Lakshman Bulusu is a poet, author, and Barnes and Noble Educator from Princeton. His poetry is published in U.S. 1, OpenDoorMagazine, The Poets’ Touchstone, Local Honey - Midwest, Five Willows Literary Review, and other magazines in the U.S., Europe, and India. He invented the STAR poem poet…

    Two poets and past contributors to U.S. 1’s Summer Fiction issues saw to fit pay tribute in verse on the 20th anniversary of 9/11. 

      U.S. 1 continues to accept works of short fiction, poetry, and short plays by writers and poets who live or work in the greater Princeton area. Email submissions, along with a brief biography, to fiction@princetoninfo.com.

      Summer Fiction Year-Round: U.S. 1 continues to accept and publish submissions of original poetry, short works of fiction, and plays from readers who live or work in the Princeton area. Be sure to include a brief biography with your work.

      Moore, a Monroe resident, writes, “I am a retiree who at this late stage in life has decided to try to create poetry.”

      George Dabrowski retired from NJ Transit in 2007. A couple of those 33 years were spent on the Dinky, most enjoyably. He plays a bit of piano — his own compositions and old, old standards at Ellarslie, Trenton City Museum, in Cadwalader Park, on weekends. The Ellarslie Open is on till Octobe…

      A children’s book author and former elementary school teacher, Cooper lives in East Windsor.

      Elane Gutterman is a founding Board member and current Literary Committee Chair of West Windsor Arts. Her poems have appeared in the Kelsey Review, New Verse News, Paterson Literary Review and U.S. 1 Summer Fiction Issues. Her first book of poems, Tides of Expectation, is forthcoming from Ke…

        U.S. 1 is publishing user-submitted original short stories and poetry year-round, including works by Anne Hiltner and Carolyn Foote Edelmann in this week's issue.

        Though half a loaf is better far than none,Half a face shows half a disposition,And wondering if a masked man you should shunYou’ll only know by deepest intuition.

        Michael H. Brill, a Ph.D. in physics, has been a poet and color scientist in the Route 1 corridor for more than 25 years. For the past seven of those years he has been the director of research at Datacolor in Lawrenceville. Mostly he sits at the same kitchen table each day, having actually c…

        We open March windows not knowing if bad air comes in or goes out. The long down hill slants wind in our faces. The spring breeze stirs as we cycle aside the lock. On the road home our breath heavy, unmasked. The magnolia buds break open discarding gray husks on the ground like field mice. […]

        After my Pfizer shots, I make a reservation to swim at six in the mornings at the Y then head to Philly’s Barnes Foundation step into the museum after a year’s absence excited to mingle with adults and children but speechless in front of Soutine and de Kooning With liquefied brushstrokes de …

        Skeleton fingers Disjointed, pointing In all directions Bone skin bandages In a perpetual State of peeling Like curled documents Still bound To her living case Between her smooth Joints, scarred and ragged, Is each encoded trajectory, Sharply outlined in Brown, naked winter Her white body On…

        Still air, grey branches Await an icy armor Yet buds push up green As skies darken An irruption of robins Sounds of beating wings Icy drops trickle Wind-swept leaves skitter away Winter’s grip strengthens Dark thoughts stalk the night Dry leaves rustle in the lane Comfort waits for sunrise S…

        for Anne with an E Art consumes her every waking day beyond the stained glass rectangular facade. Come inside. Cross the multi-colored portal decorated with vertical Mondrian glass. Enter the foyer with its bulbed chandelier. Fairly ordinary interior, 16 steps leading upstairs. Go right into…

        I send a picture of zucchini pancakes with cranberry-applesauce to Rose, and her husband Martin says it passes because his treif wife made the sauce. We might do take-out lunch together on the patio once more this year. Indian food stays warm the best. Or maybe it will be sushi on Zoom. I in…

        The hope of seeing our grandchildren for Thanksgiving is diminishing as the raging pandemic keeps spreading with no end in sight. My husband and I spend our weekends at the arboretum wandering among trees and communicating with plants. Awestruck by the over a hundred feet tall giants, in ova…

        cold light radiant in cornfields turning the looped leaves molten, frost in the wings rays caught, then deflected along thin ridges of audible cornleaves light spilling fragrance spice along the tongue pungent familiar/new light of the first day answering that intonation Let there be… Co-fou…

        Author’s note: This poem takes place in 1936, during the Great Depression and before the Presidential election, while my mother Florence Levin was in medical school and about to vote for the first time. I think it has striking parallels to what’s happening now, weeks before our own election.…

        Every Tuesday and Thursday we meet at your house. I stop by your office on the median strip Just off Route 1. I guess you can say you work from home. It’s the same routine: I return from my work as yours ramps up. The cash in my pocket is what you need Because your […]

        You are retired and have not caught the virus. You stay home in isolation with your spouse. You wake up, look at the clock, debating— to get up, sleep late, or take a chance and go to Trader Joe’s. You wonder if you have been magically upgrade to be living the leisure life of the […]

        The Kate’s Trail signpost on Elm Ridge Road is like a bookmark among Hopewell’s million-dollar estates. But no parking, and the ankle-deep, muddy entrance deter most hikers, except for the determined and the curious. Yet if you brave the five hundred paces of squishy muck, triangle markers u…

        include the finger phalanges on tired hands and carpus, lunate in the wrists stiff neck where tensions persist. On Earth Day I take up chalk draw flowers, sunshine on sidewalk send happy birthday from far away on FaceTime we find time to talk hard rains falls the next day but, missing does n…

        What we had was most of all there was. Where the plow stops suddenly The clank of the metal against stone berating any melancholy. Where the poetry runs out sucks the breath from my lungs. Where the words are mere empty vessels, of use no more. Time squandered with poetry and sadness. The lo…

        LOUD mask approaching Louder…CLOSER…then…past Of course! a blue tooth! From ‘Waiting on Wallenberg: Haiku Musings for Trenton Busstops’ Karen Carson is a contributing writer for Trenton Daily online, a project of Greater Trenton. Wallenberg is the name of the road outside the Trenton Train Station.

        A phalanx of tiny ants some going one way some the other in single file, fast as if on a mission known only to them quick-step across my patio. As I watch, when two happen to meet there’s a momentary pause, a touch before they hurry on. A fleeting kiss, an elbow bump? Do ants […]

        I confess I need to sleep with blinders on Until hypocrisy vanishes Like folks celebrating Covid19 front-line workers With pots and pans and spectacular military flyovers Meanwhile those heroes go to war Poorly armed Against an invisible, overpowering enemy Effusive gestures used like protec…

        Georgia primary election, June 9, 2020 This Georgia peach has a rotten past in laws that set up literacy tests and poll taxes and leaders that planted fear to stop blacks from voting. In the shade and steps of Lincoln, a young MLK called out “give us the ballot.” yet it would take years and […]

        His insults flew across the land and no one seemed to care. His hatred of the vigilant press the public did not scare. The good advisors Trump first hired could have calmed him down But quickly he disposed of them and no one seemed to frown. He called on Russia, met with Kim, and jettisoned […]

        on the mainland the people in charge do not “see” the poorer folk from the South who work for them, a profound difference of class. a woman comes here works at the bank sends her daughter Marie to school with an apple. Marie pulls it out and eats it. the next day Rapa Nui kids […]

        Robins skitter across the grass. Mimicking drops of rain They lure earthworms for repast. Tulips—fiery red, mustard yellow, dazzling white— Stand defiant in a cluster on a hill. I do not wear a mask. Headlines claim another world mere miles away A newly tented gateway Men and women in hazmat…

        I have listened to the spring heard its repertoire of arias echoed by the cardinals felt its breath as a warm breeze so gentle to the touch observed its verdant grasses mowed in linear patterns its pungent fragrances satiating the senses admired the cherry tree clothed in its finest gown as …

        Every year Bella’s mother baked for their church’s bake sale two cookbooks opened to grease-stained pages Flour everywhere, electric mixer, mixing bowls, rolling pins, measuring cups, spoons baking racks, sheets divine smells of cinnamon, nutmeg, allspice all through the house, deep dish app…

        A civil war rages, a degree awaits, an uncle calls or greener shores beckons, You fly, walk, navigate immigration, sneak over the border, You don’t know it yet but you are an immigrant. You speak, they don’t understand and neither do you theirs. You learn new ways, new tongues. You work, be …

        For Shefali, an Eighth Grader “It takes a village to raise a child.” We sat on your couch and I read your poem all three pages. I was struck by the lyricism of your lines and the vivid visual details – the soft jasmine petals of a girl’s beauty, jewels dripping from her fingers and […]

        it is evening after storm — the one titled “Nor’easter Four”— I drive with excessive caution between fields devoted to farms passing, first, the owl-wood then harriers’ hunting grounds on my left, hefty cows graze as though any winter’s day dark shapes contrasting with silos gleaming with in…

        My old skin Could use a little color Pale from Winter’s harshness And its bitter blasts The flora’s beauty The trees majestic spread And the birds Cardinals, Blue Jays, Finches, now yellow Luxurious warmth The Summer returns Like an old friend Greeted heartily You’re here I’ve awaited you St…

        She walked in, “what is all this?” she asked She put on her glasses, examining the evidence. She recognized my finger prints on it. My words spilled out on the table, Labeled like a crime scene on the kitchen floor. She stopped beside me, a pile of blood-stained papers lay like an offering a…

        In the midst of making your funeral arrangements, David asks me what I want from the house. “Maybe the piano,” I say. “But it’s in such bad shape. So out of tune. I need to hire a piano tuner first Before I move it.” So then the funeral director says to us (You know him–the […]

        Do not delay downsizing till you are old. Moving demands tons of persistence and grit. Plan ahead before your house is sold. By the local realtors you’ll be told: No big deal. People do this every day. Do not delay downsizing till you are old. Retirement living welcomes you to its fold – art…

        (To Mom & Dad) As my family sits by my bedside weeping, will you come and be with me. As you once held my hand when we crossed the street. As you once put me on your shoulders and carried me because I was tired. As you once loved me even though I spoke harsh […]

        If you let me get close enough to kiss your eyes, your face, lose my nose without a trace into your heavenly scents, I will then curl around your chest, and listen for your heart’s content. And I will take your hands to touch my hair and everywhere. I may shed a tear or two, […]

        Oh, Tenn-e-ssee, Tenn-e-ssee, Gamey It’s you I see, Tenn-e-ssee Gamey! Whenever I look at my life Weathered woman of oak I see. Woman loved me no matter the strife My Gamey hails from the hills of Tenn-e-ssee. Snatched after being tossed at Gamey’s door Said I was special kin. Stayed cool wi…

        A gorgeous summer day. 1952. Our green Kaiser makes its way over Route 22, past the Bristol Myers plant. Destination Ebbets Field. My first game. Just my dad and me. I am six. I remember the Pulaski Skyway. And the stench of Secaucus We are two decades from Earth Day. I open my brown bag […]

        Keep coming, Aimee, Nick says, calmly over and over to nudge the birds down the beach toward us where we are crouching cowering peeping waiting for the moment of the double shot to toss a net over a swatch of beach that had been loaded with red knots and ruddy turnstones (& gulls galore)…

        The Spirit of Stony Brook bridge glistening In crystalline-lambent, saffron-misting silences Of primrose-weaving, honeysuckle-scented dawns, Hovering over me gently in amber-weaving blooms Of pink-amaryllis, lilac-effulgent melodies, Wondering if his stones are as old As the stones of Paris,…

        We are so crowded we are never out of reach You got to pay to get on the beach In New Jersey only in New Jersey We are tough we are defiant Come to Jersey and watch the Giants I found my thrill in Cherry Hill But I’m stuck in traffic and standing still The […]