Poetry - Issue 6
Foxes
Your cold feet
Are famous
For always running
Down along the hedgerows
At the first sign of winter,
The first brittle air,
The first snug chilling
Of the heart.
They’re famous
For finding
The first snow
Out in the world
When it sets down
Lightly,
A quiet hallelujah
In the whitened trees.
Are famous
For always running
Down along the hedgerows
At the first sign of winter,
The first brittle air,
The first snug chilling
Of the heart.
They’re famous
For finding
The first snow
Out in the world
When it sets down
Lightly,
A quiet hallelujah
In the whitened trees.
At the End of Summer
Again, these changes
Moving in the slowness
And clarity of fall.
The streets shuttering their doors
To the sudden shifts in wind.
Finding one’s place amongst all
The grievances and joys
At the end of summer
Is like closing a small book
On the café table
And lifting one’s head
To watch the migrant birds.
Moving in the slowness
And clarity of fall.
The streets shuttering their doors
To the sudden shifts in wind.
Finding one’s place amongst all
The grievances and joys
At the end of summer
Is like closing a small book
On the café table
And lifting one’s head
To watch the migrant birds.
Seth Jani currently resides in Seattle, WA and is the founder of Seven CirclePress (www.sevencirclepress.com). His own work has been published widely in such places as The Coe Review, The Hamilton Stone Review, Hawai`i Pacific Review, Gingerbread House and Gravel. More about him and his work can be found at www.sethjani.com
The Only Door
The wind has business with the trees. The stream's
inhabited by paradox, and sky
is blank as blue can be. Right now in dream
she's nowhere, but she's home. The truth's a lie
compared to what she feels. A saw winds up,
then dies, starts up--I hear the cut--then dies.
The saw's a certain kind of truth that shuts
the door on doubt. In dreams I fear to fly--
I do not trust what others urge. My wings,
I know, will fail. No flight will rescue me.
The leaves lean towards the sun. The day will bring
me everything, if only I can see.
I doubt I will, for doubt's the only door
I know that opens onto more and more.
inhabited by paradox, and sky
is blank as blue can be. Right now in dream
she's nowhere, but she's home. The truth's a lie
compared to what she feels. A saw winds up,
then dies, starts up--I hear the cut--then dies.
The saw's a certain kind of truth that shuts
the door on doubt. In dreams I fear to fly--
I do not trust what others urge. My wings,
I know, will fail. No flight will rescue me.
The leaves lean towards the sun. The day will bring
me everything, if only I can see.
I doubt I will, for doubt's the only door
I know that opens onto more and more.
One Friend
One friend, the only loving friend I've had,
is so long gone I stretch my memory
to find his face, to hear his laugh, that mad
light on a bridge we walked when we were free
and ignorant as dirt. What could we know,
so new to life, one destined to be dead
in bitter snow? What could we ever know,
as innocent as bone can be or bread
as sweet as oven's gift? We walked for miles.
We talked right from our bones. And, Lord, we drank
the wine that told the truth, that reconciled
our silences and made us be as frank
as truth we stumbled towards. He's dead long years.
I watched him die. I watched him disappear.
is so long gone I stretch my memory
to find his face, to hear his laugh, that mad
light on a bridge we walked when we were free
and ignorant as dirt. What could we know,
so new to life, one destined to be dead
in bitter snow? What could we ever know,
as innocent as bone can be or bread
as sweet as oven's gift? We walked for miles.
We talked right from our bones. And, Lord, we drank
the wine that told the truth, that reconciled
our silences and made us be as frank
as truth we stumbled towards. He's dead long years.
I watched him die. I watched him disappear.
Ed Hack was a teacher; he’s now a poet. He’s been exploring the sonnet for close to three years, its demands for precision, intensity. He knows there’s more to learn.
Pathways
i.
You imagine a navigation system for artists
of the lightning bug variety.
Blue and purple pegs lined up on a Lite Brite screen,
Black paper punctured
with constellations.
ii.
You weave threads from trapeze bar wire hangers in dark closets.
The baby is always crawling towards technicolor
shoes.
When every peg falls out of the Lite Brite
You’re left with empty sockets, traces, residue.
Drool on the carpeting.
The baby is teething again.
iii.
Outside, it’s firefly dark.
We look
through frosted car windows.
We swim
in teal skies shot through with pink, yellow light.
iv.
Through pathways of the mind,
zipping indigo.
My midnight bluebird.
At sunrise, through the blue curtain, patch of sky
Portal of cerulean light
beyond horizontal silo,
my little blue heart beating, blinking on the screen.
You imagine a navigation system for artists
of the lightning bug variety.
Blue and purple pegs lined up on a Lite Brite screen,
Black paper punctured
with constellations.
ii.
You weave threads from trapeze bar wire hangers in dark closets.
The baby is always crawling towards technicolor
shoes.
When every peg falls out of the Lite Brite
You’re left with empty sockets, traces, residue.
Drool on the carpeting.
The baby is teething again.
iii.
Outside, it’s firefly dark.
We look
through frosted car windows.
We swim
in teal skies shot through with pink, yellow light.
iv.
Through pathways of the mind,
zipping indigo.
My midnight bluebird.
At sunrise, through the blue curtain, patch of sky
Portal of cerulean light
beyond horizontal silo,
my little blue heart beating, blinking on the screen.
Emilie Lindemann is the author of several chapbooks, most recently The Livija Letters (forthcoming from Hyacinth Girl Press). She enjoys the unexpected creative sparks and conversations in collaborative projects.
Remnants
Old women haunt city streets
shrunken in woolen overcoats
from a more hopeful era,
shuffle along
invisible to passersby,
too weary to wonder
who stole tomorrows.
shrunken in woolen overcoats
from a more hopeful era,
shuffle along
invisible to passersby,
too weary to wonder
who stole tomorrows.
Gary Beck has 11 published chapbooks, 9 published poetry collections, 4 more accepted. He has 3 novels. 2 short story collections and 1 accepted for publication. He lives in NYC.
On Magic & Reality
I was born in a realm too far from your home
Not in distance but in any other measurement of reality
Times have changed. But my skin still leaks crimson fires
Burning sage smudges in abalone shells
My magic won’t work, still, I walk beside you
Invisible but equal in prospect
You pray I only play with seafoam
When my burning eyes cry for another’s gaze.
Not in distance but in any other measurement of reality
Times have changed. But my skin still leaks crimson fires
Burning sage smudges in abalone shells
My magic won’t work, still, I walk beside you
Invisible but equal in prospect
You pray I only play with seafoam
When my burning eyes cry for another’s gaze.
Buffy Worsham is an American expatriate currently residing in her own imagination. When she’s not trudging through her murky subconscious, Buffy writes and makes digital paintings. http://www.buffythewriter.wordpress.com
Block 25
Noriko
her mother
her father
lived
next to an apple orchard
he pruned
picking yellow fruit
to store in the cellar
so the skin would turn
sweet red.
The oldest Issei man
at Manzanar
(younger than his daughter today)
he was given no work
left to himself
as his wife made rounds
using rations to plan menus
for the suffering.
Noriko’s father hiked the creeks.
Not anyone believed the old man
could escape the wire.
He carried home branches of myrtle.
Noriko watched him sit for hours
carve boughs into lamps & table legs.
One time a night heron emerged
from his hands
short neck & short legs.
Her father placed him at the wire
to wait for the morning sun.
her mother
her father
lived
next to an apple orchard
he pruned
picking yellow fruit
to store in the cellar
so the skin would turn
sweet red.
The oldest Issei man
at Manzanar
(younger than his daughter today)
he was given no work
left to himself
as his wife made rounds
using rations to plan menus
for the suffering.
Noriko’s father hiked the creeks.
Not anyone believed the old man
could escape the wire.
He carried home branches of myrtle.
Noriko watched him sit for hours
carve boughs into lamps & table legs.
One time a night heron emerged
from his hands
short neck & short legs.
Her father placed him at the wire
to wait for the morning sun.
Chella Courington is the author of four poetry and three flash fiction chapbooks. Her poetry and stories appear in numerous anthologies and journals including SmokeLong Quarterly, Nano Fiction, and The Collagist. Her recent novella, The Somewhat Sad Tale of the Pitcher and the Crow, is available at Amazon.
Valley Forge
Petit, a poet comes down
From the hill,
Calls it a mountain
Says he saw
Unknown soldiers going out
To fight for a dead lady
I know he saw nothing
The mills keep
The hills dark
Dark enough to make
A poet want
To climb them in the first place.
From the hill,
Calls it a mountain
Says he saw
Unknown soldiers going out
To fight for a dead lady
I know he saw nothing
The mills keep
The hills dark
Dark enough to make
A poet want
To climb them in the first place.
Ben Nardolilli currently lives in New York City. His work has appeared in Perigee Magazine, Red Fez, Danse Macabre, The 22 Magazine, Quail Bell Magazine, Elimae, fwriction, Inwood Indiana, Pear Noir, The Minetta Review, and Yes Poetry. He blogs at mirrorsponge.blogspot.com and is looking to publish a novel.
Night In June
That night in June,
the wind charged with a threat of storms,
we sat on the steps, our shoulders
once in a while brushing against each other.
We spoke of important things –
stones and the chorus of shadows
as fireflies emptied the dark.
You said you loved somebody once
like you thought it would surprise me
and I said I’m afraid of drowning
and tornados taunt me in dreams.
The things we shared were not expected –
patches of blue fog
and the deep unwinding of mercies,
and once
an awakening that scared us into silence.
We could have sat there for hours,
maybe we did,
but rain moved in from the west,
unburdened the clouds and veiled us in myth.
The part of us that reached toward the edges
left me unsettled and lonely.
If I knew what to confess,
I would have told you all of it –
the nothing and the almost,
as the wet grass blew wild in the wind.
the wind charged with a threat of storms,
we sat on the steps, our shoulders
once in a while brushing against each other.
We spoke of important things –
stones and the chorus of shadows
as fireflies emptied the dark.
You said you loved somebody once
like you thought it would surprise me
and I said I’m afraid of drowning
and tornados taunt me in dreams.
The things we shared were not expected –
patches of blue fog
and the deep unwinding of mercies,
and once
an awakening that scared us into silence.
We could have sat there for hours,
maybe we did,
but rain moved in from the west,
unburdened the clouds and veiled us in myth.
The part of us that reached toward the edges
left me unsettled and lonely.
If I knew what to confess,
I would have told you all of it –
the nothing and the almost,
as the wet grass blew wild in the wind.
Sandy Coomer is the author of Continnum (Finishing Line Press) and The Presence of Absence (Janice Keck Literary Award). She writes poetry and creates mixed media art in Brentwood, TN.
Life Becomes A Poem
In death’s black silence
a profound numbness ensues
no water, breathes stop.
a profound numbness ensues
no water, breathes stop.