Edge of Humanity Magazine
Poetry Monthly — September 2026 Issue
24 Authors · 26 Works

Date: September 15, 2026Author: Edge of Humanity Magazine 0 Comments

Join us for our September Poetry Monthly Event and enjoy 26 works of poetry, flash fiction, haiku and prose by 24 poets and writes. Take a moment to slow down, explore their words, and enjoy an inspiring gathering of creative expression from storytellers around the world.

Park Bench

A loving father yells at a stranger to guard his son,
I snap back to the bench at the park
slumped, petrified with a vacant gaze
that collapses everything around me

soul on fire, ignited by a restless mind,
the heart like the middle of a tornado
calm and at peace pondering on its next beat
trying to find balance between these mighty centers

A break from the gnawing thoughts,
Heartbeats listening for
A break from the fears that question my hopes

I smile at a woman with a dog
as she walks by,
Oblivious of the dialogue
I just parted from in my minds

Prose By Carl “Papa” Palmer

The Opportunist

Jason Amalynn was the leader in his field of TV and movie special effects. His invention was a spectral prism laser projector using image reflection and light refraction to create a 3D hologram. The mirage could be created and shown most anywhere on most anything, not just as trick photography on film, but projected upon buildings, clouds and even a waterfall once.
I was in total awe of Jason as his apprentice, however felt completely betrayed when he vowed to take his technique public. That’s why I killed him.

Using only a picture of the original object, multiple objects are created, not unlike the mirror fun house. Amalynn wanted to donate this “illusion of mass” for military scenarios, multiply our troop strength, virtually surround the enemy and cause them to surrender without loss of life. His humanitarian effort would not put money in my pocket.
Being completely familiar with the equipment, it was a cinch to setup my operation, and I had the perfect location, Pier 55, Seattle Washington.
My sign read: Alaska Cruise Special – $200
Next 3 hours Only
Sign up Today and Sail Tonight

Out in the drizzling foggy mist of Puget Sound was my cruise ship luring a growing line of suckers ready for a deal. I was racking in the dough so fast I didn’t see the police arrive or see that the sun had come out to fade my cruise ship into reality.
My biggest mistake was to believe that it always rains in Seattle.

Poetry By Andrew Cyr

Grief’s Refusal

Claire spoke in circles,
dragging the lake with sorrows.
Request rejected.

Haiku By Roland Deglain

Last walk on the beach
The summer ending slowly
Pink moon in the sky

Poetry By Ivan Pozzoni

BALLAD OF REJECTED LOVE

For once, i would like to avoid
celebrating the boasts of Antéros,
sung in every tone,
reporting, with my rancid verses,
of a love rejected
without any hope of vengeance.

From an adulterous union,
consummated in a secluded bed
of a motel far from Hephaestus’ networks,
in the form of a quickie,
Antéros was born,
second heir of a clandestine couple,
who, amid sex outdoors and exchanges,
loved to live without ethos.

By the whim of an autistic brother,
Antéros came into the world
chained to the role of a Siamese twin,
remaining a victim of domestic utility,
he, a newborn, conceived, like many,
for the purpose of solving earthly squabbles,
like children of a minute’s duration,
invented in China or India, on demand,
where a Western tourist might need a kidney.

Raised in a mix of aggression and beauty,
measuring himself against Ares and Aphrodite,
a myth within the myth of an adolescent
aware he must grow up without weakness,
under the shadow of a mother attentive to every wrinkle
with an absent husband and many lovers,
slave to a fragile stepbrother,
Antéros took flight.

People of every age, condition, racial kind,
longing to track down Antéros,
do not realize at all
how abnormal it is
that a reciprocated love
can strike deep roots
in an environment so tangled.

Poetry By Folorunsho Ahmed Adekunle

MAYA CAN SOUND LIKE ME NOW

I tried to kiss the Mic
Every time I get a proposal
To marry the podium
And spit my poetry.
But I have watched too much
Of Maya Angelou;
Her old but gold witty voice
that crushes grammars
to make way for silky words
in the wetland of her audience’ heart.
My own, that sounds to me
Like a busted bass of buka music box,
Of course, it is my own.
So I give it a warm hug every morning,
Polish it with palm kernel oil
Of that Osun dialect.
It conquered star
To shine and sparked emotions on stage.
It is my own voice;
My own performance poetry;
I’m sure Maya would love to sound like me now.

Poetry By Hana Rubinstejnova

THE IRONY

the irony of life
to live fully
one has to die first
the self lives a lie
in an illusory world
fed drama and fear
the reality of truth
the very opposite
pure love and light

live in the now
peel off layers
emerge anew
clarity awaits patiently
underneath darkness
merely to be awakened

Poetry By J.B. Hogan

A Cold Place

There’s a cold place inside,

down deep inside,

far from the outside,

cold, frozen over,

impenetrable, hard,

unfeeling, uncaring,

it’s there for protection

to block out pain

to reject falseness

to resist weakness

to prepare and to go

beyond that terminal,

that solo, solitary last

rejection with its own

act of silent, final defiance.

Haiku By Kon Markogiannis

flowing river
silent mountain
one and the same

Poetry By Kon Markogiannis

the 12 phobias

I’m afraid
of tomorrow
today
yesterday

I’m afraid
to live
afraid
to die

I’m afraid
I won’t wake up
from the lethargy
of existence

I’m afraid
of dreams
which haunt
my waking hours

I’m afraid
to look
at my own
self

I’m afraid
of my thoughts
my desires
my shadow

I’m afraid
of the beast
which lives
within my gut

I’m afraid
of nothingness
emptiness
and zeroness

I’m afraid
of the darkness
which lies
inside me

10.

I’m afraid
I may be reborn
and repeat
the same mistakes

11.

I’m afraid
but I do not know
why I should
be afraid

12.

I’m afraid
I might find
that fear
does not exist

Poetry By REVEUR

I AM

I am, a matter of seconds, a few minutes of the day, and hours of longing.
I am the unseen wind that swirls the leaves.
I am, the sand that comforts the waves,the water that flows with the lilies.
I am, the broken sound of cars, the quiet wheels, and the weight of their path.
I am, a smiling face, the dryness of tears,swelled eyes in fear, and the sleep in its blink.
I am, the mighty chase of time,the right and the wrong, the missed deadline.
I am still, calm, but in a rush.
I am a wandering lost soul, always on the verge of giving up.
I am a verse of silence, and a blaring music of challenges.
I am a tinkering hope amidst the dark clouds.
I am the sun’s child, the struggling mind, the running dreams asking for sunshine.
I am the journey unable to find its fun.
I am the destination in making, the dark of the light, the force of the tides.
I am a miracle of God, the divine,
Am I?
I am yet to find.

Flash Fiction By Rohc

Hungry

The boy pulled his scarf up higher around his mouth, face red from the cold. The street was quiet, empty. He knocked on a door, then knocked again. Nobody answered. He moved onto the next door. It opened a fraction, a woman peering out. The boy looked up at her, “P-please Miss, I’m s-so hungry. C-could I have something to eat?”

The woman stared at the boy, “There’s not enough food to go around for my own family, kid. Tough luck.” She shut the door in his face. Shivering, he moved to the next house, knocking again. This time a man answered.

“P-please Sir, I’m so hungry. Could I please have s-something to eat?”

The man shook his head. “Sorry kid, food and money’s tight you know? I don’t have any to spare.” He gave an apologetic look, shutting the door. He walked over to the next house. Knocked again, knuckles paler than the falling snow.

An elderly couple opened the door, smiling sweetly at the child. “What is it dear?” The boy licked his chapped lips, his voice dry.

“I-It’s just that I’m so h-hungry, a-and I was wondering if you had any food?” A woman, man, and a child came up behind the elderly couple, smiling at the boy, having overheard.

“We were having a feast, there’s plenty to spare, come in boy, before you catch your death in the cold.”

The boy stepped gratefully inside, shutting the door behind him.

***

After having eaten his fill, the boy walked out the silent house himself, shutting the door behind him. He wiped the blood off his mouth with the back of his hand, mentally thanking the family for feeding him.

He walked up to the next house, knocking.

“Please Miss, I’m so hungry. Do you have any food?”

Poetry By Monika Dybowska

IN THE BOX (trying to get out)

I’m in the state of walking about.
I’m in the mood of screaming out loud
my soul.
Locked in the box of my bedroom walls
I am free but have nowhere to go,
I’ve got a voice but nothing to say,
I’ve got my body but nothing to do,
I’ve got free will which tells me to listen to others.

Let me scream, jump and run,
let me dance naked in the rain,
let me go over the edge of exhaustion,
let me empty my soul out…. to you.

I like simple words and short sentences,
I like the words that never miss
but always hit.
I like taking my chances.

People don’t like being hit by my words.

Poetry By Ghairo Daniels

GOLD AND BLOOD

Mantis eyes magnetised her sister’s heart

felt its imprisoned glint of gold

willed it to enlarge into a

lotus leaf upon a sea

It floats on a lake of blood before

dawn turning hot burning blue

heat of her own blood

gold of her own heat

‘Let her not drown in

bloodied gold of red

running thick and deep’

So she murmured, so they did

To a shore of soft sand

Heart sailed escorted by

obsidian lidded dragons

gloomy gold unshackling

Guts, throat, tongue

puddle, pond, lake of

blood transmuted to turquoise

gold and blood morphing

Cupids created decoupage d i s h e s

with bloodied dollars __ g o l d

called for another stint

to alchemise pentacles c o l d

Poetry By Carl “Papa” Palmer

An Ode to Eating in America

Eating here stateside is hard to define.
Much more than cheese wedgies, veggies and meat,
or drive-thru fast foods on most any street.
Choosing food from signs while waiting in line,
we “dress to the nines” with waiters and wine,
snack between meal treats of anything sweet,
on a bar stool seat, sit waiting to eat.
It can be fine not to dine by design.
We eat with our hands at hamburger stands.
We graze the buffet while filling our tray.
From various brands, from various lands,
from breakfast soufflé, to evening sorbet,
our waists expand as we “munch on demand.”
We eat “our way” here in the USA.

Poetry By Bob Richley

The Past

The past is there to remind us
Of who we were in times gone by
But the past does not define us

Like a ghost you can sense its wrath
Like the wind you hear its lament
But it will not hinder your path

I am what I am in the present moment
Though influenced by the past

Flash Fiction By LB Sedlacek

JOKES AND CAMERAS

The first rule of being a spy is to deny being a spy. I’ve been denying it since I was in college.
A couple of my friends, Alan and Kay, noticed something was off. They’d ask me about it. They’d question my computer programming codes. They’d joke that I was inserting hidden messages.
I acted insulted. They were right, but I threw them off by being offended.

Denial is easy. You just need a camera.

Poetry By Julia Douglas-Mann

Poetry Submissions

I refresh and refresh
like I’m in a beauty contest.
Mania?
I’m writing like I’m clinging
to a mirror of reality.
My thoughts don’t exist forever.
If I don’t record them,
they’ll die.
Usually,
medication strips my mind of a face.
I upload my words,
unwilling to be defined
by the DSM-5.
I don’t shout.
I explain.
Is this illness,
or creativity without an income?

Poetry By Althea Dawn

The Locked Diary

I’ve forgotten how it feels
to have a simple conversation
on the telephone with a friend
and talk for hours
I’ve forgotten how it feels
to be alone with myself
and want nothing else
The bathroom is my locked diary
Bubbles are my slippery entertainment
My mind vaporises
the thought of the mud
still clinging to my skin
I write the word “reverie”
on the mirror covered with condensation
and watch it disappear slowly
I might be clean
yet I can still feel the dirt
Even after the water
slips away from my body
Drying alone

Poetry By Raw With Awinnoh

Nazarene

Hey there!
Nice to meet yuh,
Once again!
I realized something from last time,
You look much like the Naza
Rene!
Jesus!
Yeah!

B’cuz you saved me from myself!
A self that consistently alarmed me
That I wasn’t worthy!
A self that only hoped for the worst in people!
A body that had adopted
“Misfit” as a title!
And believed that life should
Have never been in my plans!

I had long lost in the desert
With no light and direction!
No friends!
Just alone!
And thats when christmas nocks,
A savior at last!

Meeting you was therapy
To my lost self!
You lit my path and
Showed me the direction
To get out of the desert!
And since you are here,

I need you to walk with me
Out of the desert from the grasslands!
I wish to grow my hopes with you
Hopes that if I can’t make it today,
Tomorrow is another day to give it a try!
And that even the tiniest steps
Counts towards success!

Poetry By Drew Martin

When the Ghosts of Hell Start Drinkin’

When the ghosts of hell start drinkin’
What do you think they say?
Do they talk of all the years gone by
Before they went astray?
Do they talk of days of saints?
Or do they talk of days of sin?
How in the days of their youth
They’d sneak their mother’s gin
But not their father’s whiskey
On those stormy Irish nights
Out upon the rollin’ waves
Before lookin’ to start up fights

When the ghosts of hell start drinkin’
Thinkin’ back upon the time
Do they think of all their innocence?
Or about their life of crime?
The time they first took
A penny or a life
Those and oh so many things
With the sharp blade of a knife
A dull blade does no good
Like a bottle with a single shot
It might be there, but what the hell?
Like a tree that’s left to rot

When the ghosts of hell start drinkin’
Does the devil tend the bar?
Serve ‘em up in a cracked chalice
Lit with the morning star
Even ghosts need their spirits
From the bottle stiff and strong
Not watered down to nothin’
Hang the bastard who done wrong
As in any other tavern
Though this one’s down in Hell
Don’t water down the whiskey, lad
Or the devil’ll know you well.

Poetry By Joshua Walker

My Father’s Coat

My father’s coat still hangs
behind the hallway door.

No one decided it should stay there.

No family meeting.
No ceremony.

One day he was alive,
and then he wasn’t,
and somehow the coat remained.

Months passed.

Then a year.

Now it feels less like clothing
and more like a piece of architecture.

Sometimes I catch myself checking its pockets.

A receipt from a hardware store
that no longer exists.

A pen that quit working years ago.

A peppermint
fused to its wrapper.

Small evidence
that someone was planning on tomorrow.

One afternoon I put it on.

Not because I missed him.

Because I was carrying laundry
and happened to reach for it.

The sleeves fit.

The shoulders fit.

For a moment,
standing in the middle of my living room,
I understood something I had spent years avoiding.

Grief is not the absence of a person.

It is all the ordinary things
that keep expecting them to come back.

I hung the coat where I found it.

The house looked exactly the same.

I did not.

Poetry By Michael Hack

Memento Mori

Everywhere I see this dream
The reflections of you in everything
On the walls
In the glass
In the rooms I can’t get past
Surrounded by mementos
And memories I can’t undo

Even though you are gone from my life
You have infiltrated my home like a fog
Your footprints are on every surface
In every room
The telltale signs of the mark you made in me

The death of love pulled you away from me
But left you scattered across my memories like a minefield

I can’t hold onto you
I can’t let go of you
Somewhere in the middle
Your presence remains
Pervasive and invasive
Mementos of you

How can a life so entwined in mine
So suddenly wrench free
Your vines left twisted around my spine
Like an anchor holding me
Back
From moving on

But everywhere I see this dream
Your reflection in everything
And deep down
I know
I don’t want to forget

Poetry By NN Benn

crocuses on the soft verge

half a bike ride after an
interminable mechanical
stressful morning
finally out, struggling in the wind
there are
crocuses on the soft verge
everywhere else i look
there is something to be done
something to tidy
a message to send
an errand to run
a suitcase to pack
a trip to plan
so for now
i’m looking at the
crocuses on the soft verge

Poetry By Christopher Couch

the abbey life

I suppose I’m not fit for
the abbey
too strange the poet if
not
person
or
whoever I might be
on entering

and
I raise
questions as
a sinner

then
too old
too ill
disabled
I could not volunteer to serve
say
in gardening
or cooking
or in cleaning

I could write a little
teach some
maybe
should either be desired

what presses is
what I could
do
small that would
be
but what is needed on the inside
two insides
I suppose

the inside of me that yearns for
peace
devotion
a robed style of chanting
and
of prayer and of
answering with clarity
a call

and its inside
too
that I could serve
that
could possibly
if at all
need someone
need me

I’ve only read a couple books
met
one or two
who live
in one
and heard some
music

still I want
to be
a part
and be a part of me

Poetry By Lynn White

Beauty Parlour

Step inside my parlour,
my pampering parlour
and you will be remade,
reborn,
stroked
and smoothed,
petted and prodded,
cosseted and curled,
given the attention you deserve
as well as a new face
and shiny new hair.
In Pampers Parlour we’ll recreate you
reboot your confidence
and give you a new chemistry
as we gloss your hair and lips,
as we shape your face
with new shadows and glows,
as we apply layer upon layer
of chemical shit topped by
nose retching fragrances.
You won’t know yourself when
you step outside
dolled up to perfection,
protected in your new mask.
And what then?
Will you go home
and comb it all out
and wash it all off,
preferring,
after all,
the person
with the old skin
and fresh air colour
to the new robotic doll.
The pampers product is
designed to be disposable,
after all.
Or will you keep it
as long as you can..
Try not to move your new face.
Try not to upset your new hair.
Place a ‘Do Not Disturb’ sign
on your forehead.
Keep it as long as you can.
Even if stinky and crusty,
you’ll still have your face on.
You feel
so bland,
so pale,
so wan,
exposed
without it
on the journey back
to the beauty parlour.