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A Note from our Guest Editor

dcarlaw — Mon, 26 Oct 2026 16:04:36 +0000

A city seems to have a life of its own. The artist is aware of this. And more. It is the more that this issue of StepAway Magazine is concerned with, especially in naming its connection to city life. A city cannot subsist by itself. It depends on that which sustains it. The artist, living and working in a city, probes at this perspective with words, sounds, lenses and anything else that helps with the making of art. As artists, we must create and show that which we experience in the city. It is in this vein that the artist is truly mindful of life in the city. Thinking of this behavior as it relates to my own life and that the lives of artists featured in this issue, the word filter comes to mind. In creating art while experiencing city life, the artist goes through a process where what is called into form—such as a poem, drawing, painting, or flash fiction piece (all featured in this issue)—is the direct result of noticing and feeling what is present and needs to be expressed in an effort to identify the more spoken of earlier and its connection to city life.

The artists in this issue identify the more as taking shape in a flower, a train rumbling across a city, bridges, a woman at a bus stop, a marathon, a garden that grows in a city, Chinatown, New York City, and various other locations and happenings. There are numerous sources of inspiration in a city. The artist knows this and reaches out to capture what not only sustains a city but also enables the artist to keep creating art—a fate intertwined with the noblest cause and that is not estranged from city life.

Elvis Alves

Joyful Song

dcarlaw — Mon, 26 Oct 2026 15:54:30 +0000

“Mr. Softy” truck,
diesel fumes, rumbles
“Jingles and Chimes”

Vanilla ice cream
soft serve
July afternoon

Summer vacation
kids out of school
dollar bills waving
as they run

Its song was once called
“The Whistler and His Dog,”
marketing twist

Sometimes music can play
troubles away
at least for a little while
something sweet
cool and sweet

In New York City
hot days
kids open fire hydrants
when not licking ice cream
they laugh, jump and splash
birds in a bird bath
cooling their wings

It doesn’t take much
for kids to take to the air
when adults let them
so much time is spent
not letting them

We are here
to soar and sore
in our short lives
God makes and partakes
through us
we are part of the greatness

Fear is a robber
that can steal meaning away
let play the child in you
let your life be
a joyful song
to life

John Maney, Jr.

Heard in the Garden

dcarlaw — Mon, 26 Oct 2026 15:40:56 +0000

City sounds radiate

(…cars passing

trains rumbling…)

over and through the garden

Situated between rail and road

the press of urban clamor is so aggressive

that I can hardly hear the gentle caress

of Life held within the soft whispers

of growing things

Their willing exchange

of human exhaled carbon

for life-sustaining oxygen

Their lifecycle, a gift of food

for us

for them

and for the soil

we’re both rooted in

and walk upon

Feet rejoice in hearing

its dark crumbliness

between their toes

Jill Lanier

Street of the Tang People

dcarlaw — Mon, 26 Oct 2026 15:29:51 +0000

Did you know the word Chinatown translates to Street of the Tang People?
I have strolled these ways infinite times
Yet never made the connection until I bothered to look up at the Chinese characters on that verdant green signpost intersecting the familiar corner of Mott and Canal Street
It must have called to me, that simple unassuming sign,
as I have been called before long ago

When I was a poet in the Tang dynasty
I navigated meandering paths of melodious markets
pass stands of delicate rhinoceros and jade hairpins
Fragrant sandalwood fans carved lovingly by skilled artisans intoxicated passersby
of every rank within the empire’s imperial capital city of Chang’an
The largest phoenix fan on proud display wore a striking wild iridescent ginger hue
Even aristocratic ladies donning brocade silk dresses came to this splendid market,
their attendants ready to receive their precious bundles
Meanwhile, ordinary people, like workers and farmers hurried to fulfill their tasks
As for me, I whispered pass myriad colorful stalls following my intuition,
until I heard what my heart wanted most
Fruit vendors beckoned with enticing words: “Come taste the sweet juice of fresh longan”
Dragon eyes with translucent pearl white flesh and shiny jet-black seeds
Its nectar unmistakable
This beautiful ancient fruit was born in southern China
Just like my ancestors

In this lifetime, I stroll the familiar streets of Chinatown
and the smaller, more tranquil pathways, some winding as roads do
As lives do
Civilizations rise and fall, much as fate can rise and fall for each generation
One cannot control one’s time or place of birth
to select dynasty, freedom, or sudden devastating loss thereof
Lives here on Mott Street are not as they may seem
to those from outside this resilient immigrant neighborhood

I walk by my favorite Mott Street bakery
with their mouthwatering display of fresh, flaky egg tarts
The checkout ladies smile and wave as they recognize a familiar customer
Down the block inside a neon signed restaurant,
a humble cook prepares wonton noodle soup like a one-man orchestra
He tosses the ball of egg noodles high in the air
catching it perfectly in the center of the world of his heavy wire strainer
Was he a nobleman in Tang?
He cooks this way a hundred times a day from early morning until late at night six days a week to give his family a better life in this land of freedom
If that is not noble, then what is?

And what of the sewing ladies in the garment factories on Grand Street?
I visited my friend’s mom there and witnessed endless miles of flowing fabric
Mountains of billowy blue blouses, rivers of pearl pleated pants
bound for Bloomingdale’s department store
The aunties converse lively in their native dialect, recounting stories of their children
Do not mistake the language barrier to mean these capable seamstresses are not wise
They have written the book of life on their hearts and minds
Their gentle creased hands sound out the words sacrifice and indomitable strength
Break time over
In unison, mothers bend over Singer sewing machines
Stitch by stitch
Dream by dream
Like cassia flowers, their golden blossoms are already exquisite
Yet the flower only reaches its full splendor when it begins to bend downward
What appears to be weakness or the humble bow
is actually a moment of profound maturity and breathtaking radiance

As I cross the threshold of pine and cypress latticed time
From that world to this corner of Mott and Canal Street
I hear an elderly fruit vendor hawking, “Come get your oranges, lychee nuts, and longan!”
I happily oblige
And vow henceforth to read the New York street signs more carefully
in the hopes of another transformative and memorable journey of mindfulness
on a fine summer day.

Lisa Moy

On the Way Home

dcarlaw — Mon, 26 Oct 2026 14:58:43 +0000

Absolutely stifling
on the way home
in a train car mass,
when en masse
the congregation
erupts onto
the pavement
and pursues
independent prayers
for safe travel.
I commit my gaze,
unflinching but ceded,
to the lower left
quadrant of
my visual field,
the safest
spatial corner,
I have determined,
allowing noticeable
aversion while
affording an ample
peripheral circumference
and ambient awareness,
when into frame floats
an innocuous vine
locked in a married
coil with a chain link,
sporting five-toed
leaves and galactic
blooms of bombastic
flamboyance.
Passion flowers are
shy summer children.
They dare only
a few days of bloom.
Maypop, marajuca,
water lemon.
Spanish missionaries
employed the flowers
in their teachings
about the crucifixion,
bodies fixed models
to model salvation.

Merci Lyons-Cox

I Met a Landsman on Ludlow Street

dcarlaw — Mon, 26 Oct 2026 14:44:57 +0000

I’m at the crossroads tonight-
where Chinatown meets Dimes Square,
where the old lower east side and hipsterdom
converge, a block between two movie houses,
one hosting a premiere for Invisible Beauty,
the other shuttered for 5o years.

My husband and I are having dinner
with my son and his fiancé but it’s too early
to buzz their apartment so we join the crowd
outside the Metrograph, watch leggy arrivals
step from limos—accompanied by the scent
of perfume.

We walk north and smell ocean. A clean
fish scent from a nearby warehouse.
We stride from jasmine to skipjack —
orange roughy to orange blossom,
reminded of Leo Carax’s film, Lovers
on the Bridge, where music segues
like scent —

careens from Bowie to Straus
and back again. Just as we return
to the Metrograph, we meet a tuxedoed
young man, working at the movie house,
dressed for the evening’s event. I imagine
he’s a film lover, so I gesture to the boarded-up
Lowes Canal Street Theater,

tell him how I wish I could see the terracotta
gargoyles and sea creatures, sit among
the flickering ghosts. He looks around,
makes sure no one hears, tells me there’s a way.
Get a crowbar. Open that grate — and you’re in.
He’s done it. Many times.

Grew up here, on this block.
Points out his name in white graffiti, Ben Merck,
near the roof of the movie palace, still there
from his teenage years. We have history on the block
too, I tell him—where neon pink now announces vegan
leathergoods, a building once owned by my family.

Up the street, the empty Grand Street Dairy,
where my husband met my parents for the first time
and, after he ordered honeymoon instead of honeydew,
we announced our wedding plans.
When Ben was growing up on the block, he tells me,
everyone was in the schmata business.

He lived with his grandmother, an Auschwitz
survivor. Where was she from? I ask.
Lodz. Of course, Lodz —my grandfather’s city,
where our family was in the schmata business.
Lodz— where I wept at a rooftop bar, swifts darting
through the sunset over Posnanski’s textile factory.

Time to let my son know we’ve arrived. Dinner
in the middle of Canal Street — the part closed to traffic,
our feet planted on the white dividing line.
Hors d’oeuvres and glassfuls of sherry.
So wound up — who would imagine I would meet
a landsman on Ludlow Street today?

After dinner, we walk our son the half-block home,
call an Uber. Our car pulls away slowly,
the street still crowded, now post-screening.
Invisible Beauty. I roll down my window, call out
to my friend in the tux—

I loved meeting you,
Ben Merck.

Lynne Shapiro

‘Martin Felix 24′

dcarlaw — Mon, 26 Oct 2026 14:32:46 +0000

“Martin Felix 24″ by Keisha-Gaye Anderson

Picking & Choosing

dcarlaw — Mon, 26 Oct 2026 14:31:29 +0000

For Kotatsu John Bailes

The changing table

at 3am

is the altar where I

offer

the incense

of my ego

First ego death

then the laundry

The incessant car alarm

out front-

no different from

crying infant or

twittering junco

Overgrown alley,

weeds & flowers-

I can’t tell

if I’m too tired or

crowded by beauty

to touch them

In the morning

I take my breath

for a walk,

leashed

to a mantra

watch stormwater pool

at the sewer

Cleansing font

mind waves

Tell me

what’s the difference

between

the squeal of brakes and

the peal

of a bell?

The Great Way

is not difficult

just avoid

picking & choosing

Michael Gino LoStracco

New York City

dcarlaw — Mon, 26 Oct 2026 12:44:44 +0000

New York City,
Rising hot,
Breaking sound barriers;
Offering mortal sacrifices to homeless prodigies.
The godless trot in the streets
Under the scolding Jumbotron in Times Square.
The spectaculars light the Great White Way damped
With druggies and insolent theatergoers.

The meager vendors mirror the bankers
In duplicitous longings.
The austere crowds have bills to pay and mortgages to plunder.
Everyone is sacred here: the mayor, the jewelers,
The beggars and the deliverers rushing to
Meet their clients in back corridors.
Tin Pan Alley rises in rebellion
Two blocks from Rockefeller Center.
The Rockettes score in reveled beauty that never ages.

New York is daunting and
Dangerously made for cowards and contortionists
Living in the desperate streets.
Infamy exists in exile, even in New York City style.
Time waits for no one here, sleeping and steady.
Be fooled by nothing you hear, for stranger answer
the call to be “cool” and to die young and worldly.

Louisa Mastromarino

Beacon

dcarlaw — Mon, 26 Oct 2026 12:29:40 +0000

Standing in a littered bus shelter a woman,
down on her luck, murmurs to no-one in particular

“This stonework gives me comfort -
this place isn’t going anywhere. It’ll be right
here when I need it… again.”

I’ve been keeping to myself, hyper-vigilant in the gloom,
less confident on night streets. Uncomfortable, alone.
Was she talking to me? I avert my eyes.
Her tangled hair, jacket grubby at the cuffs,
that scent that speaks of not enough soap and water.

It’s too close in here, too cold

Through the bus shelter glass we see,
rooted along this busy thoroughfare, a gothic cathedral
bleeding hope, kindness (and a hot meal) into
the greyness of a windy night, an amber glow
spilling through the leaded glass windows.

We stand, silent, waiting for the bus.
As it approaches, the rain finally lets up.
I step out with my transit pass in hand.
She exits the shelter and meanders westward.

“Even when the lights are off, they’re always on.”

She was talking to me after all.

Rebecca Clifford