

–with a very long history of insulin-requiring diabetes mellitus,
cardiovascular disease, Guillan-Barré,
intubated, dialyzed with pneumonia + incurable acute leukemia

Bonnie Doon’s got nada timeouts, only exit moves so she spends
precious hours not too near loving family,
doesn’t waste remaining I.C.U. time warp rending sterile garments.

ii. Diamond Birthday Party

— R.I.P. B.T. (1944- 15Oct20)

There we were,
perhaps 50 of us Stanford community squares
the gem which you are for making it to year 76.

After ICU bout
of about two weeks intubated well as dialyzed
with underlying
insulin-requiring diabetes/cardiovascular disease

on top of morsel
sized modest Guillain-Barré residuals plus more
recent incurable
acute myelogenous leukemia, new pneumonia etc.

somehow now
hero-spouse’s steely-eyed determined perseverance
managed young house staff and keep patient aroused

so that morning
of lunch event, just an hour until our festivities’ launch,
all those tubes
got removed right in time for loved one properly fêted

then says Thanks!
along with few of her signature ripping razor-sharp barbs
indicating truly
“with it” before minutes after virtual get-together ends, she

passed peaceably happily hypoxic.

Impermanence Embraced

— thanks to David Cohn

We think time’s linear, that past becomes present and present becomes our future.

Though if look at experiences more closely — there are no present moments.

Each seems empty of any solid existence. Cannot be found.

But in the looking, you may find freedom to ask,

Thusly, what is truly happening here now?

Strong call to return home to wildwoods?

To sit under bodhi tree with primordial

natural awareness, unconditioned,

deathless, unborn. Commit to sky,

allegiant to allow clouds to pass.

So sages have taught us…


Gerard Sarnat won San Francisco Poetry’s 2020 Contest, the Poetry in the Arts First Place Award plus the Dorfman Prize, and has been nominated for handfuls of 2021 and previous Pushcarts plus Best of the Net Awards. Gerry is widely published including in Buddhist Poetry Review, Gargoyle, Main Street Rag, New Delta Review, Arkansas Review, Northampton Review, New Haven Poetry Institute, Texas Review, Vonnegut Journal, Brooklyn Review, San Francisco Magazine, Monterey Poetry Review, The Los Angeles Review, and The New York Times as well as by Harvard, Stanford, Dartmouth, Penn, Chicago and Columbia presses. He’s authored the collections Homeless Chronicles (2010), Disputes (2012), 17s (2014), Melting the Ice King (2016). Gerry is a physician who’s built and staffed clinics for the marginalized as well as a Stanford professor and healthcare CEO. Currently he is devoting energy/ resources to deal with climate justice, and serves on Climate Action Now’s board. Gerry’s been married since 1969 with three kids plus six grandsons, and is looking forward to future

Gâteau & Other Poetry by Joan Mazza

Carpe Diem Series

Joan Mazza’s poetry brings such delight in the way she addresses the pandemic and life within it, while also acknowledging the hardships. Her first poem might even make you a bit hungry! Check out her incredible work!

My Favorite Line, “Give me a break—cake to numb my heartache, baked until
the sugars brown, sliced pineapples turned upside

for Susan, in pandemic solidarity

Even in French, it has too many calories—
those lovely éclairs and croissants I wake
craving— tarts, tortes, and turnovers with figs,
apricots, and dates. I pine for pound cake,
chase chiffon and angel food, cheesecake with
chocolate swirled, cupcakes, muffins. Even

date-nut bread with pecans is sweet enough.
I’m jonesing for an all-day buffet of desserts
only, with layer cakes on pedestals, frosting
dripping down the sides, roses created
from butter cream and tinted pink and peach.
Large spoons summon me to tubs of vanilla

and chocolate pudding, rice pudding, Jell-o,
and custards. I salivate for a hunk of apple pie
with a scoop of vanilla ice cream or a fudge
sundae with sprinkles and nuts, a banana split
and crisp sugar cookies on the side. I’ll take
a cake sandwich, cake pizza, penne baked

with chocolate chips, brownies, and cream puffs.
A year of no parties, gatherings, or restaurants
gives me the shakes and makes me want to eat
all things sweet before I graduate to Pringles,
Fritos, salted peanuts, cashews, and pistachios.
Awake since 3 AM, I’m still fasting, but must

wait to eat until ten. Forget those healthy meals
of greens and beans, a four-ounce steak. Toss
out those salads that should be eaten with a goddamn
rake. Monday I’ll turn on the brakes. Give me

a break—cake to numb my heartache, baked until
the sugars brown, sliced pineapples turned upside
down. Today, cake. For God’s sake, more cake!

Unbutton My Soul

How much courage is needed
to play forever,
as the ravines play,
as the river plays.

– From Boris Pasternak’s, “Bacchanalia”

A buttonhole is a portal to subterranean channels,
buried by commandments. It’s a secret doorway
to unfasten the strictures of the Catholic Church
with all its shalt-nots and guilt-ridden rules to inhibit
pleasure. Not only self-pleasure and the sensual
pleasures of skin with a partner, but simple thrills

attached to reading mysteries and the awe at changing
seasons. Where is the guidance for finding thrills
and joy, like leaping into cold water or a hot tub?
Or a bed? What guidance does the liturgy provide
for tenderness toward children, refugees, disabled?
Where are the rituals to cultivate compassion

for the distressed and poor? I’m unbuttoning,
taking off my refugee mentality with my fear
of the new, taking off layers of heavy fleece,
hats that squeeze my brain. I’m taking off
for the woods with my shirt open and flapping
in the breeze my body makes with my stride,

open to the snares of emotional memories,
happy to be tripped by unexpected playfulness,
blissed out to see the tangled vines of greenbrier
as beautiful, its berries gathered for jam. I’m
tripping and jamming to the music of finches
and titmice, music of the spheres I hear when

I hold still and halt my breath to accept
my sphere of influence right here, right now.
Let creative affluence assail me and hold me
in its tattooed arms to whisper, You will
create dreamy gestures to enter unknown
kingdoms. No art is dumb or wasted.

One Year In

Not surprised by having to quarantine,
not shocked by empty shelves at groceries,
I’d expected to see a pandemic during my
lifetime, anticipated staying home alone
for three months, maybe four. It’s one year

since I stocked up, locked down. Vaccines
are here and working. I’m registered, await
my turn, will take any brand available, thrill
at my immune response. This year I did
what I always do: I cooked and baked bread,

labeled everything I froze with contents, date,
and rotated my stock of homemade soup
and canned goods. My friends have blossomed
into artists, turned to watercolors and markers
to draw portraits and animals I recognize.

I’m still writing daily poems about my old
obsessions, waiting for a shift, a clever plot
twist in my life. I don’t need a rescue, know
any prince meant for me won’t ignore the signs
on my driveway that say, Private. No Trespassing.

For those who’ve turned again to alcohol, weed,
and overeating, you have my deep compassion.
These are the hard times, unprecedented times
we’ll talk about for decades, as my parents
spoke of war and The Great Depression,

as I once recounted memories of the day JFK
was shot in Dallas, and the other assassinations
in that decade when the world seemed off
its axis. We’ll talk about January 6 with awe
at the mobs who swallowed conspiracies

about implants, 5G, child trafficking, and slave
colonies on Mars. We won’t forget the claims
that liberals drank baby blood for longer lives.
One year in, we ask, will I emerge whole?
What have I learned about my humanity?


Joan Mazza has worked as a medical microbiologist, psychotherapist, and taught workshops on understanding dreams and nightmares. She is the author of six books, including Dreaming Your Real Self, and her poetry has appeared in Valparaiso Poetry Review, Prairie Schooner, Adanna Literary Journal, Poet Lore, and The Nation. She lives in rural central Virginia, where she writes a poem every day. 


Why I Became a Luna Moth & Other Poetry by Gabrielle Langley

Carpe Diem Series

Enter into this May with the exuberant poetry of Gabrielle Langley! Her words hold a symbolic sense of self while observing the happenings of both good and bad. Take delight in her work below!

My Favorite Line: “I make it my business to glow in the dark.”

Why I Became a Luna Moth

I became a Luna moth
because I often feel the urge
to burst from an exoskeleton
wearing nothing
except a white fur corset
and green powdered wings.
With only seven days to live,
and a wingspan of 114 millimeters,
I make it my business to glow in the dark.
I dance on sugared persimmons,
release volatile sex pheromones,
throw them far into the night.
It makes perfect sense to mate
with the first male who answers my call,
to hide three-hundred eggs on the undersides
of wet leaves, to navigate
by shifting patterns of starlight.
This is my DNA.
I master the art of moon-white camouflage.
I thwart the echolocation of predator bats.
I paint two false eyes on the back of my wings.
This always confuses my enemies.


Every flapper was a secret butterfly
spinning starlight from tin cans. I am a monarch

ruling a kingdom of cocktails and sequins. Bouquets of
long-stemmed roses throw themselves into my arms, daily.

Bottles of French champagne beg me for kisses!
Watch me paint rubies on my lips and fingers. Help me

find my velvet diary, the one with the heart-shaped lock.
Let’s melt the key. Do you know my husband,

the famous novelist? He steals things from me,
types them into his own books, signs his name.

He cuts my love letters into thin strips, pastes them
into his own stories, chides me for being upset.

Every man I ever knew is trying to fix me. “A Gin Sling, please.”
My husband is drunk all the time now.

We drive all over Europe in a Bugatti, tassels on the seat covers.
I throw tantrums for fun, whenever I get bored.

He has me committed to the nervous hospital.
I smuggle in my dancing slippers, my cigarettes, and matches.

The orderlies watch me dance the Charleston.
I dance until my feet catch fire

and then I dance with the flames. I dance
until the entire hospital burns.


Gabrielle Langley’s first book of poetry, Azaleas on Fire, was released in 2019. Shehas wonthe Lorene Pouncey Award, Houston Poetry Fest’s Jury Prize, and the Vivian Nellis Memorial Prize. With work appearing in a variety of literary journals, and three Pushcart prize nominations, Ms. Langley was also a spearhead and co-editor for the anthology Red Sky: Poetry on the global epidemic of violence against women (Sable Books – 2016). Additional information about this poet can be found at

April Fools’ Day & Other Poetry by Joan McNerney

Carpe Diem Series

Joan McNerney brings us everything we need for our spring time poetry! She describes the marvels and energy around us as the world awakens.

My Favorite Line: ” I’m gonna have lunch with
the sky. It’s been way too
long since we got together. “

April Fools’ Day

Joan McNerney

Imagine some have never heard of our special day.
They don’t know about the very first day of April
when winter’s cabin fever morphs into spring folly.

How so many people stow away their winter coats
storing hats and gloves in some handy box
reaching for bright colors to add to their pizzazz.

How young adults become intoxicated with romance
while little ones ruin their shoes playing in mud puddles
as teachers breathe sighs of relief over Easter break.

How industrious staff sneak in time to stare out
windows dreaming of their lunch hours in the sun
wondering earnestly exactly what to do next.

O my legacy (everyone’s talking about legacy now)
will be to search for the greenest trees dancing
in so-sweet winds under a big cobalt blue sky.

Then you can call me a “larger than life” April fool.

Blown Away

Joan McNerney

I’m gonna have lunch with
the sky. It’s been way too
long since we got together.

I’ll run downstairs through
hallways into bursts of blue.
Perhaps never return to work,
words, paper clips, bookshelves.

Who needs cash when there’s
so much green grass to hoard?
Forget about food. I’ll drink up
sunshine, nibbling juicy clouds.

O sky, you are my solar mate.
We will be faithful always.
Come be with me now…I will
never look at another.

Super Woman

Joan McNerney

I wanna become superwoman
learn portuguese in sixty seconds
end pollution single-handedly
feed rice a roni to the planet
win awards left and right.

I wanna become super woman
paint the Taj Mahal red
knock down bureaucrats by the dozens
create creative pandemonium
flying off the edge of everything.

Super woman.


Joan McNerney’s poetry is found in many literary magazines such as Seven Circle Press, Dinner with the Muse, Poet Warriors, Blueline, and Halcyon Days.  Four Bright Hills Press Anthologies, several Poppy Road Journals, and numerous Poets’ Espresso Reviews have accepted her work.  She has four Best of the Net nominations.  Her latest titles are The Muse in Miniature and Love Poems for Michael both available on and

My Wasted Ticket Sits Homeless in My Pocket by Melissa Sussens

Carpe Diem Series

As we continue to wade through these strange times, we embrace the importance of time with our loved ones. Melissa Sussens tenderly writes of this, and brings to life those micro moments with her family. She sweetly takes in the memories and holds on to them to carry her through with hope and appreciation.

My Favorite Line: “Phone calls and messages do not ring the same,
they cannot fill the emptiness that my longing
leaves in me.”

My Wasted Ticket Sits Homeless in My Pocket

A doctor, an engineer and a teacher
all failed at calculating time accurately –
we left when we should have arrived.
Arrived to a sealed gate of disappointment.
In that moment I considered leaving
my bags behind. The strength of my longing
enough to levitate me to another plane
where I do not need pyjamas, underwear or
self respect, if I can only have my mother.
Missing home stains the air with a melancholic taste.
My wasted ticket sits homeless in my pocket,
it rattles there in all the space
that separates me from those I love.
For five months I have been missing
my mother’s wild gesticulating hands,
my father’s excitement over whatever new succulent
he has added to his garden. I have imagined
the way he will drag me out to see it, still in my slippers.
I will not feel the stab of the uneven ground
through my wonder at this version of home,
my home. I am missing my mom’s lasagne
and the comfort of her almost spilling over
cups of Earl Grey tea. I am longing for
the hours of conversation on the couch,
our walks in the mountains turned breathless
by the hills and calendar days revisited together.
Phone calls and messages do not ring the same,
they cannot fill the emptiness that my longing
leaves in me. I cannot replace the scratch
of my father’s stubble as he kisses me on the cheek.
I cannot dream the solace of my mother’s bones
beside me in bed in the morning light.
I know I will never miss another flight again.


Melissa Sussens is a queer veterinarian and poet from South Africa. Her work has appeared in Capsule StoriesAnti-Heroin ChicHorse Egg Literary and Germ Magazine, among others and she was runner up for the New Contrast National Poetry Prize. She lives in Cape Town with her partner and their two dogs and can be found on Instagram @melissasussens and on Twitter @girlstillwrites.

A Couple of Kids Grow Old & Other Poetry by Michael H. Brownstein

Carpe Diem Series

What a gift it is to ponder of love and existence surrounding us! Michael H. Brownstein is here to help us do just that. His poetry holds the perfect descriptions to draw our minds to these small luxuries, and encourages us to embrace them for all that they are.

My Favorite Line: ” A lust for love,
not a love of lust.”


They were not a young couple
with a love of lust,
but elderly,
with a lust of love.
Do you know the difference?
I was there once,
and I am older now,
much older,
and I can truthfully say I do not.

At what point did hand holding
become a tangling of tongues,
horizontal made more sense,
and then
somewhere personality exposed itself,
imagination, creativity, intellect–
two talking heads waking together,
snow raining outside,
the temperature falling from 50 to 6 below,
a wraparound wind,
neither one so uncomfortable they need to turn on the furnace.

Whew–that was a long line.

A lust for love,
not a love of lust.
Thirty years of marriage.
It does get better.


All winter the lilies broke through earth,
an easy winter,
splashes of snow now and then,
a few mosaics of frost,
houseflies did not know to die,
ground hogs did not know to hibernate,
everywhere great bald eagles over the Missouri,
the early caw of crows,
a grand scheme of geese,
ponds did not freeze,
and today a worm surfaced,
a robin dropped from a tree
and the wonder of life began its renovations.


This morning I entered
a world of orange rust,
no dreams of the living,
no keepsakes of the dead–
into the graying of snow.

You think this a poem of depression,
a storm of mold and disinterest–
but a songbird sings from her nest,
a cardinal flashes red.

Some mornings the world is a piss storm,
without sound and then a squirrel
runs one branch to another full of glee.


But what do you call the weather that comes off your skin?
The earnest glow of hard work? Soil that sews itself
Into your fingernails? Is there a name for the bent back,
The need to comprehend the inner workings of a garden,
An orange wall, stained glass, the reconfiguration of water,
The simple companionship of a dog resting on your lap?


Michael H. Brownstein

The Playing Field by Evie Groch, Ed.D.

Carpe Diem Series

It amazes me how much we can learn from the simple observation of animals. Dogs truly embody the idea of being present and seizing the day in the most healthy of senses. Evie Groch, Ed.D. has brought us a poem that delights in this topic and leaves us with all smiles and happy thoughts!

My Favorite Line: “their hanging tongues express
their panting joy. “

The Playing Field

Grover, yellow-white lab
sits at sidewalk’s edge
beside his four canine peers,
all awaiting signal to cross
the street, enter the year-long
vacant Little League field.

Once on its turf, they romp, dash,
roll in the grass;
their hanging tongues express
their panting joy.

The ball is lobbed,
they all take off with the confidence
they’ll be the one to catch and retrieve.

Soon they are joined by others – Shepherds,
Goldens, Spaniels, mixed breeds like apple
varietals on display.
Some horse-sized, others pony-like,
they sniff their greetings, accept with tail wags.
Thrice a day I’m witness to this
from my window on the hill.

It dawns on me that for these creatures
wherever they meet
the playing field is always level.


Evie Groch, Ed.D. is a Field Supervisor/Mentor for new administrators in Graduate Schools of Education.  Her opinion pieces, humor, poems, short stories, recipes, word challenges, and other articles have been widely published in the New York Times, The San Francisco Chronicle, The Contra Costa Times, The Journal, Games Magazine, and many online venues. Many of her poems are in published anthologies. Her short stories, poems, and memoir pieces have won her recognition and awards. Her travelogues have been published online with Grand Circle Travel. The themes of travel, language, and immigration are special for her.

Return to the Yellow Phase & More Poetry by Adrian Slonaker

Carpe Diem Series

What joy and excitement Adrian Slonaker gifts us today with his poetry! He helps us focus on the continued healing of the world as well as cherishing relationships with loved ones.

My Favorite Line: “a heart healed by
a hand that understood every callus of my fingers.”

“Return to the Yellow Phase”

At the Witching Hour, all of New Brunswick crackled and flickered as it tore out of its
two-month red and orange dungeon and dived into yellow,
so we yelled a bilingual roar of relief like
children chasing freedom from fussy schoolhouse rules in June.
Fourteen hours later, the temperature fidgeted below the freezing point, yet
the frostiness fizzled against the sizzling satisfaction of
naked smiles and a hearty hello swapped with
the strangers sidestepping ice on the sidewalk – the marvellously maskless
couple clutching each other’s fingers while
a flirty sun stripped his own facial covering,
slinking out with his come-hither stare from behind clouds
as I relished a minty-fresh French kiss on
International Women’s Day
from his windy consort,
la plus grande dame du monde:
Mother Nature.

“The Feast”

Connie Francis fretted about “Blue Winter” on a turquoise transistor radio,
an overzealous blizzard blew blasts of snow,
and sneezes sneaked out of
nostrils stricken by nasmork (a funny Russian runny nose);
but coziness flooded a discreet dinner
in the vesper shadows past the vestibule
as the sepia tone Sunday dreariness disappeared in
a limaçon-shaped pesto pizza and
a heart healed by
a hand that understood every callus of my fingers.

Artist Statement:

“Return to the Yellow Phase” was inspired by the return of our province to the ‘yellow phase’ of COVID recovery (8th March), which meant we were finally, after a couple months, allowed to go outside in public without COVID face masks. It was liberating and wonderful to take a spontaneous walk and feel the breezy cold air against my face and see human faces outdoors again! 

“The Feast” is about how a dinner with someone special (seizing the day and taking a chance on friendship, love, romance, etc.) can brighten up one’s outlook on a dreary, chilly Sunday.     


Fond of seasonal chocolate treats eaten way out of season, catchy rock ‘n roll records, springtime rain and cobblestone streets, language professional Adrian Slonaker lives in Moncton, New Brunswick, Canada. Adrian’s work, which has been nominated for Best of the Net and the Pushcart Prize, has appeared in WINK: Writers in the Know, Cajun Mutt Press, The Pangolin Review and others.