Poetry

Memories by Jason Deiss

Black and violet yarn

drapes over shoulders,

around knees,

pinned beneath bare feet.

 

Luminous glass darkens,

letting streaks of shadow play

through the window.

Even the clock’s lime hum

is silent.

 

Overhead rumble announces rain.

Beneath me,

a more ambivalent storm

rattles memories in glass houses.

 

Legs unfurl,

slowly carry me

to the window.

Fingers stretch to chilled glass.

 

A glimpse.

Rolling blacks and grays

mute the long strand of houses,

distorting windows and doors

into eyes and teeth

that parade into oblivion.

 

Illumination:

this is where I’ve always been.

Reverberation:

an invitation home.

Realization:

I’d rather not.

 

Fingers drop from damp glass

to wooden rectangle.

They close,

dragging the photograph close.

 

Back on the couch, I examine the captive.

Once-blue eyes laugh

at an inside joke.

My lips curl,

and we wait out the storm.

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Categories: Issue 2 - Spring 2012, Periodicals, Poetry | Tags: | Leave a comment

Shallow Water by Dylan Robinson

So aptly named,

this bridge of sighs.

 

Dozens of denizens

meander through;

prozac, pollution,

this goddamned wine.

 

These fucking Gondoliers.

 

Twenty years spent

earning an oar,

just to force-feed

love-scenes.

 

Waves mock

blackening stone

while sunshine warms

this sewage street.

 

Some find romance

on this path.

I find faux Kodak cameras

and echoes of “cheese.”

 

I wanted Venice

to be a lie.

 

But the commercials were right.

 

I need you here,

to take the bite

from my wine.

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Occult by George Riddick

Hide, quick, silence your breathing.

We can’t let them see what you’ve done.

Draw the blinds.  Beneath the cover,

lie and wait.  We can’t resume

‘til quiet fog comes again.

 

Shaded windows give the sign:

it’s time again to swim in night.

But when we see our face again,

destroy the mirror, soak in wine.

 

This night has been too long for you,

so I will stay right here and hide,

light and shadow bound together,

until the next night comes for us.

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Morning Wind by Thomas Glasco

Wind rushes about the forest floor,

Chases butterflies for fun,

Swishes dark hair of Indian maiden.

White Dove lifts wooly bear caterpillar,

Many feet climb her arm.

If Woolly survives winter under vegetation

He will shed his orange and black bristles,

Give birth to wings,

Become regal Isabella Tiger Moth.

White Dove walks deeper into forest,

A breeze skims her silken skin.

Mirror eyes drink of wonder.

Springs bubble on Cicada Pond.

Emerald king sits upon lily pad

Croaks an invitation.

A loon’s dynamic shape sheds water,

Enhances the swimming pleasure.

A fawn sips clear cold water.

A drop falls,

Balances eco system.

Categories: Issue 2 - Spring 2012, Periodicals, Poetry | Tags: | Leave a comment

Elevation by Thomas Glasco

Priscilla and I motor across Colorado into Nebraska.

Road is magic carpet, lifting tires above ruts and bumps.

My mother now resides in a nursing home.

Feet are tentative, eyes prepare for the illusion

Of what her life is now.

Door opens, her fine white hair levitates

Her mouth is open and the sleep is noisy.

An attendant elevates her head.

You have company Mary.

Blue grey eyes frisk our faces for recognition.

My face attracts but she doesn’t know why.

As Priscilla speaks, a memory warms mom’s gaze.

We hold her hands, delicate fingers respond.

Tiny feet are massaged, her face softens.

Priscilla says, Mary Frances O’Brien,

You are a beautiful Irish lady, she smiles.

Family photos facilitate various reactions.

At times her face blanks,

Then a picture of her mother sparks remembrance.

When its time to take our leave,

We kiss delicate forehead and cheeks.

Tender voices bid her goodbye.

Do I stand between now and eternity?

I bow to kiss her hand once more.

Her eyes show bewilderment,

A child mistakenly left alone in the park.

Categories: Issue 2 - Spring 2012, Periodicals, Poetry | Tags: | Leave a comment

Mr. Gill by Brit Blasingame

Over Grenache, she says a dead embryo but uses the word for the procedure, adding she’d like to see her dad a grandparent; this happened years ago and she’s aware

she hasn’t the word for lament⎯Her sister’s older, wants to do it

the right way, the right way, I say She means her sister wants

what she doesn’t. A wanted out of a relationship so she moved in

with her dad, had the happy fortune to be running late for work

when he fell in the shower,

when his eyes wouldn’t move and she couldn’t heave

a man’s man. Built. Blue collar, a mechanic’s shirt

the day he was drinking. I sat next to him, A brought me a beer, offering

no introductions, turning to other patrons

and we started gabbing. His head was shaved, eyes kind, ardent, face pleasant

never would’ve guessed he had the stroke He told me a story about a couple

at the bar last time he was at the Trophy⎯

Ever been here ‘round closing? he asked. I admitted, no

… the boyfriend, bellicose, drunk, had refused to leave. A called the police.

You wonder what goes through someone’s head, he said, reaching the part where

this guy gives it a row⎯cops hurry him away; the girlfriend, hissing at A, says cunt

and A snaps stepping up on a cooler,

up on the bar, grabbing this woman by the hair bringing

exit. We roared, and now, in the know, I can say his face was beaming.

A came back. He bought a round. When A returned with the bottles,

opening her Newcastle, she introduced me to her father.

She’s afraid of losing him.

She wants to see his loss revoked, not hers.

Hers isn’t loss.

Categories: Issue 2 - Spring 2012, Periodicals, Poetry | Tags: | Leave a comment

The Pasture by Brit Blasingame

Words are rungs, he said there,

chewing a toothpick, lightly kicking

a patty cracking in the grass.

He held “a letter from his sweetheart”

and seemed to weigh something else

inside his jacket.

 

I heard him say individual “wrings”

and imagined every word

squeezing something from him.

She’s⎯looking out now,

never offering text but flinching

again and again such that

I thought a quarrel might erupt⎯

Would he reveal his hand

Would I

 

Perhaps there was thunder

in his eyes, between his legs

there’s a useless stalk

⎯we never spoke

of such inadequacies, my salary

in knowledge arrived from under

her skirt, like a diary

 

One rot out here, he mumbled,

pensive before an expanse

of cattle

then shook his head,

adding something of wolves,

 

folding the letter,

placing it

 

in his back

pocket.

 

Categories: Issue 2 - Spring 2012, Periodicals, Poetry | Tags: | Leave a comment

Fossil at Stl Science Center by Brit Blasingame

The smudge of an hour transposed where the walk to the car affords a view from the sidewalk, a gam of clouds, their vast undersides⎯There are plastic containers everywhere, all the supermarket⎯And gasoline propels us home to a meal, some TV, bath time, bed. The day has nearly unwound. How different are Sue’s bones from our own? Sun, rain, whatever wind … There was flesh, easy to imagine cool scales, un-petrified teeth, somewhere a tongue, wet eyes … And there would be meat

rotting in her stomach.

 

 

___________________________________________________________________

 

 

 

The exhibit was a blur. There was no silence. Charlie wanted to see this and quickly see that and No matter, “(Look sweetie,) these bones, they were in the earth, people found them, dug them out, brushed them off and put ‘Sue’ back together”⎯

A sentence dragged from skeleton to fossil room to eyesight simulation kiosk to digging experience box … She responded better to “That thing would turn you into poo!”

We colored,

made a mask, finally talking about the dead reptile.

 

And I let her get scared round the T-Rex off the lobby, the one with generous hide, hole in its neck, red paint … She ran, played, until we had to make

for groceries

It seems encapsulating on the walk out, watching her run ahead …

Below my car where I’m flattening the distance she’s racing up the back of a snake,

both of us subject suddenly to a sea of fat clouds.

 

Categories: Issue 2 - Spring 2012, Periodicals, Poetry | Tags: | Leave a comment

Tranquility by Treva Laanan

His fishing vest

with its many pockets

each holds a secret

to lure a fish

 

a favorite pole

another in the car

this is serious playing

he wants to be prepared

 

the creel once new

now battered and soiled

holds stories of

fish that it carried

 

wears high waders

to fish the stream

no banks or boat

for him

 

gone for hours

comes home at dusk

“good fishing” I ask

his reply,

“there is no

bad fishing.”

Categories: Issue 2 - Spring 2012, Periodicals, Poetry | Tags: | Leave a comment

Escape by Treva Laanan

There is a place

 

in the mountain

 

by a stream

 

where I go

 

to find serenity,

 

water ripples, burbles

 

plays leap frog over the rocks

 

sounding like music,

 

I give all

 

negative thoughts and feelings

 

to the stream

 

watch them glide away,

 

the sunlight filters

 

through the tall pine trees

 

creating flickering images

 

like a silent movie.

Categories: Issue 2 - Spring 2012, Periodicals, Poetry | Tags: | Leave a comment

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