by Bill Jansen
This morning I am in a garage
I assume is somewhere near Dartmouth.
Though there is also evidence
that I may be in the studio of Mario Fiorillo.
I mean the unfinished portrait
of his Welsh landlord against a bicycle.
However that may be, a 1946 purple Bugatti
dominates my surroundings, wherever I am.
One of those babies you have to be
wearing a black tie for it to start.
Also arguing against, though not refuting,
the notion that I am in Wales,
is the point guard of the Dartmouth
Women's basketball team,
hanging up tools in their chalk outlines.
In fact she is a chalk outline herself,
and would probably fit easily
into the chalk outline of Oona O'Neill,
who, as you may know, I was crazy about,
and if this is a garage there must be a front porch
somewhere not far off.
And if there is a front porch there is a newspaper
with a sports page.
I should at least find out who won.
Then I can talk about the game as if I was there,
and maybe there will be a story
about a local landlord who has gone missing.
Thursday, July 17, 2014
one way streets
by Linda M. Crate
sometimes i'm wrong,
but you're not
always right
so sick and tired of
being taken granted
for and
overlooked
by people who supposedly
care;
give me an ocean
let me be
an island
grow my trees and happiness
in utter solitude—
where visitors
can come for a while then
go away,
and it'll be okay
because
i won't mind being alone
and we won't owe
each other anything;
so tired of
people
always wanting something
because i'm a giver
i give with all my heart and all
they ever want to do is rip
out every last moon beam of my
silver soul
i'm tired of these one way streets
they're all so very vexing.
sometimes i'm wrong,
but you're not
always right
so sick and tired of
being taken granted
for and
overlooked
by people who supposedly
care;
give me an ocean
let me be
an island
grow my trees and happiness
in utter solitude—
where visitors
can come for a while then
go away,
and it'll be okay
because
i won't mind being alone
and we won't owe
each other anything;
so tired of
people
always wanting something
because i'm a giver
i give with all my heart and all
they ever want to do is rip
out every last moon beam of my
silver soul
i'm tired of these one way streets
they're all so very vexing.
In Wild Bush
by Austin McCarron
In wild bush,
on gold stones,
on steps of green
and yellow wood,
the lamb grazes with
flesh of sacred curls.
Imperial laughter
attends the meal of love.
The knife healing the
stricken bone is shining
with blazes and powerless
as kings is the
blood eaten of fiery wounds.
The sun, grown weary of
flames, reveals only mystery
and blindness, visions of time.
In wild bush,
on gold stones,
on steps of green
and yellow wood,
the lamb grazes with
flesh of sacred curls.
Imperial laughter
attends the meal of love.
The knife healing the
stricken bone is shining
with blazes and powerless
as kings is the
blood eaten of fiery wounds.
The sun, grown weary of
flames, reveals only mystery
and blindness, visions of time.
Tuesday, July 15, 2014
Learning to touch
by Marilyn Hammick
I stand and watch, minding
that everything is very hot.
With oven gloved hands
Grandma slides the cake tin
onto the kitchen table.
There's two minutes to go
but this oven cooks quick
The top is like the inside
of my satchel, its edges
sneak from the metal.
Good sign, she tells me,
and sniffs, that's cooked,
but she takes
my middle finger in her hand,
hover, press, release
you’re not ringing a door bell,
or poking your brother’s arm.
The depression rises, the surface
levels, the sponge is ready
for the cooling rack.
I stand and watch, minding
that everything is very hot.
With oven gloved hands
Grandma slides the cake tin
onto the kitchen table.
There's two minutes to go
but this oven cooks quick
The top is like the inside
of my satchel, its edges
sneak from the metal.
Good sign, she tells me,
and sniffs, that's cooked,
but she takes
my middle finger in her hand,
hover, press, release
you’re not ringing a door bell,
or poking your brother’s arm.
The depression rises, the surface
levels, the sponge is ready
for the cooling rack.
Winter Tourist
by David Chorlton
The bars are open and every sand grain
on the beach is sparkling
in January light. Across the hotel courtyard
are yellow sunshades placed
beside the tables, blue towels on
the plastic chairs around the pool
and from the room a view of the Atlantic
at sunset, just before the evening buffet.
It is not enough. Even with an olive
in the cocktail and an avenue
lined with palm trees, it is too little
for someone who has spent a lifetime
preparing for this. Beneath all skies
he imagined the one now above him.
In every job he worked he promised
he’d make up for being used. He’d escape
the cities too, in which he lived, escape
and leave them far behind
without packing a coat in his suitcase.
When he arrived, nobody
was waiting to meet him. It is
an industry here to cater
to his every wish, but he is lost
with nothing to resist
as he walks to the shore in the winter
he carried with him always,
his hands in his pockets, his pockets
lined with ice.
The bars are open and every sand grain
on the beach is sparkling
in January light. Across the hotel courtyard
are yellow sunshades placed
beside the tables, blue towels on
the plastic chairs around the pool
and from the room a view of the Atlantic
at sunset, just before the evening buffet.
It is not enough. Even with an olive
in the cocktail and an avenue
lined with palm trees, it is too little
for someone who has spent a lifetime
preparing for this. Beneath all skies
he imagined the one now above him.
In every job he worked he promised
he’d make up for being used. He’d escape
the cities too, in which he lived, escape
and leave them far behind
without packing a coat in his suitcase.
When he arrived, nobody
was waiting to meet him. It is
an industry here to cater
to his every wish, but he is lost
with nothing to resist
as he walks to the shore in the winter
he carried with him always,
his hands in his pockets, his pockets
lined with ice.
Artefacts
by Robert Nisbet
Two quid, a full day’s earnings. Now,
the auction at the Market Hall.
He’s never been to one before,
just seen the sale ads in the Star.
He loves the café just outside:
these dealers, drivers, men in caps
and cords and aprons, women with
their tresses streaming, scarves and rings.
The hall. He browses. Loves Lot 12,
a copper kettle, tiny thing,
maybe eight inches high, odd bash,
but burnished to a sparkle. Then,
Lot 23, a miniature,
a girl with golden hair (she looked
just like his memories of his Mum).
The auctioneer stands second just
to God, he thinks, but suddenly,
descending like a royal flush,
the thought: Yes, I can bid. Lot 12.
Abruptly, 12, he gabbles, bids,
gets it for fifteen bob. And soon,
the miniature, for just a quid.
The hour following is chocked
and full with gazing on, with lots
and artefacts, before, his goods
brown-paper-wrapped, he stomps his way
to bus and home and bed and board.
Two quid, a full day’s earnings. Now,
the auction at the Market Hall.
He’s never been to one before,
just seen the sale ads in the Star.
He loves the café just outside:
these dealers, drivers, men in caps
and cords and aprons, women with
their tresses streaming, scarves and rings.
The hall. He browses. Loves Lot 12,
a copper kettle, tiny thing,
maybe eight inches high, odd bash,
but burnished to a sparkle. Then,
Lot 23, a miniature,
a girl with golden hair (she looked
just like his memories of his Mum).
The auctioneer stands second just
to God, he thinks, but suddenly,
descending like a royal flush,
the thought: Yes, I can bid. Lot 12.
Abruptly, 12, he gabbles, bids,
gets it for fifteen bob. And soon,
the miniature, for just a quid.
The hour following is chocked
and full with gazing on, with lots
and artefacts, before, his goods
brown-paper-wrapped, he stomps his way
to bus and home and bed and board.
THE SPIDER ON THE WALL
by Anuradha Bhattacharyya
Climbing up thus far
And no more
Meeting with the impenetrable
Stare of the stark wall
Beating hard with one’s six claws
One after the other
Making no significant mark,
Wearing out
Watching warily
The way up that is blocked,
Winding up a coil of passion
Hungry, thirsty, retired
The spider builds his home
At the dead end,
Holding no grudge
Against all odds.
Climbing up thus far
And no more
Meeting with the impenetrable
Stare of the stark wall
Beating hard with one’s six claws
One after the other
Making no significant mark,
Wearing out
Watching warily
The way up that is blocked,
Winding up a coil of passion
Hungry, thirsty, retired
The spider builds his home
At the dead end,
Holding no grudge
Against all odds.
Monday, July 14, 2014
Sunday, July 13, 2014
Saul
by Michael D. Brown
surely my son not
my son in law, even if
I must hurl a javelin;
for what is the death
of one destined for my
crown, the end of
succession, my line
my heir, my son, my Jonathan;
surely one who killed ten thousand;
who skinned the foreskins;
who leveled Goliath,
needs no more honor,
no purple seat, or robe
but how to justify the
death of a hero,
a musician, a psalmist,
a would be future king
of Israel, a son in law.
surely my son not
my son in law, even if
I must hurl a javelin;
for what is the death
of one destined for my
crown, the end of
succession, my line
my heir, my son, my Jonathan;
surely one who killed ten thousand;
who skinned the foreskins;
who leveled Goliath,
needs no more honor,
no purple seat, or robe
but how to justify the
death of a hero,
a musician, a psalmist,
a would be future king
of Israel, a son in law.
Babymoon
by Marianne Szlyk
The young celebrity,
whom neither Lila nor her daughter knows,
poses in her red and orange maxi.
She is on her babymoon
by the sun-dappled poolside
with real palm leaf cabanas,
banks of jasmine in bloom,
and lemon trees that cleanse
and sweeten the humid air.
Lila puts down the magazine.
She watches the pregnant receptionist|
waddle back to the restroom.
That girl is the only worker
wearing flat shoes,
but they do match her red
baby doll dress
and drop earrings.
And her blond bob is sharp
enough to cut through
the salty, overcast day outside.
Lila sympathizes with her.
She was pregnant once.
During the long hot summer that began in April,
five months
before Estelle finally was born,
Dave offered to drive her
to the Cape
or at least Castle Island
to cool off in the tepid sun and salt breeze
heavy with warm onion rings,
beer, and classic rock,
to escape the city’s stink
of garbage and perfume.
She turned him down.
When she was not at work,
she spent the summer upstairs watching
golf for the cool greens and water hazards.
The young celebrity,
whom neither Lila nor her daughter knows,
poses in her red and orange maxi.
She is on her babymoon
by the sun-dappled poolside
with real palm leaf cabanas,
banks of jasmine in bloom,
and lemon trees that cleanse
and sweeten the humid air.
Lila puts down the magazine.
She watches the pregnant receptionist|
waddle back to the restroom.
That girl is the only worker
wearing flat shoes,
but they do match her red
baby doll dress
and drop earrings.
And her blond bob is sharp
enough to cut through
the salty, overcast day outside.
Lila sympathizes with her.
She was pregnant once.
During the long hot summer that began in April,
five months
before Estelle finally was born,
Dave offered to drive her
to the Cape
or at least Castle Island
to cool off in the tepid sun and salt breeze
heavy with warm onion rings,
beer, and classic rock,
to escape the city’s stink
of garbage and perfume.
She turned him down.
When she was not at work,
she spent the summer upstairs watching
golf for the cool greens and water hazards.
blandest
by Ross Vassilev
wandering the streets after walking off the job
nothing to do and nowhere to go
I snuck into a movie theater
and don't even remember what I saw
lost along empty sidewalks
it felt both good and bad
to be alone as the wind sang
through the April sun
menaced by stuffed men
in white shirts and ties
I thought
all these losers who only know how to make money
at least I wasn't one of them.
wandering the streets after walking off the job
nothing to do and nowhere to go
I snuck into a movie theater
and don't even remember what I saw
lost along empty sidewalks
it felt both good and bad
to be alone as the wind sang
through the April sun
menaced by stuffed men
in white shirts and ties
I thought
all these losers who only know how to make money
at least I wasn't one of them.
ROLLING THE JOY
by Tapeshwar Prasad Yadav
Sphere the morning light
Rolling through the hills
And wheeling the fields
Horn the buzz, chirping
And twittering the sequel
Swaying live the delight
Leaning golden rocks
And ocean waves dear
Wiping the fading grief
All spotless and clean
There comes jolly joy
Full of golden gleams
Bursting and thrusting
Pattering the ground
Propelling life rhythm
Mingle universal fraternity
With harmony blend
Distancing the enmity
In a bag full of tinkling coins
And storey skyscraper
Feeding the belly
With a pot full of jelly
Rolling towering joy!
Sphere the morning light
Rolling through the hills
And wheeling the fields
Horn the buzz, chirping
And twittering the sequel
Swaying live the delight
Leaning golden rocks
And ocean waves dear
Wiping the fading grief
All spotless and clean
There comes jolly joy
Full of golden gleams
Bursting and thrusting
Pattering the ground
Propelling life rhythm
Mingle universal fraternity
With harmony blend
Distancing the enmity
In a bag full of tinkling coins
And storey skyscraper
Feeding the belly
With a pot full of jelly
Rolling towering joy!
The Stone Yard II
by Tom Hatch
The stone marble from the mountain brings its goddess into town with its wavy veins of soft carrara and loving crystal white Thassos they kiss
There soft slabs leaning next to each other cuddling their cold from the winter and the mountain quarries from where they came trying to shuffle. As deck of playing cards weighted down becoming valleys where Thassos and his sister Europa played under husky dog blue eyed skies kidnapped by Zeus a disguised white bull
Europa gave birth to the stone yard goddess from a middle metamorphic earths slow
Inception and labor pains for millions of years the goddess grows with husky blue dog eyes sliced from the below brought to earth to a modern age.
Discovered slowly crossing the ocean in a shipping container from the Aegean Sea this woman goddess comes from the Greek island of Thassos the container lined interior convinced in blue velvet with white Thassos marble floor her home and bed as she awakens from her mother’s rape by Zeus his no rules on incest there is no incest rules when it comes to gods fair game is under every foot
Sleeping out of the cold stone as a bed waking mornings, walking the stone yard floor try to be human it is not easy as most notice she is the goddess quivering to be one of us. Her husky dog blue eyes we do not trust
Visit there and play with her as a human not as the million year old goddess that wants to pull you into her, into stone.
Thursday, July 10, 2014
Crossing the Equator
by Tony Noon
Old Stoker told me often.
Sometimes I asked him
about the plank bending
long to the line
bending out over the deep
They don’t tar your balls.
He told me
No pallid painters’ rite here.
Blindfold, sea legs turn rubber
on this narrow path
as you shuffle to the drop.
Three feet later hard deck
and the roar of seamen
make the novice able bodied
If his heart does not give out.
Old Stoker told me often.
Sometimes I asked him
about the plank bending
long to the line
bending out over the deep
They don’t tar your balls.
He told me
No pallid painters’ rite here.
Blindfold, sea legs turn rubber
on this narrow path
as you shuffle to the drop.
Three feet later hard deck
and the roar of seamen
make the novice able bodied
If his heart does not give out.
Making My Own Acquaintance
by Randall Rogers
I don't know
what is more scary
thinking about
my past
like the time
I went to Cambodian
prison for shooting
at a cop,
or thinking
about my future.
Especially how
One becomes the other.
I guess best not
to think at all.
I don't know
what is more scary
thinking about
my past
like the time
I went to Cambodian
prison for shooting
at a cop,
or thinking
about my future.
Especially how
One becomes the other.
I guess best not
to think at all.
Hope and Mr. Neery
by Donal Mahoney
I saw Mr. Neery,
ninety if a day,
wobbly on his walker
on his way to Sunday Mass.
He won't accept a ride,
insists on walking.
He's easy to spot,
a St. Louis Cardinals fan
in a bright red jacket
and a Cardinals cap
that halts a hurricane
of snowy hair.
It's his first Mass
since burying his wife
a month ago when
someone lent him
a black suit to wear.
Now he's in red again,
a sign of hope,
even if he's bent over,
his humped back a
question mark growing.
But he's no different now
than he was before.
He still comes to Mass
like everyone else
looking for the answer
and to pray for the Cardinals
who play the Mets
at 1 o'clock this afternoon.
I saw Mr. Neery,
ninety if a day,
wobbly on his walker
on his way to Sunday Mass.
He won't accept a ride,
insists on walking.
He's easy to spot,
a St. Louis Cardinals fan
in a bright red jacket
and a Cardinals cap
that halts a hurricane
of snowy hair.
It's his first Mass
since burying his wife
a month ago when
someone lent him
a black suit to wear.
Now he's in red again,
a sign of hope,
even if he's bent over,
his humped back a
question mark growing.
But he's no different now
than he was before.
He still comes to Mass
like everyone else
looking for the answer
and to pray for the Cardinals
who play the Mets
at 1 o'clock this afternoon.
burn
by Keith Landrum
tired of the struggle
a fire burns
our hope and
we wear that smell
like designer
cologne
don't tell us
about tomorrow
when certainty kills
like a pack-a-day habit
in pawn shop
parking lots
don't tell us
there's salvation
for broken spirits
we drink
like cheap whiskey
don't tell us
to work harder
that there is a dream
to be fulfilled
don't say
a word
just let us go
let us rest
let us burn
like stars
tired of the struggle
a fire burns
our hope and
we wear that smell
like designer
cologne
don't tell us
about tomorrow
when certainty kills
like a pack-a-day habit
in pawn shop
parking lots
don't tell us
there's salvation
for broken spirits
we drink
like cheap whiskey
don't tell us
to work harder
that there is a dream
to be fulfilled
don't say
a word
just let us go
let us rest
let us burn
like stars
Tuesday, July 8, 2014
Stupa
by Bhargab Chatterjee
Shadows remain behind every wall
A Brahmi inscription
Erodes through the ages.
Those picnickers
Around the railing of the stupa
Step like silhouettes
Their foot-beats echoing everywhere.
Moving down.
Smashing the hard shell
Wanting to smell the pearl
Putting it on their palms.
Morning sun offering a cold light.
Shadows remain behind every wall
A Brahmi inscription
Erodes through the ages.
Those picnickers
Around the railing of the stupa
Step like silhouettes
Their foot-beats echoing everywhere.
Moving down.
Smashing the hard shell
Wanting to smell the pearl
Putting it on their palms.
Morning sun offering a cold light.
Come Find Me
by Tammy T. Stone
Come find me,
The world depends on it.
Meet me at the stepped rock
You know the one
Atop Pure Land Mountain.
You say you haven’t heard
Windhorses rustling in holy height
I say, find your way to
Remembrance.
The air is so thin up there
That skin and bones fall away
Leaving everything we need,
The space between us.
Come find me,
The world depends on it.
Meet me at the stepped rock
You know the one
Atop Pure Land Mountain.
You say you haven’t heard
Windhorses rustling in holy height
I say, find your way to
Remembrance.
The air is so thin up there
That skin and bones fall away
Leaving everything we need,
The space between us.
Antelope Valley
by Douglas Polk
eternal the view
sweetly serene
makes the heart ache
this place of forgotten lives
buried in a tiny cemetery
on the high plains of Nebraska
overlooking the valley
a community now
only of graves
the church in disrepair.
eternal the view
sweetly serene
makes the heart ache
this place of forgotten lives
buried in a tiny cemetery
on the high plains of Nebraska
overlooking the valley
a community now
only of graves
the church in disrepair.
Passing Lane Ahead
by Richard Hartwell
Seen by midday light, mountains and mesas are stagnant in shimmered umber, only coming alive at late dusk or early dawn; pastels breathed from a strident-colored palette: lavender, indigo, a tinge of verdigris, before aflame with citrine, peach, and rose, as animals scour the desert sand.
Out here – Laughlin, Needles, Bullhead City – Edward Abbey’s desert solitaire and solitude has lost out to the roll of dice, diesel trucks, slot machines, SUVs, and greed. Developers, politicians and corporations have won. So many others have lost.
I would like to see what it might be might be like, say, five hundred years after the removal of man – eradicated by his own whimsy or succumbed to natural disaster. I would like to see the highways paved over with sand and sage, the casinos haunted by bobcats, wild pigs, skunks,, and other shadow seekers. I would like to se the unnatural edifices and abodes of mankind become the natural environment of the desert’s future. I would like to se the unnatural edifices and abodes of mankind become the natural environment of the desert’s future. I would like to see the high-rise hotels and casinos – their windows broken out by storms and disintegration – become the aeries of hawks, eagles, vultures, and the waterfowl of the Colorado; if it can survive the damn dam-silting of the water unwise. Yes, I would love to see it . . .
The eddied and current-shimmer of the moving Colorado moves me also. My eye is captured, hypnotized by staccato facets of its diamond chips; hundreds of carats per second streaming by with the sun angled low; hundreds of thousands of carats per hour siphoned off to slake mankind’s insatiable thirst; hundreds of millions of carats per day lost to the gulf sands before kissing the salted lips of Baja.
* * *
Wrinkled and calloused hands of an old man grip the wheel against the buffeting winds as the car runs after cloud shadows, trying to stay penumbral relative to the surrounding world. Scorched by sun splashes between islands of shade, life is only hot or cold by comparison.
On the side of the canyon road another dead wild burro thins the herd, culled by speed and inattention, both the burro’s and the driver’s. Merely another example of the onrushing clash of nature and modernity; yet he tears up at this sight of death, this death site. Sometimes, in the past, some canyon denizen erected memorials to occasional dead burros, talismans to wildness, Thoreauvian stelae. Not so much anymore. Soon all that will remain in the canyon will be the asses of the future rather than the asses of the past.
Sunday, July 6, 2014
Monks in the Orchard Picking Peaches
by Donal Mahoney
Young monk
and old monk
in the orchard
picking peaches,
sunny and plump,
ready for canning.
Carrying bushels
to the wagon cart,
the young monk
asks the old monk
what to look out for
when growing old.
The old monk
pauses and says
not much.
Life stays the same
for the most part.
Monks work and pray
but an old monk
works slower and
prays faster.
But not to worry,
the old monk advises.
He admits he's
going deaf
but that's just
an inconvenience
since God uses
sign language.
Peaches like these
have no need to talk.
Young monk
and old monk
in the orchard
picking peaches,
sunny and plump,
ready for canning.
Carrying bushels
to the wagon cart,
the young monk
asks the old monk
what to look out for
when growing old.
The old monk
pauses and says
not much.
Life stays the same
for the most part.
Monks work and pray
but an old monk
works slower and
prays faster.
But not to worry,
the old monk advises.
He admits he's
going deaf
but that's just
an inconvenience
since God uses
sign language.
Peaches like these
have no need to talk.
Untitled
by Stephen A. Rozwenc
so close
they remain unseen
ruby-throated
Buddhist hummingbirds
temporarily release
each suffering human flower
they visit
from 50 centuries
of ghastly possessions
so close
they remain unseen
ruby-throated
Buddhist hummingbirds
temporarily release
each suffering human flower
they visit
from 50 centuries
of ghastly possessions
A VISIT
by Marc Carver
I saw my dad two days ago
the first time in a year.
He is not the big man I remember anymore.
He has shrunk and he has that turkey neck.
He is still guarded
but now in a different way.
He didn't much want to see me
and i didn't really want to see him either.
We sat in the my overgrown garden
and he did most of the talking
I did not have a lot to say.
I hardly recognize him anymore
but after a while he was glad to see me again
and when he left
I thought it would probably be at least another year till i saw him again.
None of us are getting younger I said.
They would all start dropping soon.
The aunts and uncles and each other's sisters.
Yea the next time i will see him as at someone's funeral
for some a sad occasion.
For others a day out.
a final resting place.
Death always brings people together or rips them apart.
I saw my dad two days ago
the first time in a year.
He is not the big man I remember anymore.
He has shrunk and he has that turkey neck.
He is still guarded
but now in a different way.
He didn't much want to see me
and i didn't really want to see him either.
We sat in the my overgrown garden
and he did most of the talking
I did not have a lot to say.
I hardly recognize him anymore
but after a while he was glad to see me again
and when he left
I thought it would probably be at least another year till i saw him again.
None of us are getting younger I said.
They would all start dropping soon.
The aunts and uncles and each other's sisters.
Yea the next time i will see him as at someone's funeral
for some a sad occasion.
For others a day out.
a final resting place.
Death always brings people together or rips them apart.
Adivino
by Amy Soricelli
She took me down the block - Magda in her thick black hair; said she was "gonna tell me what my life would be
after the brick fifth floor share the room with your brother shit".
What the days would look like mapped across the top of my head - how my shoes would swing under a table.
"Family services took some of her kids so don't ask about the crib" she tells me on the way up the wide flat art-Deco stairs,
the marble cold against my flip-flops.
She has a neat house with plastic flowers/their dusty petals perched on her window sill. She offered us
lemonade from Flintstone jelly jars.
She took Magda's hand straight out/her palm flat against the formica table - turned it over to see
the long crooked life she traced with her pointy chipped red nails.
"Oh see see" she said. "You will have a long life but you see here? here...
you won't find love for a while"
Magda was 14 years deep into Puerto Rican/she hipped her hips to the side squirmy tight on the wobbly
kitchen chair.
I was the last Jew on the block fresh from Hebrew School and a broken home.
We threw our five dollars into the center of her kitchen table and she scooped it up
and dug it deep into her flowery blouse.
Her son came out of his room to get some food and looked hard at Magda then down at my chest.
He smiled that smile like boys do when they think they know something.
He leaned his back against the stove and said he could teach me to slow dance like I never did before.
Magda laughed and his mother shoo'd him out/his wink leaving a long trace down the line of my shorts.
Spanish music played from the side of the hall and the fortune teller rocked her shoulders while she said
"Oh see - see here - there will be many babies but they will not always be happy".
Sirens raced by the window on the other side of the world up the street where the junkies lay flat
across the subway grating so they can catch a breeze from the trains/grab up lost pennies they fish up with
stolen poles from City Island.
"Here, give me yours" the lady says and grabs my skinny wrist while the smell of frying fish dances a short
hustle like a pulse.
She says to me "long life but it's a straight line. See? you have no waves- just straight straight"
I stared hard at her gold earring as they dangled steady in the streaming Venetian blind sunlight.
Magda laughs and says "your life is a straight line baby" and wipes the fish steam from her aviator glasses.
We bounce the steps down to the street/look up to see her arms already folded on the window sill.
The fortune teller already looking passed up to the other side of the block/the sun starting its slow liquid journey
behind the brick houses on the same street as the parked car with the flat tire; passed the old man with the lazy eye -
passed everything we passed the first time.
She took me down the block - Magda in her thick black hair; said she was "gonna tell me what my life would be
after the brick fifth floor share the room with your brother shit".
What the days would look like mapped across the top of my head - how my shoes would swing under a table.
"Family services took some of her kids so don't ask about the crib" she tells me on the way up the wide flat art-Deco stairs,
the marble cold against my flip-flops.
She has a neat house with plastic flowers/their dusty petals perched on her window sill. She offered us
lemonade from Flintstone jelly jars.
She took Magda's hand straight out/her palm flat against the formica table - turned it over to see
the long crooked life she traced with her pointy chipped red nails.
"Oh see see" she said. "You will have a long life but you see here? here...
you won't find love for a while"
Magda was 14 years deep into Puerto Rican/she hipped her hips to the side squirmy tight on the wobbly
kitchen chair.
I was the last Jew on the block fresh from Hebrew School and a broken home.
We threw our five dollars into the center of her kitchen table and she scooped it up
and dug it deep into her flowery blouse.
Her son came out of his room to get some food and looked hard at Magda then down at my chest.
He smiled that smile like boys do when they think they know something.
He leaned his back against the stove and said he could teach me to slow dance like I never did before.
Magda laughed and his mother shoo'd him out/his wink leaving a long trace down the line of my shorts.
Spanish music played from the side of the hall and the fortune teller rocked her shoulders while she said
"Oh see - see here - there will be many babies but they will not always be happy".
Sirens raced by the window on the other side of the world up the street where the junkies lay flat
across the subway grating so they can catch a breeze from the trains/grab up lost pennies they fish up with
stolen poles from City Island.
"Here, give me yours" the lady says and grabs my skinny wrist while the smell of frying fish dances a short
hustle like a pulse.
She says to me "long life but it's a straight line. See? you have no waves- just straight straight"
I stared hard at her gold earring as they dangled steady in the streaming Venetian blind sunlight.
Magda laughs and says "your life is a straight line baby" and wipes the fish steam from her aviator glasses.
We bounce the steps down to the street/look up to see her arms already folded on the window sill.
The fortune teller already looking passed up to the other side of the block/the sun starting its slow liquid journey
behind the brick houses on the same street as the parked car with the flat tire; passed the old man with the lazy eye -
passed everything we passed the first time.
Friday, July 4, 2014
the exhaust fumes of hate
by J.J. Campbell
chase your demons
like you chase your
dreams
these listless moments
we share with each
other
fading hope on an
endless highway
these old tunes bleed
together the longer
we breathe in the
exhaust fumes of
hate
the broken hands
of the lied to
found out a little too
late that the american
dream was a first come
first served proposition
hesitation is one costly
mistake
chase your demons
like you chase your
dreams
these listless moments
we share with each
other
fading hope on an
endless highway
these old tunes bleed
together the longer
we breathe in the
exhaust fumes of
hate
the broken hands
of the lied to
found out a little too
late that the american
dream was a first come
first served proposition
hesitation is one costly
mistake
Thursday, July 3, 2014
the early bird
by Larry Jones
the robin pulled
a worm from the ground.
he ate half
then quietly stood
near the other half.
minutes later
another robin landed next to the first,
they looked at each other
perhaps they were mates?
soon the first robin flew away and
the second ate the rest of the worm.
then she too flew away.
sometimes the early bird
ain't that hungry.
the robin pulled
a worm from the ground.
he ate half
then quietly stood
near the other half.
minutes later
another robin landed next to the first,
they looked at each other
perhaps they were mates?
soon the first robin flew away and
the second ate the rest of the worm.
then she too flew away.
sometimes the early bird
ain't that hungry.
temper like a sunset sky
by Linda M. Crate
i need a drink
something stronger than they serve
here
because people are
hell,
and these people are the
worst;
i swear they were all
born in the same barn—
praying
doesn't seem to ebb the
flow of crazies
always here
to bother me,
but it wouldn't be called a job
if you were meant to
have fun—
so i suck it up
because, buttercup, someone
has to,
and i'm strong—
so i go on and persevere
trying so hard to
keep
my temper before it explodes
like a flurry of color
in a sunset sky.
i need a drink
something stronger than they serve
here
because people are
hell,
and these people are the
worst;
i swear they were all
born in the same barn—
praying
doesn't seem to ebb the
flow of crazies
always here
to bother me,
but it wouldn't be called a job
if you were meant to
have fun—
so i suck it up
because, buttercup, someone
has to,
and i'm strong—
so i go on and persevere
trying so hard to
keep
my temper before it explodes
like a flurry of color
in a sunset sky.
Cadoxton Murder Stone
by Paul Tristram
The Stonemason worked the word
MURDER in big ominous letters
upon the top of the gravestone in 1823.
The victim was only aged twenty six
when she met her violent fate that night.
She had been beaten and strangled
and thrown down into a marshy ditch
upon the other side of The River Neath.
To lay until discovery in shallow water
with her basket and the sheep head
which she had walked into town to buy,
floating with her dress hems around her.
She was sixteen weeks pregnant at death
and for sometime had vocally attributed
fatherhood of the unborn child publicly
to the Squire’s Son whom she had been
sacked from working for a few weeks
before the gruesome events unfolded.
He was arrested almost immediately
but being wealthy and pleading ignorance
he was released through lack of evidence.
Although the locals all as one swore blind
that they knew exactly who the killer was.
In the graveyard of the Church of St Catwg's
in the quaint parish village of Cadoxton,
the bodies were finally laid down to rest.
With a ‘Murder Stone’ set big and bold
to mark the hideous –as yet- unpunished act
directly opposite the house of the Squire,
so that it may be the first thing the Son
saw each morning from the windows.
This did not last long and guilty as it looks
he left and emigrated across to America.
Some say that he fled the guilt and curse.
yet, others wisely nod and think otherwise.
For the ‘Murder Stone’ it does still stand
and for those thinking he got away free
should go read the bottom few eerie lines.
For it insists in no uncertain terms that
‘God hath set his mark upon him
either for time or eternity and the cry
of blood will assuredly pursue him to
certain and terrible but righteous judgement.’
The Stonemason worked the word
MURDER in big ominous letters
upon the top of the gravestone in 1823.
The victim was only aged twenty six
when she met her violent fate that night.
She had been beaten and strangled
and thrown down into a marshy ditch
upon the other side of The River Neath.
To lay until discovery in shallow water
with her basket and the sheep head
which she had walked into town to buy,
floating with her dress hems around her.
She was sixteen weeks pregnant at death
and for sometime had vocally attributed
fatherhood of the unborn child publicly
to the Squire’s Son whom she had been
sacked from working for a few weeks
before the gruesome events unfolded.
He was arrested almost immediately
but being wealthy and pleading ignorance
he was released through lack of evidence.
Although the locals all as one swore blind
that they knew exactly who the killer was.
In the graveyard of the Church of St Catwg's
in the quaint parish village of Cadoxton,
the bodies were finally laid down to rest.
With a ‘Murder Stone’ set big and bold
to mark the hideous –as yet- unpunished act
directly opposite the house of the Squire,
so that it may be the first thing the Son
saw each morning from the windows.
This did not last long and guilty as it looks
he left and emigrated across to America.
Some say that he fled the guilt and curse.
yet, others wisely nod and think otherwise.
For the ‘Murder Stone’ it does still stand
and for those thinking he got away free
should go read the bottom few eerie lines.
For it insists in no uncertain terms that
‘God hath set his mark upon him
either for time or eternity and the cry
of blood will assuredly pursue him to
certain and terrible but righteous judgement.’
Tuesday, July 1, 2014
Curbar Edge
by Tim Gardiner
skylark shadows ghosts in the clouds
over green mire moss grey mist rolls
rain passes a cuckoo calls from birch forest
skylark shadows ghosts in the clouds
over green mire moss grey mist rolls
rain passes a cuckoo calls from birch forest
My Brother Gary
by Michael Friedman
You always earned what you wanted,
owed nothing, in your eyes,
and showed no mercy or patience
for anyone
wasting your time. Your exasperated eyes
rolling up and then down again,
ready to chill the breath from any takers on.
That’s just Gary, Mom would say.
What can I tell you.
When you got sick,
you told Mom, Dad, and Rob
what to expect.
Figured word would get around.
And then you were dying –
flat on your back, stomach tube, IVs, respirator,
only a pencil and a small spiral notepad
for you to scrawl upon.
All of us went in and out
of your hospital room,
to stand as close by your head
as the machines would allow.
Taking turns at the living shivah
to look past the jellyfish bag
floating above your bloated arm.
Mom by your bedside,
you having forgotten
who else was in the room.
Your body no longer absorbing fluid.
Your final breath
swallowed days before.
You always earned what you wanted,
owed nothing, in your eyes,
and showed no mercy or patience
for anyone
wasting your time. Your exasperated eyes
rolling up and then down again,
ready to chill the breath from any takers on.
That’s just Gary, Mom would say.
What can I tell you.
When you got sick,
you told Mom, Dad, and Rob
what to expect.
Figured word would get around.
And then you were dying –
flat on your back, stomach tube, IVs, respirator,
only a pencil and a small spiral notepad
for you to scrawl upon.
All of us went in and out
of your hospital room,
to stand as close by your head
as the machines would allow.
Taking turns at the living shivah
to look past the jellyfish bag
floating above your bloated arm.
Mom by your bedside,
you having forgotten
who else was in the room.
Your body no longer absorbing fluid.
Your final breath
swallowed days before.
DO THEE BIDDING
by Marc Carver
I see a man in a pin striped suit wearing a bowler hat
He has been crucified to a cross mid way through hailing a cab
and running for it
His legs are astride one arm in the air showing his expensive watch.
The other is lower behind him umbrella in hand
They are at ten to four
I can't see the nails but I hope they are rusty
The top arm is nailed below
the bottom arm above.
He is frozen
no expression on his face
stopped in motion
he will never get that cab home.
I see a man in a pin striped suit wearing a bowler hat
He has been crucified to a cross mid way through hailing a cab
and running for it
His legs are astride one arm in the air showing his expensive watch.
The other is lower behind him umbrella in hand
They are at ten to four
I can't see the nails but I hope they are rusty
The top arm is nailed below
the bottom arm above.
He is frozen
no expression on his face
stopped in motion
he will never get that cab home.
Compostition X
(after the painting by Wassily Kandinsky)
by Neil Ellman
Disorder sows disorder.
Entropy fouls the gears
like barnacles.
Disaster looms
just beyond creation’s reach.
Disinterested, unperturbed
the universe pretends to care,
to know, to be
as if tomorrow
is just another day.
Disorder sows disorder.
Entropy fouls the gears
like barnacles.
Disaster looms
just beyond creation’s reach.
Disinterested, unperturbed
the universe pretends to care,
to know, to be
as if tomorrow
is just another day.
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