Poetry - Issue 5
Oh, Crows
What we want of you
is wisdom. What
you show us is
bird magic and card
tricks and raucous
dancing on the green
lawn of the grey house
at the end of the road.
is wisdom. What
you show us is
bird magic and card
tricks and raucous
dancing on the green
lawn of the grey house
at the end of the road.
The Cottonwoods
Not that the cottonwoods
can keep their thoughts to themselves.
They must speak of the creek,
of wind, and sometimes of rain.
We are used to their clatter
but don't know what it means.
They might be arguing with God.
can keep their thoughts to themselves.
They must speak of the creek,
of wind, and sometimes of rain.
We are used to their clatter
but don't know what it means.
They might be arguing with God.
Tom Montag is most recently the author of In This Place: Selected Poems 1982-2013. In 2015 he was the featured poet at Atticus Review (April) and
Contemporary American Voices (August).
The Uncertainty Principle
1. to write a poem
2. time moves backwards and forward at the same speed
3. in any order you choose
4. breaking rules, breaking habits, breaking hearts
5. in the random abstraction of verse
6. comets are ice not fire
7. inspiration comes in spurts or not at all
8. rearrange the lines on the page
9. words are only words
10.hang what meaning on them that you like
11.the opposite of big bang is big crunch
12.what are the other lights behind God’s eye?
13.
2. time moves backwards and forward at the same speed
3. in any order you choose
4. breaking rules, breaking habits, breaking hearts
5. in the random abstraction of verse
6. comets are ice not fire
7. inspiration comes in spurts or not at all
8. rearrange the lines on the page
9. words are only words
10.hang what meaning on them that you like
11.the opposite of big bang is big crunch
12.what are the other lights behind God’s eye?
13.
The "They Don't Sell Angel Jerky At The 7-11" Blues
Angel wings are mostly
feather, bone, & cartilage
not to mention bits of cloud
& wind
– celestial gristle –
nothing to chew
or gnaw when you’re
driving
down
the road.
feather, bone, & cartilage
not to mention bits of cloud
& wind
– celestial gristle –
nothing to chew
or gnaw when you’re
driving
down
the road.
Michael Minassian lives in San Antonio, Texas. His poems have appeared in such journals as Galway Review, Meadow, and Poet Lore. Amsterdam Press published his poetry chapbook The Arboriculturist in 2010.
Hook
I should
never have trusted
in my ridiculous self,
because the day came,
when the sound
of your name,
caused an
altogether different
catch in my heart.
never have trusted
in my ridiculous self,
because the day came,
when the sound
of your name,
caused an
altogether different
catch in my heart.
Lindsay McLeod trips over the horizon every morning. He has won several prizes and awards and stuff for poetry and short fiction and published his first co-authored poetry collection, My Almost Heart, in 2015. He currently writes on the sandy Southern edge of the world, where he watches the sea and the sky wrestle for supremacy at his letterbox. He prefers to support the underdog. It is presently an each way bet.
Hieratic 4
Metaphor is the tree, the vehicle to the tiger orchid tenor. Air plants, orchids
are a high erratic plant, an epiphyte. Epiphytes go in the cracks of their host trees,
where the compost falls and collects. They grow out of organic debris: trace the
minerals lost, leaves shaped like haiku, pull the moisture away. The compost pile is
a blooming buzzing profusion. The roots of orchids are highly specialized. Their old
and dead epidermis cells are called the velamen, in part spongy and fibrous
bodies. So the silver, white, or brown roots take inside the humidity; beauty is an
emergent property. Gods are in the eye of the beholder. Eye of the stem, node,
undeveloped bud is the beginning of growth again. The tree is the god of the
tiger orchid. The growth pattern of the tree is the same as the human nervous
system. Life history: I flower you.
are a high erratic plant, an epiphyte. Epiphytes go in the cracks of their host trees,
where the compost falls and collects. They grow out of organic debris: trace the
minerals lost, leaves shaped like haiku, pull the moisture away. The compost pile is
a blooming buzzing profusion. The roots of orchids are highly specialized. Their old
and dead epidermis cells are called the velamen, in part spongy and fibrous
bodies. So the silver, white, or brown roots take inside the humidity; beauty is an
emergent property. Gods are in the eye of the beholder. Eye of the stem, node,
undeveloped bud is the beginning of growth again. The tree is the god of the
tiger orchid. The growth pattern of the tree is the same as the human nervous
system. Life history: I flower you.
Julia Rose Lewis is poet in residence at the University of Wales archeology. She is a member of the Moors Poetry Collective. She is published in 3am Magazine,Backlash, etc.
Lightning
It is garish
when the immense avenue
of the sky
comes to life
under lightning’s cheap neon
and we are tiny and poor
wide-eyed beneath our blankets
when thunder tumbles its enormous dice
and for the briefest moment
we are fooled into believing
that like us
the black trees
have thrown open their arms
to the wind
when the immense avenue
of the sky
comes to life
under lightning’s cheap neon
and we are tiny and poor
wide-eyed beneath our blankets
when thunder tumbles its enormous dice
and for the briefest moment
we are fooled into believing
that like us
the black trees
have thrown open their arms
to the wind
John L. Stanizzi is the author of Ecstasy Among Ghosts, Sleepwalking, Dance Against the Wall), After the Bell, and Hallelujah Time! His poems have appeared in Prairie Schooner, The New York Quarterly, Rattle, and others. He teaches English at Manchester Community College.
Signals
Once, 2 black holes
succumbed
to the unstoppable pull
of their own mass
circling like lovers
rounding for eons
before collapsing
into one.
What Einstein knew
is that bodies
of such mass
cannot come together
without consequence--
that there is a warping
a violence to time
and to space
in the consummation,
releasing the energy
of every star
in the cosmos
as a wave
of gravity itself
sent, rippling, across
the fabric of the universe
but slowly
fading also
until reaching us
millions of galaxies
and one billion
years later as a wave
so minute it required
1,000 scientists
pressing their ears
to an antennae
of pure vacuums
lasers and precision optics
two miles long
to hear
the tiniest, little
ping.
What Einstein knew
has been my experience, too.
We, these bodies
of heft and light,
we rarely fuse together
or pull apart
without consequence
without some violence
to time and space
though the wave
may dissipate
across miles and years
be hard to detect
with the grossness
of our usual optics
and interference
to our antennae
too often
I am at the mercy yet
of the long ago
the whispered signals
the things not said
I am stretched
by the hidden waves
the ripples of ancient
collisions shake me still
succumbed
to the unstoppable pull
of their own mass
circling like lovers
rounding for eons
before collapsing
into one.
What Einstein knew
is that bodies
of such mass
cannot come together
without consequence--
that there is a warping
a violence to time
and to space
in the consummation,
releasing the energy
of every star
in the cosmos
as a wave
of gravity itself
sent, rippling, across
the fabric of the universe
but slowly
fading also
until reaching us
millions of galaxies
and one billion
years later as a wave
so minute it required
1,000 scientists
pressing their ears
to an antennae
of pure vacuums
lasers and precision optics
two miles long
to hear
the tiniest, little
ping.
What Einstein knew
has been my experience, too.
We, these bodies
of heft and light,
we rarely fuse together
or pull apart
without consequence
without some violence
to time and space
though the wave
may dissipate
across miles and years
be hard to detect
with the grossness
of our usual optics
and interference
to our antennae
too often
I am at the mercy yet
of the long ago
the whispered signals
the things not said
I am stretched
by the hidden waves
the ripples of ancient
collisions shake me still
Ascending
Closely, look closely
and you will find her
hovering in the air
somewhere between
as I do, each night
easing her gently
back down into her tucked bed
careful, careful now
for she is a bit fragile
as floating people are
arisen from piggy-backs
training wheels
from wide-eyed wonder
yet not fully ascended
into pimples and crushes
the receding into one's own
only the first tiny signs
nights of nameless tears
easy, easy now
still, she sleeps with rag dolls
gentle, gentle now
she also rolls her eyes
can you see her hovering
one arm in both worlds
can you feel her holding
back from the rise
it's what my heart wants, of course
even as I gently loosen her grip
now I better understand the fog
rising from a morning field
now my heart is filled with love
for the wave crashing on a rocky shore
and you will find her
hovering in the air
somewhere between
as I do, each night
easing her gently
back down into her tucked bed
careful, careful now
for she is a bit fragile
as floating people are
arisen from piggy-backs
training wheels
from wide-eyed wonder
yet not fully ascended
into pimples and crushes
the receding into one's own
only the first tiny signs
nights of nameless tears
easy, easy now
still, she sleeps with rag dolls
gentle, gentle now
she also rolls her eyes
can you see her hovering
one arm in both worlds
can you feel her holding
back from the rise
it's what my heart wants, of course
even as I gently loosen her grip
now I better understand the fog
rising from a morning field
now my heart is filled with love
for the wave crashing on a rocky shore
How Sad, Thought My Dog
How sad, thought my Dog,
is the life of that mayfly.
No time, in only a single day,
to invest an entire afternoon
in the sunny spot at the foot of the stairs.
How poignant, I thought,
is my dog's life. How static
are his passages. How limited
is his ability, in only 15 years,
to experience the sweep of the world.
How touching, thought the Mountain,
is that human's life, whose body withers
in less than 100 years and can never know
the magnificent upward folding of the earth,
and the soft rounding of the rain and the trees.
How piteous, thought the Earth,
is that mountain's life, worn to dust
in only 500 million years, rooted always
under the same skies, unable to feel the thrust
of gravity pulling us through the universe.
How quaint, thought the Universe,
is the life of the Earth, merely 4 billion years
and consigned never to experience the wonder
of polychromatic gas clouds ten galaxies wide,
towering nebulae, slowly gestating new stars.
How heart-breaking, thought God,
is the life of that Universe, only 14 billion years
and believing in the eternal expansion of its own
wonder. Unable to see so many other universes
bubbling around it, each bursting in due time.
How sad, thought the Mayfly,
is the life of God, to design an entire universe
just for mayflies, the flawlessly timed stages of life,
the delicate rebirth of every molt, and yet be forced
to endure beyond the simple perfection of a single day.
is the life of that mayfly.
No time, in only a single day,
to invest an entire afternoon
in the sunny spot at the foot of the stairs.
How poignant, I thought,
is my dog's life. How static
are his passages. How limited
is his ability, in only 15 years,
to experience the sweep of the world.
How touching, thought the Mountain,
is that human's life, whose body withers
in less than 100 years and can never know
the magnificent upward folding of the earth,
and the soft rounding of the rain and the trees.
How piteous, thought the Earth,
is that mountain's life, worn to dust
in only 500 million years, rooted always
under the same skies, unable to feel the thrust
of gravity pulling us through the universe.
How quaint, thought the Universe,
is the life of the Earth, merely 4 billion years
and consigned never to experience the wonder
of polychromatic gas clouds ten galaxies wide,
towering nebulae, slowly gestating new stars.
How heart-breaking, thought God,
is the life of that Universe, only 14 billion years
and believing in the eternal expansion of its own
wonder. Unable to see so many other universes
bubbling around it, each bursting in due time.
How sad, thought the Mayfly,
is the life of God, to design an entire universe
just for mayflies, the flawlessly timed stages of life,
the delicate rebirth of every molt, and yet be forced
to endure beyond the simple perfection of a single day.
Ryan Warren and his family live by the sea. His poetry has previously appeared in Wilderness House Literary Review, The Mindful Word, Ekphrastic and Plum Tree Tavern.
Mystery Man
Listen closely to a woman
and she'll tell you who she is.
Listen closely to a man
and he'll tell you who he pretends to be.
A man plays a game of I hide, don't seek
and plays it well.
His script is memorized.
and reassuring.
Banalities to associates
and excuses without fault.
But a man does not deceive himself
and will tell his mutilated truths.
But only to another man
and only if greatly threatened.
Women rarely touch
the buried in their men.
and she'll tell you who she is.
Listen closely to a man
and he'll tell you who he pretends to be.
A man plays a game of I hide, don't seek
and plays it well.
His script is memorized.
and reassuring.
Banalities to associates
and excuses without fault.
But a man does not deceive himself
and will tell his mutilated truths.
But only to another man
and only if greatly threatened.
Women rarely touch
the buried in their men.
Ed Ahern resumed writing after forty odd years in foreign intelligence and
international sales. He's had a hundred twenty stories and poems published, and two books.
Family Trees
Silas tripped on his words
at dinner
and time forgot how to breathe.
Grandmother said that the man
Mother read to late evenings
was our long lost Uncle Charlie,
and he had gone out to rest.
Mother walked nights after that
with her hair loose
until the first flooding,
and we all came to know
the scrape of her greater loss
when the fire came later.
When father returned it changed again,
but Uncle Charlie never quit resting.
Silas told me years later
that the police found him in the river,
a bullet through his back,
his reading eyes cut away
carefully by scissors.
I didn’t cry or mourn,
since we weren’t really relatives,
though family had a way
of being who you read with
when the nights were long.
at dinner
and time forgot how to breathe.
Grandmother said that the man
Mother read to late evenings
was our long lost Uncle Charlie,
and he had gone out to rest.
Mother walked nights after that
with her hair loose
until the first flooding,
and we all came to know
the scrape of her greater loss
when the fire came later.
When father returned it changed again,
but Uncle Charlie never quit resting.
Silas told me years later
that the police found him in the river,
a bullet through his back,
his reading eyes cut away
carefully by scissors.
I didn’t cry or mourn,
since we weren’t really relatives,
though family had a way
of being who you read with
when the nights were long.
Katarina Boudreaux is a writer, musician, composer, tango dancer, and teacher -- a shaper of word, sound, and mind. She returned to New Orleans after circuitous journeying. www.katarinaboudreaux.com
How I Became
I remember
the hands of ancient grandmothers
lacing my DNA together
one strand at time,
the way their silvery hair fell across
their timeless eyes,
how they sang all night
with heavy breath between words
spinning infinite threads of wisdom
harmoniously in utero
I became earth--
suckling the milk of the deep night sky.
the hands of ancient grandmothers
lacing my DNA together
one strand at time,
the way their silvery hair fell across
their timeless eyes,
how they sang all night
with heavy breath between words
spinning infinite threads of wisdom
harmoniously in utero
I became earth--
suckling the milk of the deep night sky.