Damn Fool Concept of Note
I read that a water bed
has been developed for cows
and think, they couldn’t
have started there, maybe
snakes first. I fantasize
a bag of serpents let out
to shift their bellies into
oscillations against a feeling
new within the universe
of greater snakedom. Maybe
two of the six released,
linger atop the bed under
the eyes of two professors
so hard bitten by the lure
of science that they can hardly
talk to their wives anymore.
I see dark stubble across these
North Dakota prof’s chins.
I smell the reek of coffee
from the backs of their throats
as they bark at graduate assistants
to go easy picking up a
wayward rattler by the files.
Now there is only one
snake left on the water bed.
It is on its back, belly up
like never before. All its
side winding fervor gone
still, slow, stirless. Eyes
blink dim with yes, and yes,
and yes. Release. One snake,
one hour, so far from sand,
muck, stars. One snake,
given over to how we want to be.
Then I come upon the actual web-site
about some big-shouldered, shy
farmer-guy in Ohio who figured
a way to make a waterbed
“for the comfort” of his cows.
You try lying easy on your hocks
with a ton of beef to hoist.
Seems the bony prominence’
get such pressure from bare ground,
wears the hide straight through.
Infections: flies, eggs, fester.
Not for this Clem
who’s got the happy beef
swishing around all mid day,
munch a munch of alfalfa;
sawdust for to roll in.
If they weren’t just
headed toward the hammer
life could be so sweet.
Ed Ruzicka has published one full length volume, “Engines of Belief - Engagement in Modern Art (Abenbook, 2014), and his work will appear in the anthology “Maple Leaf Rag, Volume 5" set for release Aug.3, 2014. He was a finalist in the Atlanta Review Poetry Contest and has appeared in a variety of literary journals. Ed lives in Baton Rogue, Louisiana, and is an occupational therapist.
Evening settles on the lake
like snowfall on the prairie.
Wind drops, the gray of the water
subtly softens. Calm expands.
Beside a column of white smoke
above a sparking charcoal grill,
like air bubbles from the lake floor
bursts of laughter rise, and vanish.
Friends, fire, food, light
slap of wavelets on the shore,
intimate as fingertips. Hunger
and joy, under a dark, silent sky.
Llyn Clague’s poems have been published widely in journals such as California Quarterly,Atlanta Review, Wisconsin Review, Main Street Rag, Palo Alto Review, Ibbetson Street, The Avalon Literary Review and other magazines. His seventh book, Hard-Edged and Childlike, has just been released by Main Street Rag. Visit www.llynclague.com.
Who Will Care
Who will hear if a baby cries
And who will answer when a child asks why.
Who will feed the hungry man
And who will dare to take a stand.
Who will mend the broken heart
Of a woman afraid,
Who cares enough to hold the hand
Of the soldier dying on foreign land.
Who'll dry the tears that a mother cries;
Who will remember their sacrifice.
Who will pray to God above
To show us grace, and how to love.
Who'll build a fire to keep us warm
To lead us home from the raging storm.
Who will care if the truth is told,
Of the lives that were bought
And the souls that were sold.
Who will pay the ultimate cost
Of nothing gained
And everything lost.
Who will care.
Karen Teich-Cluster first wrote while in the sixth grade and won an essay contest open to the whole school. She has been writing since, and hopes to soon have a book of her poetry published. She is a member of The Pensters of the Eastern Shore of Mobile Bay, Alabama, where she resides. She has three children and three grandchildren.
In the Budding Green
for Al Stewart
In the budding green
and awakened air of morning
when the days blush
and the fat hills preen themselves
I will look for you
just beyond the far woods
where the Deptford pinks
strut and sway their lyrics
where red fox will perk her ears
to man or gun or kit
where the wild crab smears
its fragrant mysteries
where the eye croons
at the smallest sling of color
where sun's bed sparks
the gaudy dust of belief
and the moon entices
the vanished from their hiding
Allison Thorpe is the author of Thoughts While Swinging a Wild Child in a Green Mesh Hammock (Janze Publications), Swooning and Other Art Forms (a NFSPS chapbook winner),What She Sees: Poems for Georgia O'Keefe (forthcoming from White Knuckle Press), and To This Sad and Lovely Land (runner-up in 2014 Gambling the Aisle Chapbook Contest). Recent work appears or is forthcoming in South85 Journal, Scapegoat Review, The Meadow, The Citron Review, Front Range Review, Green Mountains Review, Trickster, Freshwater, Clapboard House, Third Wednesday, Appalachian Heritage, Agave Magazine, Naugatuck River Review, and Motif v4 - seeking its own level: an anthology of writings about water, among others. A Pushcart nominee, she is currently working on her first novel.
It only happened once to me, winning a game
with a single blow—walk-off homer--
part intention, part hope. So long ago
that the designation "walk-off"
hadn’t yet been used.
Remember Housman’s “To an Athlete
Dying Young”? I’m glad I was no athlete
and that it wasn’t me. Just as bourbon
takes a keg, I’ll take my failures
and be happy in them. I can’t reckon
how I got sufficient bat on the ball
to make it clear the fence.
Admitting that most things happen for no reason
makes us uncomfortable, contingency flashing
moment to moment like twilit sparrows
ranging between trees, between silences.
People who say that nothing is an accident
are lunatics. Everything is an accident.
and lunatic is the right word, with the right
derivation: the extrapolation of tidal force
into something it’s not. The moon is large
and so must love large things, like oceans.
Our humors are beneath it, like sand flea
sex to us, or the amors of dust mites.
Plans too are accidental, incommensurable quarks
invested in choices never made. The coral reef
of human will is just that, a reef
of endless apartments--
swank, gutted, boarded, locked, rent by the hour,
split-level, with Jacuzzi, fixer-upper.
A cancer cell in the body of a boyhood
friend migrates. Tumors start. A leg is lost
and then a continent, a universe--
the funniest teenager I ever knew,
brave beyond all reason, with a culture
in his head vaster than the library at Alexandria--
Wilson Pickett and Brother Dave.
Without his leg, he said, he could make out
from amazing positions—front seat, back seat,
dashboard. And I was envious.
Nothing is ever the same, and there are days
I hate that life goes on. But what’s to do?
Loss superseded by more loss.
Today I will wear a hat,
and everything will change. Good morning
will whistle the birds, and the heaven
of no map will open.
When you tilt your best hat
on your head just so, and it stays there,
women smile, kids laugh, and the bookies
who bet on destruction stop and say,
what a hat, sunlight reaching deep
into the dew palaces.
Richard Nester has published poetry in numerous journals, including
Ploughshares, Callaloo, Tikkun, and Floyd County Moonshine, and most
recently on-line in Danse Macabre. His work has been anthologized in Cape
Discovery, a publication of the Fine Arts Work Center in Provincetown,
where he has twice been a fellow. His essays on social justice have
appeared in the Catholic Agitator, a publication of the Los Angeles
It's the end of this day,
tight eyelids slide down,
razor-edged, with sleep inclination.
Gutter mouthed with all the old
words on my lips, I close up,
my mind surveyed and bitten
into like Swiss cheese,
the cold, bitter settle of vinegar
in my blood.
I am as tired as a mother,
with reality being as singular
as a pulled grape.
Like steam, I settle on the corners;
I evaporate like mists in heat.
I turn the bed and elongate my limbs
for the ride, that unhappy current
of uncontrollable fish snapping,
subconscious bait in a blanket.
Penney Knightly has been writing poetry for a decade. She is a member of The Writing Bridge, a selective online forum for writers. She is a survivor of child and adult sexual abuse, and explores themes based on the subject in her work. Her work has appeared in Raving Dove, a magazine featuring prose and poetry against physical and psychological oppression. She lives happily on the California coast with her Clydesdale horses Buttercup and Stargazer.
The mallards and cranes go still, the waters
sudden ice, perspective's blues imbuing
distances. Who would have counted or kept track,
finding your timeless eyes, champagne
at half-past one, yourself as the holding, history,
the amplitude, changing the space
of half a century, and all of the Mondays, miles
between, with inclination deepening?
So billboards creep with precedence. So chill
strikes up its forms and de riguer, its tunes
as old as overheating vehicles. I think of the road-weasel
threading weathers anyplace, of the hills ahead,
of the tank trucks seeping east through this first month
of the new year, questions of prior rights,
of winter anniversaries.
Let no one interrupt, the grade, the pitch of lot
reminding me, entering, seeking scenes,
finding these words at last to tell, these moments
as you've authored. When I had been less
for seeming real, and less because, but sped, and sped
to source imagining, less than the clouds
might seem, blown across the face of light, with
three days up to us, having allowed
ourselves, and, step by step, having taken
the lyrics up, the forms from arcs
concentering and just.
For all the diminished light! For all the excitement
meeting faces, warming our chilled lives,
for all of the winter rain and country west of Crestline
flattening, we are this warmth
in one shared place, and this reading into it, old snows,
old poems, all of these winter drafts
we'd have the patience to revisit, these measures
and turns, returning lights, and
this happy smoothness, where all surprises
flower, where love takes hold,
filling every circle in.
Over 800 of Robert Lietz's poems have appeared in more than one hundred journals in the U.S. and Canada, in Sweden and U.K, including Agni Review, Antioch Review, Carolina Quarterly, The Colorado Review, Epoch, The Georgia Review, Mid-American Review, The Missouri Review, The North American Review, The Ontario Review, Poetry, and Shenandoah. Eight collections of his poems have been published, including Running in Place (L’Epervier Press,). At Park and East Division ( L’Epervier Press,) The Lindbergh Half-century (L’Epervier Press,) The Inheritance (Sandhills Press,) and Storm Service (Basfal Books). Basfal also published Robert's After Business in the West: New and Selected Poems.
Riparian devotees recite verses,
emptying pockets of lint and sins,
casting away transgressions
into the fresh autumnal current
of watercourses the world over.
These are the Days of Awe,
a calendric bridge spanning
Judgment Day and the Sabbath
of Sabbaths upon which
the Book of Life is annually resealed.
Will former trespasses be effaced
and the evil decree averted?
Penitent spirits gape into the river’s
deeps and shallows, lost in thought,
pondering a delta of potentials,
contemplating past deeds
while hoping whispered pleas
reach an audient deity.
But the mallards, gulls, and trout
aren’t overly concerned with pieties;
they are perfectly content to constellate
in rafts, flocks, and schools,
jostling to snatch kosher breadcrumbs
doffed and spattered,
twelve grain and whole wheat,
blissfully oblivious to weighty symbolism.Brandon MarlonBrandon Marlon is a writer from Ottawa, Canada. He received his B.A. (Hon.) in Drama and English from the University of Toronto and his M.A. in English from the University of Victoria. His poetry has been published variously in Canada, the U.S., England, Israel, and India. www.brandonmarlon.com.
We weave around each other
in choreographed chaos
to the music of impatience.
In and out, left to right,
never touching lest
Sometimes whirlwind fast,
others snail crawl slow...
always moving forward,
to a place we have to go.
Rie Sheridan Rose is the author of five chapbooks of poetry. Her poems have been published in Mythic Circle, Dreams of Decadence, Abandoned Towers, and online in Electric Wine, Abyss & Apex, and Penumbra. She won the National Space Society of North Texas Poetry Contest in 2011, and made Honorable Mention in the 2012 contest. She has also been published in the Boundless and Di-Verse-City Anthologies.
Lincoln Highway Day
The parade crawls down Main, past
children with slushy-stained lips,
tiny outstretched palms, Dora and iCarly
and Sponge Bob Velcro shoes, past
passive teenagers in plum, thin-legged jeans
and neon wool-knit beanies, past
bedroom-town 40-somethings baring office-white
legs, past the oldies, the originals, bona fide
townsfolk, born and raised, who lived
here all their level lives, who watched
the lines on their cheeks and gullets
deepen with the cracks in the sidewalks,
the splits in the plywood windows
of lonely, long-ghosted stores, past
pyramids of bleachers, empty, too hot for use, past
the bank turned carwash turned junior high
smokers’ lounge, past sweat-stained traffic
cops and orange cones corking empty
side streets, barring my Civic from crossing,
as if I could somehow make it all stop.
Nate Pillman’s poems have appeared or are forthcoming in PANK, North American Review, New Ohio Review, Mid-American Review, and others. He is originally from rural Iowa, but now resides in Tucson, Arizona.