Issue 5
Lake City Lights
Horses
By Melissa Fry Beasley


I dream of running with mustangs
In endless fields on golden days
Tall grass fading to brown
Edge of autumn
Smell of long leaf pine and cedar
Juniper berries, sage
Hawks circling and diving


I dream of running with horses
Shimmering in the light of dusk
Breathing in and out
Seeing beauty all around me
Impressions imprinted
Without utterance
A silent question which has been answered


I dream of running with ponies
An unexplainable and incomprehensible longing
To swallow the stars
And drink in the milky way
The moon my only witness
Like birds alien and distant
Indifferent to the problems of people
Moment
By Melissa Fry Beasley


We lay together
Atop leafy mounds of grass
Like snow melting over soil
So close I feel you
Electric and magnetic
The pull undeniable … urgent
You are the thing I've imagined before in dreams


You are pleasure that is not tamed
Wind blowing above hemlock
Heavy Datura that easily bends
Slow and thick like winter sap
A heavy red moon
There are no words
There are no words


We lay together
So close I feel you
And you are like a precious but fleeing moment
That mysterious and magical time
When two people are on the verge of a kiss
So close they can feel the breath
So close they taste the other
So close yet not touching
It is that eyes closed or wide open
Moment just before....
Pleasure In Silence
By Melissa Fry Beasley


We took pleasure in silence together
Listening to beating of hearts
And vibrations of universes
Smooth sweetness and symmetry
Of syllables left to wizen
Prayers wakened from dreams sleeping in their echo
Sound falling like a feather
Into the desert
Blown into air by charms
Words of stone
Falling into wells
Wishing we would always remain here
In this lovely silence together
(Melissa Fry Beasley is a poet, advocate, and activist currently
residing in Chelsea, Oklahoma. Working with literacy programs,
and doing various volunteer work, she tries to keep busy and
discover interesting content for her literary endeavors. She has
previously been published in online and print magazines and
journals and is working on her first chapbook.)
Cave Paintings
By Andrew Mazur


Home goes

Pop.

Get up. Go home.
Don't come back:
The saddest haiku ever.

Pop.
Isn't
Home.

Listen to the radio and think about cave paintings.

Decorate your face and neck,
With the bottoms of coke bottles, little child.
Dance around your tenement kitchen and scream "Raging Bull."

Then finish the dishes, turn off the light, and forget everything.

There's the bible, and there's the farmer's almanac, but they don't
explain why you still get angry and break things.

Make a battle paint from whatever is available,
Then paste your face and sneer under the sun until
It cracks like Martian rivulets.

Scream "Network" and "Collapse"

Then forget the dishes, turn off the sun, and finish everything.
beads scatter on floor,
every crevice
wears jewelry.


morning unbuckles
Orion’s belt


1960s motel room
leaves me alone
to write in my journal


so dry
sunflowers no longer
hail the sun


new moon tonight
will there also be
new stars?


coast down switchbacks
for a mile,
save gas
Haiku Out West
By Cynthia Gallaher
if yellowstone blows
there goes my
next chapbook


blue flag iris
still waves
after independence day


picking butterburs
from yellow
socks


pick service berries
along gravel road
leave some for the bears


94-year-old
remembers shorthand for
“please let me know”
(Cynthia Gallaher says this recent photo was
taken on a friend's organic farm in Montana
and was one of the stops on a long road trip
out west last summer. It was during this trip
when she wrote most of the haiku included in
this issue. This spring, Finishing Line Press is
publishing her chapbook Omnivore Odes:
Poems About Food, Herbs and Spices.)
Disappearances
By Colleen Farrelly


Body broken,
spirit crushed,
I lie where I fell
in this field of red.
The sun cannot warm me,
nor the sprouting flowers touch my soul.
I am one of many,
one of the missing.

It is days before
other soldiers find me.
They must move me,
but we are too many.
One drags me through blood,
through mud and rocks
to a pit dug like a ditch.

I am discarded
like roadkill—
two below and one on top—
as another shovels dirt
into a coarse mound
covering the crime.

My headstone is a hedge
of grass, grown over our grave,
and my eulogy
replays only in the minds
of those who found me.
The priest lies beside me,
silent in his own rite.
I have no visitors, no family,
and my only flowers
grow wild above this mound.

Body broken,
spirit crushed,
we lie where we fell,
forgotten in these fields.
Fingerprints
By Colleen Farrelly


Little finger prints on the door
sticky smudges
three feet above muddy footprints
left last night
by pitter-pattering boots
coming through the
front door
for their final time
stare silently,
loudly.




Fireworks
By Colleen Farrelly


Mortars, rockets, and RPGs
surround me once again, jarring
me from here to there—patrolling
sandy, foreign streets overseas.

Memories wash over me. Please
let them end: hearing, believing
mortars, rockets, and RPGs
surround me once again; jarring

me from my slumber; the fear seiz-
ing me and my buddies; diving
for cover… But this time, I’m waking
to fireworks, not war and its breeze:
mortars, rockets, and RPGs.
How We Talk
By Mariel Natanawan

You found my poems
Written to be unread
Desperate to know what was inside
my head

Burned by rhymes
Guilty as ever
You wrote a poem too
So I would also know what state you are under

I love you
Forever
Even if
We are not together

Why
Why can’t it
Why can’t together be on the same line as
Forever
(Mariel Natanawan is 17 years old and hails from the lovely suburbs
of Chicago. She aspires to one day own a beagle, be the female
version of Anthony Bourdain, and publish her writing.)
(Andrew Mazur is a poet and musician from Madison,
WI. He holds a B.A. and B.F.A. in Film Studies from
the University of Colorado at Boulder. His poetry and
short fiction have appeared in small publications you've
never heard of, such as The Mister Nervous and The
Occupation Zine. For information or copies of his
work, please contact ahmazur@gmail.com.)
(Colleen M. Farrelly, currently a graduate
student, is a freelance writer whose works have
recently appeared in Post Poetry, Step Away,
and Vine Leaves. She would like to dedicate
Fingerprints to all the parents who have lost a
child, especially those in the recent Newtown,
CT.)
The Fraud and The Fool
by Emily Otnes

I never got angry with you
I never said a word against you when I touched you
And felt the frigidity of your hand
The tiny twitch of resistance

I never cared when you cared less
About me than your maintenance
Your armor cold and always shining,
Look, everyone, at my valiant prince,
Impenetrable,
Unobtainable and far, far away

Vulnerability is a funny thing
So I thought if you made me laugh
There would be a tenderness there
But there was none, so I stopped laughing
You were the fraud,
I was the fool, for looking for softness in you

Did I ever once accuse?
Did I ever once put you in front of the judge
And say, this man is a fraud!
You would've stood there confused

You would've wondered why you were there
Or acted as if you were unaware
Of any crown or velvet chair

Goin’ To Florida Blues
By Roy Dorman

Scene:  A blues bar on the South Side of Chicago,
Noisy patrons who came to hear the blues,
An older blues singer and his guitar,
And a back-up band consisting of drums and bass.
The band is playing a soft blues accompaniment as the lead singer begins:
I’m goin’ down to Florida, baby, and I’d take you if you’d behave.
Speaks softly, as if to himself:  But I can’t, no, no, I can’t.
Yes, I’m goin’ on down to Florida, honey, and I’d take you if you’d behave.
Speaking softly again:  Uh, uh, no I can’t ‘cause I know you wouldn’t.  
I even asked my wife about it, but seems all she could do was rave.
Speaking softly and shaking his head:  And ranted, too.  She ranted and raved.
Speaks forcefully to the crowd:
Now listen to my guitar tell you how that makes me feel.
Plink, plink, peerooo
Plink, plink, peerooo
Plink, plink, plink, plink, peerooo, peerooo, peerooo
Singing:  I know my friend Teddy will watch over you while I’m gone.
Speaks the next softly to the audience, looking at a handsome man near the front:
Yeah, I seen him watching over you sometimes.  
Maybe I need someone watching over you and Teddy.
Peerooo, peerooo, plink, plink, peerooo
Patron Number One, laughing softly:  
Do you think that’s Teddy?
Patron Number Two laughing back:
Yeah, man, that’s probably him.
Patron Number Three:  
Uh huh, oh yeah.
Singer allows himself a small smile; he’s got ‘em.
The crowd is his now;
They’ll all talk about tonight
All day tomorrow.
Singing again with feeling:
You know I’ll call you, baby, the first time that I get the chance.
You know I’ll phone you, sugar, the first time ……..Fades…….
Scene moves to a table in the back
Where a woman is sitting in the dark listening intently
And is humming softly to the music.
In her purse is a 38 Smith and Wesson
And she may play a big part during the band’s second set.
She just may do something to make them talk about tonight
All day tomorrow.
But wait--

Could it be I that built those things for you?
Imagined deeds a prince would do?

Am I the fraud and you the fool?

If that is true, then it makes sense
That you are, and were, never a prince
That nothing you did was a lie,
But just a silly dream of mine.

Forgive me your highness,
But give me back my crown.
(Emily Otnes is a freshman at the University of Illinois. She
studies Spanish and Communication, but spends her free time
writing and performing music around Central Illinois area. Emily
also loves expressing herself through poetry and short stories.)
Can I Take Your Order?
By Roy Dorman


Young clerk at the 7-11 off  I-75 in Southern Florida,
No eye contact, mumbles the cost of my purchase.
As though he doesn’t want Life to take notice of him.

This rich country - so hard on its underemployed.

Young clerk at the 7-11 off  I-75 in Southern Florida,
Posture bent a bit to an almost standing fetal position
As if to deflect or at least minimize the pain
Of the next kick Life will send his way.

I’m paying a lot to be in this area for awhile;
He’s getting paid just enough to keep him here.

This rich country - too hard on its underemployed.
The Art Critic
By Roy Dorman

I’m taking in a new art exhibit at the local museum
With my pre-school granddaughter.
The exhibit is modern art of the abstract variety;
The artists have let the play of colors convey the message.
No landscapes with lakes at the foothills of mountains,
Nor woods edging farmer’s field’s at harvest time.
No portraits of mustachioed old men,
No pretty women with playful smiles.
No bowls of fruit or even cans of Campbell’s Soup.
Rather, canvasses with splashes of color;
Vibrant colors not usually seen in our everyday lives.
Some with bold lines and non-geometric connections.
Testing, I ask:  So, what do you think of these paintings?
Hesitantly, she replies:  I guess I kinda like the stuff that I couldn’t
do myself.
Note to self:  Check to see if they have
Art Appreciation Classes in Elementary School.
She is herself still an almost blank canvas
That life will be painting with many experiences.
What will the finished work be like?
Standing right there, I hoped it would be like the bright orange
canvass
With the jagged lime-green border that takes up a good part
Of the south wall of the gallery.
Exile
Martin Willitts, Jr.


We were told to pack — in a hurry —
what do you carry?

In a hurry, we got the hidden suitcases —
this is when I realized
I could take only so much.
This is when I left my childhood behind.

We were told: run, hurry —
this is when I realized
I could only take what I could carry.
It needed to be lighter than my shadow,
lighter than a robin’s song
as it flew into the vanished.

We were told: go to the train station,
steal a ticket if you have to —
this is when I realized the desperation
of robins and lost childhoods.

We were told the train is coming,
it won’t be long —
but it never came.
This is when I realized fear
never fits in a suitcase,
a ticket to nowhere
is expensive,
children must be small and quiet
so bullets never detect them
shatter their shadows
into exiled songs.
Pick up, and run! We were told; but
small legs cover smaller distances,
suitcases become heavy as trains,
you realize every mistake you ever made
no matter how quiet
shouts, childhood flies far
as a dead robin.

Move, they shouted, and we did—
across the tickets of loss
small extended shadows
not knowing where to go
where was safe
where was home
would we make it.

I made it — across tracks
of spilled suitcases,
between bullets and words
through shattered childhood windows
where so many where not so fast
realizing safety is another word.
(Martin Willitts Jr retired as a Senior Librarian and is living in
Syracuse, New York. He is currently a volunteer literacy tutor.
He is a visual artist of Victorian and Chinese paper cutouts. He
was nominated for 5 Pushcart and 3 Best Of The Net awards.
He has three full length books "The Secret Language of the
Universe" (March Street Press, 2006), and “The
Hummingbird” (March Street Press, 2009), and “The Heart
Knows, Simply, What It Needs: Poems based on Emily
Dickinson, her life and poetry” (Aldrich Press, 2012). His
forthcoming poetry books include “Waiting For The Day To
Open Its Wings” (UNBOUND Content, 2013), “Art Is the
Impression of an Artist” (Edgar and Lenore's Publishing House,
2013), “City Of Tents” (Crisis Chronicles Press, 2013), "A Is
for Aorta" (Seven Circles Press, e-book, 2013), and
"Swimming In the Ladle of Stars" (Kattywompus Press, 2013).
What Kept Me Up From Dreaming
Martin Willitts, Jr.


The weather was changing as we were talking —
or was our conversation changing the weather —
for the convenient jackbooted devils were dragging people
out of their comfortable houses
for a quiet inquisition
and nobody was doing anything about it
too worried about their own skin becoming lampshades
to do anything about it
our voices hushed as weather changing into something
we did not recognize as either truth or consequences

the ones who came for me
promised it was not personal.
UP THE HILL
By Michael Keshigian

He climbed a hill one afternoon
that no one else dare ascend,
its steep contour,
rocky surface, and lack of a path
yielded it nearly insurmountable,
yet with concerted effort,
he found his way.
There were no flowers en route to admire,
nor shade from trees to diminish sun’s glare,
just a man-made mountain of boulders
and sand where someone forgot
to stock essential ingredients for growth.
But once atop the massive monument,
the great Winnipesaukee spoke
of secrets otherwise hidden
at the shoreline level, revealed unabashedly
beneath the translucent, placid layer
of its countenance.
He thought to descend the opposite side
where the rocky base
enjoyed sweet little shoreline kisses,
but strength for a swim
would elude him after the effort.
Perhaps if he were a goat or ram,
comfortable on all fours,
he could find a way down,
rest awhile then break silence
with a splash and resume his trek,
swimming around the watery base
to where the ripples wrote
clandestine messages
upon each boulder’s face,
waiting all these years for transcription.
Even the wind,  that carried each line
with its unpredictable disposition
would clutch the rocks
till the verse was decoded.
THE CALM BEFORE
By Michael Keshigian

Roses, hugging the lattice
are trembling, a rich,
red blur of anticipation.
Perhaps an army of insects
stalk their luscious scent
in the shadows
the clouds have created
with their odd formations
this windless afternoon.
The sky, a deep blue,
starkly backdrops
the invading gray vapors
that have stilled the air
with suspense.
Trepidation lingers
as birds have ceased their songs
and taken to nest
while the bees and butterflies
abandon nursing the nectar
they most often
valiantly pursue.
The squirrels have stopped
their high wire act
and have scampered for the trees
which oddly gaze downward,
apparently intimidated
by something
about to make an entrance
that no human,
strolling about, can detect,
distracted as we have become,
by our own idiosyncrasies.
(Michael Keshigian’s poetry collection, Eagle’s Perch, was recently
released by Bellowing Ark Press.  Other published books: Wildflowers, Jazz
Face, Warm Summer Memories, Silent Poems, Seeking Solace, Dwindling
Knight, Translucent View. Published in numerous journals, he is a multiple
Pushcart Prize and Best Of The Net nominee. His poetry cycle, Lunar
Images, set for Clarinet, Piano, Narrator, premiered at Del Mar College in
Texas. Subsequent performances occurred in Boston and Moleto, Italy.
(michaelkeshigian.com)
pathogen:
by caleb dyer

as i go through this internal revolution, i rack my body to find a solution
but all i found was a realm of reclusion, i beg for mercy to end this disturbed delusion
every cell in my body starts mutating quicker, and with each second that passes my blood grows thicker
as my living shell undergoes this horrid transformation, i steel my nerves to suppress all temptation

this savage hellion who overtook my skin, disintegrates my being while wearing a twisted grin
and if i cant overcome this cunning miscreation, know that my death can be the only salvation
so if tonight shall be my last night, in the center of a star drowned in candlelight
i'm drawn unconsciously to my knees, and watch helplessly as my sanity flees

my soul falls victim to your jaded gaze, my abnormality spreads ablaze
monstrosity in control my spirit is lost, please remember i have crossed
this relentless disease, dissolves every plea
so kill the beast and find a cure, to this devastating pathogen the spawn of impure
Lake City Lights
www.lakecitypoets.com