Running from the Geese

by Paula Marafino Bernett

Sweet haven’s stripped away
By a mean hand on the throttle
Revving their engines,
Bills clacking like stropped razors
Bent on drawing blood.
No place to hide.
No amulet glitters in gravel,
Seized and tucked to the heart.
No jump to a roof,
Or scuttle down a gutter.
No rousting the Harpies
Bearing down from every quarter.
For every from
There is not a to,
No door slammed against a pursuer.
So Leda fell to the Swan,
To the relief of ravaging,
To terror drained into the beaker of desire.

th

Drawing the Tower of Grief

by Paula Marafino Bernett

It looms in the brain in a pouring rain
That slicks its plateglass windows
And melts its face.
Doodle away with many erasures.
Keep good track of the start-overs.
Guard the blueprints perused
And admired by lineages of architects
Commissioned by the ones
Who could see it coming:
Losses including limbs, assignations,
Repentances drowned in typhoons of rage. 

Meant to quarantine all griefs,
Their scythes and shafts surrendered,
Their vision trained on sweeping views
Across landscapes of sadness—
Its twinkling lights taken for bursts of joy,
Its extinguishings indistinguishable
In a sea of blackest night.
But deaths, yes—one by one they slip
Across the jamb, slither from the bath,
Curl up against your sleeping back.
One by one they steal back their griefs.

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Afternoon

by captain deepthoughts (love m.call)

you tickle my apathy the color of fruits
and make me happy to be bored
and to be boring.

i catch you turning every day into sunday
like a magician:
an indolent magician

Adolescent

by captain deepthoughts (love m.call)

my stoned parents giggle
like the teenager they expect me to be
and i serve them chocolate
like they served me breakfast

lunch

and dinner.

self portrait

by captain deepthoughts (love m.call)

i am missing
words,
a borrowed book
a friend did not mind
to tell you
had pages missing,
loosely falling
at each opening.

 i think about
what i might be saying,
should i fall
into a world
where i am read
as a complete piece. am i
funnier? are my words
clever?

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Lost Room Dream

by Michael Estabrook

Even after decades
I still have the same old dream.
College, final exams.
I cannot find the exam room for my economics class.
In fact, I had forgotten to attend classes all semester long.
But now finals, must try to take them.
But cannot even find the room.
Up and down the stairways, wide and sunny,
back and forth down the hallways, narrow and dusty,
peering into rooms, rows of desks,
windows, chalkboards, stacks of test booklets.
But nothing is familiar. I cannot find the room.
Years later in real life I returned to Louvain, Belgium,
where I had attended, but not completed, graduate school.
The classroom had been there in the same place
since Andreas Vesalius, 400 years:
an ancient stately room of learning
along a cobblestone street. But once again,
like in my dream, I cannot find the room.
I cannot find, the room. 

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Pride of Ownership

by John Grey

 
If I can paint these clouds close enough to each

other, each one a little different than the one before

in rows upon blue sky reaching beyond out there,

If I can stretch this canvas bigger than all the rest,

make it attract them to its white underbelly,

they won’t know about my eyes, my secret

search for doctors, impinging darkness.

All my central vision gone, only pockets along

the edges. I will return to watercolor,

my foundation that I left behind for New York

and his version of me.

I must stay out front for the photographers, hide

my failings, issue commands. Until I am obeyed.

Or I will cut off their heads!

Surely I must paint the rest of me, my personal vision,

before I die. And marry me to the future, blackout all

who’ve seduced me, when I couldn’t know the difference

between him and me, art and trying my own way,

purity and being too far open.

Where I've Lived

by John Grey

I've lived where people had to pump for water,
the hands that could have been clutching children
 
to their loving breast, too busy ripping flesh on
rusty levers, filling jugs and buckets from wells,
 
from rain-water traps. And I've lived where men
struggle to bring old cars back from the death.
 
Forget healing kids. Just finding the right greasy
part, screwing it somehow into place, was enough
 
for their sweat and swearing to do. They turned
that key over until the engine coughed and spluttered
 
into some kind of a working beast. And a young boy
could watch and learn something about mechanics,
 
but "bring me a beer, son" was as affectionate
as words got. And rain on a tin roof was how my
 
weather broadcast itself for years. And I learned
the best and worst of life from the daily chariot race
 
of chickens Some laid eggs and lived. Others
barely saw the axe come down and died.
 
In our back-yard, there was an old Fokker cockpit
that my grandpa rescued from an air-show crash.
 
It was my best toy, my only toy. I'd sit in the broken
pilot's chair, grab the joystick, and steer that flightless
 
wonder into the clouds. I've lived where people
were impossibly grounded but still believed the clouds await. 

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The Twists of Time  

by Robert L. Harrison

                                              You have seen them

                                              with their canes and walkers

                                              hungry for a kind word

                                              from sons and daughters

                                              who forgot their names

                                              and phone number long ago.

                                              You have seen them

                                              in fast food places

                                              licking chicken skins,

                                              wolfing down the burgers,

                                              slowly searching the plate

                                              for hidden diamonds.

                                              You have seen them

                                              wandering the streets,

                                              plucking the deposit cans

                                              from your bin at night

                                              just for the change

                                              to keep away the shadows.

                                              You have seen them

                                              with their gray hair

                                              needing a color fix.

                                              Looking like bent over sticks

                                              falling over sidewalk cracks;

                                              they are toothless forgotten.

                                              You have seen them

                                              at the supermarket

                                              reaching for the cheap macaroni,

                                              gobbling down the free samples,

                                              rubbing the tuna cans

                                              just for a morning high.

                                              You have seen them before

                                              when they lost at Candyland,

                                              cheated at scrabble,

                                              picked up a directly to jail card

                                              and then rolling snake eyes

                                              on the board of life.

                                               And they have seen you

                                               Stuffing your face with pizza

                                               playing with the grandchildren,

                                               watching the lawn care people,

                                               driving in the fast lane,

                                                avoiding their watery eyes

                                               And now you know

                                               these misplaced people 

                                               have felt burdens too deep

                                               for you to handle.

                                               They have never seen the stars at night

                                               only the clouds that hide them.

Arnold  

by Robert L. Harrison

When the great fall

will they be back?

Or is their judgment day

a cruel process

where they don’t

have a maid’s chance

at redemption.

Arnold,

the world is

disappointed with you.

Maybe you hid behind your vowels

not thinking in English

but in cave man thoughts,

where everything is

up for grabs

and all you have to do

Is slay another animal for food.

while taking care of your primitive instincts.

Arnold, never find a mirror that tells the truth,

For you have become an animal

one of the few.

running scared

under the

California sun.

Hasta la vista

Arnold.

Untitled  

by Robert L. Harrison

Maybe old songs excite me

Like a kiss given in the dark

Or a full moon rising

Into stellar space

Time rap’s the mind

Back to rhythms that

Never fail to cure

The present darkness.

For light are words

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Some Kind of Paradise

by Ken Head

The home-made loaves Maria carries
to her tiny shop in the old village
at sunrise every morning come all the way
from town up the winding donkey track
in a battered straw pannier strapped to her back.
As tough as old boots even when they’re fresh,
eating a slice without plenty of good oil
to soak it into softness is a risk
not worth taking if you value your teeth.
Like their maker, Maria’s loaves are local
legends and sometimes just as full of grit.

Always, as she passes, long stick tapping
on cobblestones that must recognize
her every step, there’s a wave, a smile,
a greeting, Good morning!  How are you?
that remind me to work a little harder
at learning her language.  I think about
leaving the city and living this way,
in a small white house above a bay
where the sun sets golden among islands,
about coming to terms with hard choices
between rock and silence in a foreign place.

Beyond my gate, where the climb gets steeper
and what’s left of the path turns into worn
stone slabs embedded at crazy angles
in the earth, Maria will soon be serving
her first customers.  Oil, none-too-fresh eggs,
selections from a tray of weary-looking
vegetables, a bottle or two of wine,
the day’s bread, gossip, some gentle ribbing
while she works out what everything costs. 
Living slowly, she says, gives her time
to value, a chance to make each day her own.

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Gaslight District (San Diego)

by Jean C. Howard

With legs in boots,
bare on bare, fishnets
meshed with night,
shoulders weave,
buffed by sea
as breezes frisk
each leaf, each limb.

Sequins stitched
to stop atop each breast
spark with light,
street lamps touching
as they pass.

Layer upon layer,
the clomp of heels,
bottles crashing
into trash,
music climbing,
each breath,
each beer,
each lifting arm,
or cigarette flaring
into dark, ascends,

A riptide
fed by dancing, heaved
by bouncers
to the street, mollusked
with the husks
of cars.

Scent of skin,
salt, and sweat
meets fried grease
then melts and swirls

in watery swells
that seep onto
the sidewalks.

On Friday night
the flash of lures
with schools of boys
behind them,
twirls and catches
onto sky,
the open mouth
of midnight.

Dusk The Day Flora Watts Was Laid To Rest

by Jean C. Howard

Today change fills
the air,
shatters the cool confidence
of the cottonwood tree,
old and worldly,
yet still trembling
at the first touch
of September.

Hours snaked through
limbs, like a lifetime
through the sieve
of days:
birth, marriage, children,
great grandchildren…

Until here you stand,
stopping to note
how light pins the willow
into horizontal waves,
and how sedum rise,
cheeks ruddy and studded
with glass beads of bees,

Who, too, feel the urgency,
their legs thickening
with the last pollen
of the year.

Everything tastes restless
and singed with gold,
speaking of movement
and subtle ways light
tucks into crab apple leaves.

Dusk presses fire
into blue Perovskia spires,
stops to say,

“Gather your young.
Make peace in ways
that will bring the sun
down to its amber knees,
and be still,
as sky drifts into night.”

Their Sound

by Jean C. Howard

The sound they make,
as I walk across the pavers,
as if this is how all life
should end—
audible and crisp
like pages raging in a fire,
like layers
veined and forged
by wind.

It sounds like cymbals
clicking on fingers
far after midnight,
then falling, forgotten
in a laundry of veils,

Or the snap
of spines, vertebrae
straight, yet spiked
with myeloma, that ravenous
ruby loving the cell.

When I pick one up,
rigidity sharpens
and barbs each ridge,
finger snagging on the tips
of summer’s edge.

One is not alone.
Coffered in gold,
a slaughter-field drapes
the false awakening
of poppy fronds
caught in the garden.

Hundreds, no thousands,
all individuals,
once suckled on the stem,
lie, frozen in the last expression
of their fall.

These bold soldiers,
bodies still intact,
or ladies tipped
in dress, bones stiffened
by September,

Curl and stir,
as if to leap—
propped by all
who have gone before them,
they command
the season to stop,

To turn about
and throw them back
in air. These loved leaves,
cackling as I walk
upon them,

Dream of subtle limbs,
and the vantage point
of heaven, high, high
upon the cottonwood tree,
that they might stay,
and pass on winter’s
harsh judgment.

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Ode to Shoeshining

by Joseph V. Milford

it's Sunday evening I am shining my shoes
terrier sleeps on sofa, music lilts in from kitchen
I have laid out my clothes for the Monday ahead
dress shirt, sweater, slacks, watch, necklace, wallet,
car keys, small change, poem-filled moleskin notebook
all for the accursed day of the moon we backwardly
start our rituals with—I remember my grandfather
shining his shoes, his brow furrowed—I was afraid of it
for some reason—he possessed such austerity, holding
his Zippo under the small can, taking the cloth, dark
as a shark's eye, dipping it into the waxy paint, smearing
the shoes—it was as if he was putting on his armor, Sunday evenings
after football, with 60 Minutes, my grandmother doing dishes
I feared the shining—I knew instinctively what it meant
it was part of facing monsters that every alarm clock releases
and I knew that one day, I too would have to shine my shoes,
shave my face, call someone boss, extend my bone and sinew
to proverbial grindstone—my grandfather would put the leftover
cornbread into a tall glass of buttermilk—I couldn't stomach this
I’d have ice cream and milk instead as we sat together in the swing
listening to the crickets, he holding onto me as another firstborn—I
holding on to him as long as my waning childhood would allow
I think of him now with every brisk swath of this black cloth
across the bridge of these shoes—staring into the opal sheen
hoping to see his serene battle-worn smiling face in mine. 

Tomato Sandwich Reverie

by Joseph V. Milford

The front yard pockmarked with mole holes filling
With rain—summer punctuated by afternoon showers
The ant ziggurats pelted to resemble bombarded
Surfaces of asteroids and the meandering pellets punctuate
the window and after impact freefall down the glass
in rivulets cutting the reflection of my face in the panes.
 
The terrier, now as long as my forearm, dreams on the bed
Softly whimpering, legs pantomiming a sprint away from
Or towards something, and my favorite album plays, and I do
Laundry just to wear the favorite pajama pants, the cotton
Still warm from the dryer, shirt off, barefoot on hardwood floors,
Quince candle lit, ceiling fan whispers across the freckles
 
On my shoulders.  Sure, no great epiphany need descend
Or correspond with my reverie, and there is the chaos
Without and within for all, most definitely.  The gaping
Maw of it holds truth in its teeth, and this truth, like the knife
I slice this tomato with, is simple in its design and perfect,
Balanced for function—this design that certainly could
 
Whittle a small balsa figure or in anger kill a man.
The truth of a solitary afternoon is that you stand and walk
Upon great circles, rings, cycles turning in varying
And concentric speeds and intervals—the calendars
Of the cosmic factory of invisible gyres—the universe's
Assembly line of possibilities—today you could have been
 
Anything—or anything other than.  Yet now you put mayo
On the toast, the sliced tomato, sea salt and cracked pepper,
Close the sandwich, and go back to your room, chewing,
Content, noble and for once not wishing for someone else, some
Way else, some other life. The moment is pristine interstice—
Solace, grace.  It orbits you; you have, for now, a place,
 
moons who look for you.

The Moreland Homestead

by Joseph V. Milford

Lingering, the chupacabra, or some cryptid, roams salivating like a fossa through subtur-brush of this sticksville panorama of isolation—WW II Time/Life books around the living room intermittent with Cherokee memorabilia, large wad of sage on bookshelf by model airplane of an AVG Flying-Tigers Tomahawk, lard in the kitchen, Strick-O-Leen, banana pudding, etc.—found sugar beside a box of Winchester shells for tea poured boiling into a gallon jar with a rusty metal lid, antique tea set on top shelf above rifles stacked in corners. Civil War memorabilia and Cherokee battle shield hangs on the wall of my bedroom, tom-tom drums dusty in corners, book of runes and the rune Tarot set atop one shelf with a manual on the I-Ching, above almost every door a Freemasonry emblem—one room, called by my room-mate the "Titanic Room" because it is sinking into the floor is full of antique furniture whose relative accumulated networth I can’t fathom, signed drawing of a bird by Audubon himself on the wall; Nick, the recently deceased German Sheppard, is buried in the back yard, windchimes and whirligigs everywhere out there—pinwheels, roadkill deer-death bloodstains stretch for 100's of yards in either direction of the alternate highway the house is placed 25 feet from, Civil War re-enactment uniform hangs in closets and a .38 snub-nose Smith & Wesson pokes its snout out from under the bed; not one family picture hangs anywhere in the home—how could I not write here?  I kid you not—there is a redtail hawk frozen in the freezer—they found it one day on the road—brought it home—Sue was one half (documented) Cherokee and going to give it to a tribal leader—before she could, she died of cancer. She sheds stones now. Haunts.

Else Realm

by Joseph V. Milford

so we are talking and you say I am something else.  what does that mean? that's a large chasm between. the realm of else is a wide expanse—specify. what if we were talking, and you said I was someone. else. or else. I know all I have to do to get people to talk to me is to walk around with a fifty taped to my forehead but really what do you mean when you call me? self is a strange concept anyway. I’d consider being something else definitely if I could—even right now being maybe a sweater with a hood that’s around your ears whispering something else. do you have ideas how many something else's I’ve been in my lifetime? it's unwieldy—a shelf of selves that could be on par with the Smithsonian. still, please clarify as another grey hair falls from my head upon the odious sympodium. consider being something else, something other than you are right now or are with him with me. consider that and we can see the else I am. consider him the sleuth we are yourself, we. consider the fact we are talking of something else—where you always live—where it is never good enough—where you constantly consider—consider this:       snow of painted excuses

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Toward Night

by Agholor Leonard Obiaderi

The night drained my light
In the journey between
This star and its dull twin
Like a vampire sucking
The last drop.
　
My nectar
Paved the twilight road.
Gap through my window
Measured the space
From the Milky Way
To my decline.
 
Along the horizon
The fire died in my iris.
My lion choked on its roar
Now hunting only the stragglers
And crippled lambs.
 
In the road to silence
Thoughts prospered, dashing
Between this moment and the next
Expectation. I've spent an eternity
Under the Methuselah tree.
 
My tired suitcases squatted
On the sidewalk
Hindered by the pain
In my knees.
 
This last stage,
The rays of sunset
Had transformed dark hair
Into grey  wisps.

The Returnee

by Agholor Leonard Obiaderi

His jackboots marched their pride
Crunching  the gravel.
Painful hope spread-eagled
On the darkening driveway.
 
 
Bootlaces dangled the absence
Of thirteen moons.
He had left the spectre
Of bullets behind
The moaning and the gnashing
dead.But one sat in his pocket.
A souvenir of pain.
 
 
He had seen expiration
The whoosh of wind
Before the quake of corpses
Their ruby lips
Like Caesar's wounds.
 
A tidal wave
His children rushed forward
A flutter of hearts
Whipping up  choking breath.
His wife held behind
Frightened  mountains.
 
Not the dilating pupils
Or quivering lips
Even lonely nights
As timid as peeping buds.
 
They formed a human chain
Linked fingers seeking
Reassurance, blood and familiar breath
A wish to go back to yesterday.
 
At supper, mute mummies
Spilled forth beseech
With empty eye sockets
Fellow skeletons stretched
Bony fingers beneath
 
 
A pyramid of lies
War trailed him home
A fraudulent promise
To resolve injustice
When fear held him down.
 
Two days later,
He left no note
Only a bullet
And a neat exit hole. 

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Bring It Back

by Scott Owens

Was the person who removed
the JFG Coffee sign from Wilkinson
Boulevard where it used to light up
the night in front of the downtown
bank buildings the same one
who stripped the gold of nature’s
first green, ended
the birth of the simple light
in the first, spinning place,
took the single spot
of purity from off my heart
and tossed it among the ashes?

I’d like to go up to him, whoever
he may be, and look
him in the eye to see
what joy of undoing lives there.
I might want to question him.
I might want to argue reason
and cause, but all I really want
to say is Bring it back.

Sea Lions

by Scott Owens

Such liquid grace in water,
slippery quick, velvety skin
rising, turning, spinning on a whim,
becomes little more than lumbering
chase on land, and once caught,
the love song begins, if such
belching can be heard as song.
Without hands, love becomes
a thing of sheer muscle, massive
bulk holding her almost helpless
below, ebb and flow of what
might pass as pelvis thrusting
his strong desire into her.
It might almost be called ungentle.

Resumé

by Scott Owens

Myself the writer wears a second face,
stares into mirrors, shakes limbs, roots deep
into rotted earth, seeking treasures
sweeter than truffles. Myself the writer
makes time out of cracks in the day,
stays up late, wakes up with the baby,
counts piggies, sings songs,
washes behind the unformed wings
of ears, fills notebooks with ideas,
scrawls with one hand on the back of the other
holding the wheel, knows how hunger
feels, and shame, and fear, and hope
despite the obvious lack of cause.
Myself the writer drinks too much coffee,
eats ice cream before noon, sips scotch after midnight,
has stains on his shirt, crumbs in his lap,
always fights the good fight, and never wins.
Myself the writer won’t wash windows
or water houseplants, often forgets
to shave, hates telephones and doorbells,
likes rainy days and cold ones,
long nights, makes love in the chair,
thinks of the world as a buffet,
sucks at marrow, chews on bone,
refuses to leave well enough alone.
Myself the writer knows the names
of flowers and birds, trees and clouds,
makes up the rest, talks to himself
in museums and theaters, leaves words
perched on the edge of his lips,
believes what they say about him,
gets nothing done, never finishes
anything, and will have to live forever.
Myself the writer unfolds himself
in public, empties his pockets on the page,
worries about words that don’t get used
enough, crepuscular, pulchritude, defenestration.
Myself the writer makes people nervous
with watching, tells lies to make a point,
receives hate mail, has fans he doesn’t know,
believes the rules were written for someone else.

Myself the writer got up one morning,
put on his good boots, grabbed his coat,
and left for god knows where,
not to be seen again.  We all knew
he’d never stay, and never meant any harm.
If he comes your way take him in,
give him time and quiet moments,
feed him books, conversations,
crusts of bread, let him fill
your basement with grumbling, take him
for walks, preferably leashed,
preferably heeled, preferably
trained to speak on demand..

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Agamous

by Helen R. Peterson

Rings hide in the good sugar bowl
rinsed clean with the soap and water
required to pry them from finger.

Thanksgiving, a clink within the bowl
as I pull it from the shelf,  the indent
still creases the skin, the sound
a hollow promise.

Time will fill the bed, pillows bent
by arms and knees , time will heal
the flesh, fill the void with life unbound

from platinum or gold, diamonds
just coal freed from heat.

We Were Very Tired

by Helen R. Peterson

We were very tired,
We were very hungry
We went through the drive thru
Without a lot of money

In the car we smelt the smell of the consignment shops
We’d bought pants for the boys and for Sissy frilly tops

We were very tired,
We were very hungry
We went through the drive thru
Without a lot of money

The windows were all rolled up, to keep out rain and wind
The sound of Ella Elephant singing scat blasting from within

We were very tired
We were very hungry
We went through the drive thru
Without a lot of money

The window girl cried Lord Bless You! For the nickels and the dimes
As we asked for no ketchup, extra napkins half a dozen times.

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Tomorrow

by Henry Rappaport

Tomorrow thinks when its time comes
it will be today. It skims the paper
the carrier threw against the morning
at three a.m. to plan what to do.
It flips through the news of the day before
and promises to be ahistorical,
to live outside of time, to mirror nothing.
Meanwhile, today soaks into the bushes
and looks at the dark from which it comes.
It knows it is not tomorrow
and never will be.

.

Going Home

by Henry Rappaport

I survived a month
with no Canadian tire
and no surprise
no Future shop.
Cold when I left the restaurant
after a warm good-bye
I sat on a half wall
with no name.
My wrinkles filled
and I rose like a new loaf.
Then I thanked the sun
on behalf of every old stone. 

Nuovo

by Henry Rappaport

My very dear one,
if the fable ends
with bourbon
and a late-night steak,
cocktails for the kitchen
and the front of house
run by a snapshot
for our squeaky eye,
it will have been
worth the price,
these moments
of another age
we appreciate,
drink up, eat up,
precious beautiful
simple ornate.

Retirement

by Henry Rappaport

Now
to unlearn
habits of
unhappiness
practiced
since
way back when,
now to lose them
one by one
until
what stays
is the other
side of then. 

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Moon of Sadness

by Iolanda Scripca

Nude in front of you
Slapped by bats but kissed by light
Enigmatic scars
No one understands but YOU...
I dream of dreams of moon life...

I pose - you draw me
You take pictures of my soul
Wondering what's wrong...
Sadness... immortality
How much Love I cannot give!

Shock and Awe—Coming Back Home

by Iolanda Scripca

My friends come home draped in flags
I pause at the edge of the airplane door
Facing a tunnel leading me to a muffled joy
Strangers tell me I am related to them...
I deny a woman with three kids... her kiss
My friends are slipping in trucks with flags
They are loaded and back doors explode shut...

I wake up in a trench of blood and clean pillows
The same woman from the airport next to me
Peacefully breathing...and I thought she was dead...
I think I am finally home, fans are not propellers
Camouflage doesn't bear swing sets in backyards
My friends' helmets, guns and boots line up in my head
Patrolling with weapons made of aluminum foil

There is too much silence for a dead soldier walking...
I think I FEEL the kiss of the woman with three kids ...

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Winter Womb

by Eva-Maria Sher

a cold wind has blown into
the region of my heart

delicate flowers (ice crystals) form
where breath once clouded mirror
my feet (used to dancing)
sink into snow
—I have stopped singing

a single note from a lullaby (long ago)
hangs in the air. Luminous amulet
it circles my silent throat
strives against the dark
—I have lost my way

Soon I must find shelter
for myself and those
who travel beside me
ghosts and shadows  thin-fingered
musicians on breathless flutes

crows shake naked tree branches
caw across fields of white
caw of sacred mysteries
the cycles of seasons
—the way of change.

devoid of color
I enter the winter-womb of creation

—dream of quickening

Seasons of Old

by Eva-Maria Sher

Spring bright and innocently sings
its braided song of dappled light:
all one inside ten thousand things…

Up rises summer’s heat…whispers the night
breathless, how one is two till two—enfolded—
are one again—still side by side.

Remembers autumn (time-burnished gold
blue mists, and ancient, slanting sun)
the silent promise winter holds.

Dark days now follow—time spun
from ancient fears. The embers spark
cave-hugged rituals…that night be done

That Goddess Light might, from the dark
rise once again—the Golden One.

Going Home at Night

by Eva-Maria Sher

Now rain has stopped

Bitter smell of blackberries

Beneath my feet moist mosses
Broken ferns

A beetle scurries past my
Flashlight’s circle

Maple branches release
Water beads

A dog howls briefly in the distance
My flashlight wavers fades—and

In the ragged crowns of
Pine trees—the first bright stars.

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Tarot Reading

by Jinen Jason Shulman

All of these questions of worth,
and by that I mean valuable questions,
turn out to be the musing of a madman
because, as you’ll see in a moment,
only madmen and women live here.

Which way am I going? That’s a question
that seems ok on the surface but though
its rippling through our spine suggests
a lake, there is no lake beyond
the watery flow of electrons
deep within
our boney cage.

How long will I live? And what should I be?
And: am I good enough? That’s a good one
and like the others, only
sound that falls off
human lips.
What am I trying to say?
We are one thing. We sing one song.
Please don’t compare us to eternity.

Ok. Ok. Here it is: the trumpet makes
a trumpet sound. The red flower
folds red space. What passes through
us is its own significator, not signal
so much as star,
bright with no meaning
and beautiful.

Starting a New Job

by Jinen Jason Shulman

In Anna Karenina people are always saying things
in public, doing things in public that should only be
done in private. Things are out of joint, falling apart.
Small things, glances, blushes,
a turn of the head
or body. They can’t help themselves.
The same way a poet I just got to know
wrote a book about her brother’s life and death:
this is not a book to be read by anyone I said
to myself. It should have been written and tucked away
in a drawer. But she couldn’t help herself.

I was born to do this but I can’t anymore,
showing to learn not to show.
Now I am being born into something else,
small as a pea, slow as a snail.
No music, muscle, mineral
mind sharp as feldspar clear as glass.

In Anna Karenina murder accompanies
the cuff’s unanticipated
emergence from the sleeve.
You can see why Horace was often concerned
about the appearance of things: he knew
how a bit of lace, a belt or decorum kept
the lid on mayhem.

Maybe tomorrow.
For now, the rug, the divan
and the insistence on ruin and havoc.

Nauset

by Jinen Jason Shulman

There is a ring of stone
around the field but now
we are flying and our
movements push the air and
bend the marsh grass
and ripple the water.
We are no longer looking
from the same height,
that of a walking man
who takes apart the field
and puts it back together.
Out on the Nauset walk
he sees things through the pieces
of his heart and there
are plenty of them.
He grabs up the
landscape, wants to take
pieces home, round up
refugees and as landlord,
evict the slow to understand.
Cattails and tiny flowers
way out of season,
rippling coins with yellow
transparent faces. There is
sound everywhere, most of it
wind off the channel,
the bulrushes
clean the ancient air.
It is the same way, it is
the exact same way with
his heart. It is small
and yellow and worn,
and stunned by still
being there. He watches the field lie
there in its stones and earth.
Something new rushes down,
just before the winter and
passes through
the weeds and
makes in the hollow
a kind of song.

.

Subjective Driving

by Jinen Jason Shulman

The car veers gently toward the shoulder
and I know she is adjusting something or
looking at the dunes and then it’s over
and we proceed again around the curve,
content we are on the road again.

The car wobbles. Not a lot, but just enough
to make me glance over at that wonderful
woman who is adjusting something or looking
at the dunes: her eyes are like searchlights
that search out beauty. Her hands on the wheel
have a will of their own.

Then we pass a truck. I’m beginning to get
nervous. She veers out toward the opposite
lane for safety’s sake. The car wobbles
just a little, a tremor, a tiny temblor,
an editing of the forward motion of
the car. Unlike my driving, which is
mundanely associated with getting
somewhere, her driving is a conversation
with the world around her, a suggestion
in motion. I’m beginning to get philosophical
which is the only defense I know of
that can hope to keep hurtling death
at bay. I’m filled with thoughts about reincarnation.
Her hand reaches for the radio
dial. I say, let me do it, or she’s cold
and the car’s dashboard is her musical
instrument or she is a teacher who has
office hours and a student walks in
and they sit and talk about the weather
and she rises to make them both a cup
of coffee. But I digress. Here we are
wobbling again on the long ride home,
conversing, talking, having cups of coffee.
Her stamina is amazing. Her face quiet
and serene. I try to close my eyes and sleep.

Constellation

by Jinen Jason Shulman

We swim to God
because we’ve been
misled, the way we
find Cassiopeia and
bears and fish living
in the infinite sky.
But stars have no
names and picture
nothing and point
to nothing and are
only brilliant, bright,
and we were never
meant to suffer
at the hands of light.

But we do. And we
drown sometimes
in the fabled separation
that is our leaven,
and that we take
as part
of Heaven.

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Why The Poet Loves The Music Of The Carnival

by Sam Silva

The organ grinders march begins
and sadness is
his clownish cause
in strangely lifting human sins
in grace beyond all human laws.

The passion in the minor key
gives meaning
to unreason
in my restless tragic mind.
...and then
soft soul dissects the night.
Pianos change to higher keys
and violins
breeze through the trees
more like a pregnant lullaby
where dreams defer themselves
from sleep.

The avenues of cities
begin to fill with gayety
if only in the minds thin eye
of flashing cinematic art

....the painters brush!
...the writers pen!
where sex and love are joined again
not in dull and sad cliché
but where they join the feast and pray

...where flesh is filled with laughing love
and spirit
fills the heart!

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The Dancer

by Laura Solomon

It looks so pretty to watch, I know,
me twirling and spinning through space
for your entertainment. 

How you gasp as I fly through the air.

How you applaud my immaculate plies. 

I exist for your amusement. 

What you don’t see is this –
when I take off my shoes,
the calluses gnarled and hardened
that blossom upon my feet,
the years and years of training it took me
to get to this level. 

I am humble, of course, and modest.
I do my duty without complaint. 

I was raised for this – almost an acrobat,
a delicate girl, fragile, even,
if a flower, then a lily.

Perhaps I exploited my looks, just a little,
to get me where I am today.
Big deal – who didn’t?

There are nasty rumours in circulation,
about blow-jobs I gave, palms I crossed with my father’s silver,
in order to make it into the Royal Ballet.

False, all false,
I am as innocent as snow,
an empty chalice,
waiting to be filled with other people’s desires and fears and longings. 

Watch me spin, my smile like rigor mortis,
a face set in plaster, like a saint,
or an angel, only to eager to serve,
to serve you the audience,
who lap it up and afterwards,
I sit in the green room,
my tired feet in a bucket of ice,
silence ringing in my ears. 

Freda Kahlo’s Cry

by Laura Solomon

Today the ghost of me attended
My own exhibition at the Tate Modern. 

All those paintings on display,
The ones that I laboured over for so long. 

The sickening part was the merchandise.
Coffee mugs, calendars, prints, clocks –
all with either me or one of my paintings thereupon.
Somebody’s making a pretty packet –
and during my lifetime, I was as poor as a church mouse,
living hand to mouth.

At least I have achieved a form of immortality. 
I hang on many walls. 

Nobody ever seems to bear in mind,
the price I paid during my lifetime;
my nerves of steel –
my shattered spine. 

Resurfacing From the Wreck

by Laura Solomon

Here I come, all clichés,
a deep-sea diver resurfacing for air.
It fills my lungs like heaven. 

If I still had a tongue in my head
I could tell you of what I saw down there.

The rusting ship, covered in barnacles,
tangled in seaweed,
a mermaid or two, drifting idly by,
combing their hair as they swam.

The oysters I prised from the side of the ship;
the gnarled pearls that I found. 

The great white that flashed its fangs at me,
and then, thankfully, swam away. 

If I had half a mind to,
if I still had eyes,
I could tell you about,
how close I came to blacking out,
how I nearly got the bends,
but recovered just in time,
a good save,
and saving myself,
rose back up through the ocean depths,
pearls in hand, donations, gifts,
and then, removing my mask,
lay on the deck of the ship,
breathing in, breathing out,
recovery mode,
as you oohed and aahed about the pearls,
without ever once bearing in mind,
the price I paid for the jewels I found,
how close I came to not making it,
and drifting alone forever,
across the ocean floor, 
a human fish, not living, yet alive –
a spectacle for the other creatures
who live down there
to feast their eyes upon,
an Ophelia of sorts,
but I did rise, didn’t I
you have the pearls as evidence -
I have my blind eyes. 

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Found

by Felino A. Soriano

Random shapes reshape absence’s fixated
stillness.  Newness of window’s reinstalled
viewpoint, advantage temporal now’s
illusion of particular pleasure redefined as
obscure. 

Post Card

by Felino A. Soriano

 Parental warmth
            hovers              drags               redefines
soon-moment wealth
                                                above
relevant distribution:

embrace
                        embarrass                               written
across child                 physiognomy
partitioned by youth and wandering future
arriving upon gasp of definitional incredulity. 

Traced

by Felino A. Soriano

Garment of silk
                                    hung
as if suspended by miniscule string
                                                                        whose skeletal demeanor
wore alabaster symptoms
containing width and strength of a muscle’s
                                                                                    under developed might.

This silk
wore haloed hand of forming punctuation
                        ending or pause of causational
reform
ending
with soaked dimension of an hour’s focal delineation
                                                                                                torn
by wind of rust-edged shape punishing ornamental
motion. 

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