| Issue Four |
Traveling Through the Dark
(Apologies to William Stafford)
By Jerry McGinley
First day of March—on a morning flight
from Arizona, I listen to the relentless drone
of engines and breathe stagnant pressurized air.
Behind me two people cackle endlessly
about flipping real estate in Boston. I do not care.
My neck hurts and I squirm from side
to side to find relief. Most passengers snooze,
or try to, play video solitaire, or stare at watches.
I doze briefly and dream I’m riding on the back
of a flying white deer, fists gripping dense fur,
racing through pine trees swathed with blood.
My wife, whose neck aches too, has read ninety pages
of Little Bee while I skim two poems in Smoke’s Way.
I think about pioneers on westbound wagon trains
who understood every river current, every blade
of Big Bluestem grass, every spike of purple-pink
Prairie Blazingstar, every waterhole where Bison wallowed,
every bracken bush, every valley hiding Apaches or deer.
Pioneers, who ate real food at night—venison, beans,
corn mush, wild berries—no pretzels or warm ginger ale.
Outside my small window, thirty-five thousand feet below,
just dull brown rocks and bare earth, randomly intersected
by empty roads, occasionally dotted by two-horse towns.
We travel at incredible speed, now—but totally miss the journey.
(Apologies to William Stafford)
By Jerry McGinley
First day of March—on a morning flight
from Arizona, I listen to the relentless drone
of engines and breathe stagnant pressurized air.
Behind me two people cackle endlessly
about flipping real estate in Boston. I do not care.
My neck hurts and I squirm from side
to side to find relief. Most passengers snooze,
or try to, play video solitaire, or stare at watches.
I doze briefly and dream I’m riding on the back
of a flying white deer, fists gripping dense fur,
racing through pine trees swathed with blood.
My wife, whose neck aches too, has read ninety pages
of Little Bee while I skim two poems in Smoke’s Way.
I think about pioneers on westbound wagon trains
who understood every river current, every blade
of Big Bluestem grass, every spike of purple-pink
Prairie Blazingstar, every waterhole where Bison wallowed,
every bracken bush, every valley hiding Apaches or deer.
Pioneers, who ate real food at night—venison, beans,
corn mush, wild berries—no pretzels or warm ginger ale.
Outside my small window, thirty-five thousand feet below,
just dull brown rocks and bare earth, randomly intersected
by empty roads, occasionally dotted by two-horse towns.
We travel at incredible speed, now—but totally miss the journey.
Altar
By Wendy Vardaman
Our mother cried at my brother’s first wedding,
and not little, decorous sniffles, either, but huge, shoulder-shaking
sobs, there in the front
row in her navy—the closest
shade to black that she could find—
dress. My brother, who hadn’t declared
a major yet, hissed
for her to stop while he waited,
face pale as his teen
bride’s aisle-wide skirt, and long as her train,
carried by six
other girls in red, strapless prom dresses.
My southern, Church-of-Christ grandmother, in her last
public appearance and her first
Catholic Mass, sat next to me at the oldest,
most ornate
church in town, commenting
on its tackiness, the unluckiness of red for a wedding,
and the luckiness of the groom to have found
the perfect Barbie-thin blonde,
albeit with too much height.
She might have been the only person there who didn’t
know it wouldn’t work—unless the bride
herself hadn’t thought past her tall, 1980’s hair and painted Cupid
bow’s lips about what
would happen after she presented the rose to Mary,
lit the unity candle, and knelt for a blessing, while scarlet Sylphs
selected for dumpy
waists, chubby cheeks, and plain
looks arranged her Princess Di gown.
By Wendy Vardaman
Our mother cried at my brother’s first wedding,
and not little, decorous sniffles, either, but huge, shoulder-shaking
sobs, there in the front
row in her navy—the closest
shade to black that she could find—
dress. My brother, who hadn’t declared
a major yet, hissed
for her to stop while he waited,
face pale as his teen
bride’s aisle-wide skirt, and long as her train,
carried by six
other girls in red, strapless prom dresses.
My southern, Church-of-Christ grandmother, in her last
public appearance and her first
Catholic Mass, sat next to me at the oldest,
most ornate
church in town, commenting
on its tackiness, the unluckiness of red for a wedding,
and the luckiness of the groom to have found
the perfect Barbie-thin blonde,
albeit with too much height.
She might have been the only person there who didn’t
know it wouldn’t work—unless the bride
herself hadn’t thought past her tall, 1980’s hair and painted Cupid
bow’s lips about what
would happen after she presented the rose to Mary,
lit the unity candle, and knelt for a blessing, while scarlet Sylphs
selected for dumpy
waists, chubby cheeks, and plain
looks arranged her Princess Di gown.
| wisconsin, like water By Wendy Vardaman wisconsin, like water, freezes hard, so thick you can cross it in winter every inch cracking, cries in spring: splintering lakes don’t quiet change their states wears away stone—drop by drop—forms thin streams that slice mountain sides when damned, pools, leaves its mark higher up every house every fence released, rushes down river beds, deep channels thought long dried out drizzles drums drenches pounds pelts pours soaks stings thunders blizzards cleans rises from every mouth, convergence of neighbors’ mingled breath |
Power Cut
By Wendy Vardaman
The man is smoking in his little bucket lift
among tree limbs and electric
lines and I don’t mean smoking
a cigarette: he’s lit
up, on fire, knife-pierced through the chest
by 14000 Volts which make
an explosive pop when they lightning prick
skin, thin parchment
stretched over cage bar skeleton: why
would you imagine
anything but this: the shivery wrapper slip
flames out in a heartbeat, see-through
husk so light it might even fly up on its own
burn’s current, and before the charred shirt’s ripped apart, escape.
By Wendy Vardaman
The man is smoking in his little bucket lift
among tree limbs and electric
lines and I don’t mean smoking
a cigarette: he’s lit
up, on fire, knife-pierced through the chest
by 14000 Volts which make
an explosive pop when they lightning prick
skin, thin parchment
stretched over cage bar skeleton: why
would you imagine
anything but this: the shivery wrapper slip
flames out in a heartbeat, see-through
husk so light it might even fly up on its own
burn’s current, and before the charred shirt’s ripped apart, escape.
Landscape with Adirondack Chairs
By Richard Swanson
Fields mown, on the kitchen table a blueberry
cobbler in cooling repose, we settle ourselves
into these wooden objects on the shaded terrace.
Low to the ground, we take in last night’s rain,
which breathes still, through the grass. The lake
scene stretches before us, for our approval.
We’re angled, eyes tilted skyward.
Our boys are coming home from wars abroad.
Friends we’ve not seen for a time are stopping by,
and we will share our admiration, as always,
for Edward Hopper’s latest paintings.
These chairs’ arms, arced by design, invite a swell
of feeling, and by placing our own upon them
we might think we could grow wings.
Perhaps at sunset we will parade
to the shoreline, rising together over the water
as a consort of swans.
By Richard Swanson
Fields mown, on the kitchen table a blueberry
cobbler in cooling repose, we settle ourselves
into these wooden objects on the shaded terrace.
Low to the ground, we take in last night’s rain,
which breathes still, through the grass. The lake
scene stretches before us, for our approval.
We’re angled, eyes tilted skyward.
Our boys are coming home from wars abroad.
Friends we’ve not seen for a time are stopping by,
and we will share our admiration, as always,
for Edward Hopper’s latest paintings.
These chairs’ arms, arced by design, invite a swell
of feeling, and by placing our own upon them
we might think we could grow wings.
Perhaps at sunset we will parade
to the shoreline, rising together over the water
as a consort of swans.
Hawks on Highway Power Poles
By Richard Swanson
I like this, our understanding: that we,
providers of road-kill, will leave its cleanup
to them, the goshawks, red-tails, and kestrels -
birds above us and not, high and mighty
on their heavenly stations, yet jumpy, eager
to ravage our mauled objects on the interstate’s
sunlit, concrete hotplate.
Good travels, they seem to be saying, and now
if you’ll just drive on, thank you, we’ll have at it,
your free-lunch buffet of squirrel and rabbit.
Photos Not Permitted
By Richard Swanson
Mustn’t show, mustn’t see.
Upsetting for kin of the killed,
bad for the troops’ morale,
to say nothing of you and me.
Too bloody awful, this lump of him,
this soldier inert in the street.
Off to battle, we never foresaw this,
nothing so raw or grim.
Blink it away it, this unofficial image,
this errant body.
Pledge blind allegiance, show the other,
the authorized footage.
Spit and polish, straight and tall,
hero back home to hugs and kisses.
That’s the way this ended.
No reason to think this was war at all.
By Richard Swanson
I like this, our understanding: that we,
providers of road-kill, will leave its cleanup
to them, the goshawks, red-tails, and kestrels -
birds above us and not, high and mighty
on their heavenly stations, yet jumpy, eager
to ravage our mauled objects on the interstate’s
sunlit, concrete hotplate.
Good travels, they seem to be saying, and now
if you’ll just drive on, thank you, we’ll have at it,
your free-lunch buffet of squirrel and rabbit.
Photos Not Permitted
By Richard Swanson
Mustn’t show, mustn’t see.
Upsetting for kin of the killed,
bad for the troops’ morale,
to say nothing of you and me.
Too bloody awful, this lump of him,
this soldier inert in the street.
Off to battle, we never foresaw this,
nothing so raw or grim.
Blink it away it, this unofficial image,
this errant body.
Pledge blind allegiance, show the other,
the authorized footage.
Spit and polish, straight and tall,
hero back home to hugs and kisses.
That’s the way this ended.
No reason to think this was war at all.
(Richard Swanson, a retired English teacher, lives in
Madison, Wisconsin. He is the author of two
previous collections from Fireweed Press ("Men in
the Nude in Socks," and "Not Quite Eden)." A third
work, a chapbook titled "Paparazzi Moments," is
forthcoming.)
Madison, Wisconsin. He is the author of two
previous collections from Fireweed Press ("Men in
the Nude in Socks," and "Not Quite Eden)." A third
work, a chapbook titled "Paparazzi Moments," is
forthcoming.)
| Messengers of the Wood By Thomas Ordway A gust of humid summer air wanders Aimlessly seeking refuge, a message To be deciphered by those who hear What isn’t heard but will come to pass. The messengers work, their tongue of leaves Tossing in the midst of what’s to come. Unnoticed they read, whispering silently Informing those who will listen, always listen. The informant gust dies, his message delivered As the hushed wood watches what was heard With expectant eyes and finally see The billowing of black clouds in the west. |
| A Nightly Prayer By Thomas Ordway A single pearl that glows unwavering To the overwhelming depthless sky, Sits among his less valued brethren In wait of his followers who pray for luck. A streak of grey, they glide through, The virgin snow that reflects his gleam. And one by one each stops to watch, Each with their own pair of white pearls, And one by one they each raise a steamy muzzle, Heavenward, each a shadowed blade, And sing to the nightly colossus A heartfelt prayer for their coming hunt. |
(Wendy Vardaman, a widely published poet and
editor, is co-editor of Verse Wisconsin and is
currently Co-Poet Laureate for the city of
Madison, Wisconsin. Learn more about Wendy at
http://wendyvardaman.com/index.html.)
editor, is co-editor of Verse Wisconsin and is
currently Co-Poet Laureate for the city of
Madison, Wisconsin. Learn more about Wendy at
http://wendyvardaman.com/index.html.)
RECOGNIZED
By Michael Keshigian
He stood there,
staring back at me,
odd expression upon his face,
he smiled after I did
from the other side
of a huge pane window
on the newly renovated office building,
appearing a bit more disheveled
than I remembered, more wrinkles
supporting his grimace
and receding hairline,
acknowledging me
when I nodded hello.
I use to know him well,
athletic, sculpted, artistic,
a well defined physique,
but his apparent paunch
negated any recent activity.
This window man
I thought I knew,
musician, writer, runner, dreamer,
now feasted off the stale menu
of advancing age,
aches, excuses, laziness,
failing eyesight and an appetite
for attained rights
decades seem to imply.
Yet I accepted him,
embraced him for who was,
aware that he would be the lone soul
to accompany me
toward the tunnel’s light
when all others have drawn the blinds.
“Walk with me,” I say.
He stays close.
THE POOL
By Michael Keshigian
Humidity rises
as the thermometer
bleeds upon triple digits
and he lounges in the shade
beside the pool,
dripping with relief
that tingles his skin
and though the heated air
immediately assaults
the droplets that soothe him,
his heart shivers,
enveloped in cold,
for she has departed
and her empty chair
offers no reciprocating touch,
no banter or giggles
that previous years
once provided.
As the sun peeks between
hovering branches of white pine,
it creates designs that oscillate
upon his chest
as if to massage
his thawing heart
toward reconciliation.
By Michael Keshigian
He stood there,
staring back at me,
odd expression upon his face,
he smiled after I did
from the other side
of a huge pane window
on the newly renovated office building,
appearing a bit more disheveled
than I remembered, more wrinkles
supporting his grimace
and receding hairline,
acknowledging me
when I nodded hello.
I use to know him well,
athletic, sculpted, artistic,
a well defined physique,
but his apparent paunch
negated any recent activity.
This window man
I thought I knew,
musician, writer, runner, dreamer,
now feasted off the stale menu
of advancing age,
aches, excuses, laziness,
failing eyesight and an appetite
for attained rights
decades seem to imply.
Yet I accepted him,
embraced him for who was,
aware that he would be the lone soul
to accompany me
toward the tunnel’s light
when all others have drawn the blinds.
“Walk with me,” I say.
He stays close.
THE POOL
By Michael Keshigian
Humidity rises
as the thermometer
bleeds upon triple digits
and he lounges in the shade
beside the pool,
dripping with relief
that tingles his skin
and though the heated air
immediately assaults
the droplets that soothe him,
his heart shivers,
enveloped in cold,
for she has departed
and her empty chair
offers no reciprocating touch,
no banter or giggles
that previous years
once provided.
As the sun peeks between
hovering branches of white pine,
it creates designs that oscillate
upon his chest
as if to massage
his thawing heart
toward reconciliation.
AFTER THE HURRICANE
By Michael Keshigian
Heaven, with its somber,
breathless stare,
frowns upon the lingering,
quite damaged vegetation
yet to congeal.
It has provoked
another misfortune,
felled a magnificent white pine
upon an unsuspecting home
then rained apologetic tears
upon the fissure
inadvertently inciting
additional adversity.
On such a day
when primordial sounds
have replaced
the contemporary hum,
life becomes a dream
amid living,
where the imperceptible crunch
of fallen leaves
accompanies the morose melody
of disaster as we peruse the house,
once full of mirrors, memories,
and minute details
now crumbling under the weight
of raw pine
bleeding under the leaden sky.
When the slow march of clouds retreat
and the sun breaks into a smile,
we are abandoned
to the mockery
of our complacency with nature.
By Michael Keshigian
Heaven, with its somber,
breathless stare,
frowns upon the lingering,
quite damaged vegetation
yet to congeal.
It has provoked
another misfortune,
felled a magnificent white pine
upon an unsuspecting home
then rained apologetic tears
upon the fissure
inadvertently inciting
additional adversity.
On such a day
when primordial sounds
have replaced
the contemporary hum,
life becomes a dream
amid living,
where the imperceptible crunch
of fallen leaves
accompanies the morose melody
of disaster as we peruse the house,
once full of mirrors, memories,
and minute details
now crumbling under the weight
of raw pine
bleeding under the leaden sky.
When the slow march of clouds retreat
and the sun breaks into a smile,
we are abandoned
to the mockery
of our complacency with nature.
NO ATTENDANTS, PLEASE
By Michael Keshigian
He enjoyed doing it himself,
especially alone
with no one else at the pumps,
never at a full service station
where he only got to watch,
releasing the gun
from its iron holster
after he slipped the credit card
into the portal and selected
either 87, 89, or 91,
depending on the car’s needs,
stuffing the barrel into the open line,
he’d squeeze the trigger
to feel the gyrating hose
feeding fuel as the numbers
raced toward a destination
he only recently determined,
the excitement, the power,
injecting the earthly energy
into the muscle of his car
that transformed this transparent,
liquid explosive into raw horsepower
once it sparked life
into the engine,
roaring down the road after the nozzle
clamped itself shut
the moment the tank was satiated
and he released his grip
amid the fumes
to re-holster the barrel
and screech off into the night.
By Michael Keshigian
He enjoyed doing it himself,
especially alone
with no one else at the pumps,
never at a full service station
where he only got to watch,
releasing the gun
from its iron holster
after he slipped the credit card
into the portal and selected
either 87, 89, or 91,
depending on the car’s needs,
stuffing the barrel into the open line,
he’d squeeze the trigger
to feel the gyrating hose
feeding fuel as the numbers
raced toward a destination
he only recently determined,
the excitement, the power,
injecting the earthly energy
into the muscle of his car
that transformed this transparent,
liquid explosive into raw horsepower
once it sparked life
into the engine,
roaring down the road after the nozzle
clamped itself shut
the moment the tank was satiated
and he released his grip
amid the fumes
to re-holster the barrel
and screech off into the night.
(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)
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)
Photo by Thomas Ordway.
A SPECIAL VISITOR
By Roy Dorman
An especially vivid dream had an old friend playing
A role in a Monty Python-type plot only dreams will give us.
I woke with a feeling of the loss of him that was somehow
Greater than the loss I remember at the time of his death.
Hanging out with him one more time was so real that I cherish
that dream
And hope other old friends will play roles in dream plots yet to
be written.
In the dream, I asked him to wait for me at a dream table;
I had dream errands to run in my busy dream life.
As in most dreams, the plot and the characters changed and
then changed again.
I tried, but couldn’t find my way back to him at that dream
table.
In a somewhat dazed and confused panic, I awoke.
But he had been there….
I had talked to him….
He talked to me….
In his voice….
For a time, he lived again!
I talked to him!
By Roy Dorman
An especially vivid dream had an old friend playing
A role in a Monty Python-type plot only dreams will give us.
I woke with a feeling of the loss of him that was somehow
Greater than the loss I remember at the time of his death.
Hanging out with him one more time was so real that I cherish
that dream
And hope other old friends will play roles in dream plots yet to
be written.
In the dream, I asked him to wait for me at a dream table;
I had dream errands to run in my busy dream life.
As in most dreams, the plot and the characters changed and
then changed again.
I tried, but couldn’t find my way back to him at that dream
table.
In a somewhat dazed and confused panic, I awoke.
But he had been there….
I had talked to him….
He talked to me….
In his voice….
For a time, he lived again!
I talked to him!
GEEZER ANGST
By Roy Dorman
He lies on the couch
With the book on his chest.
This nap now much longer
Than all of the rest.
It began like all others,
Thoughts drifting as sleep came.
But this nap won’t be ending
With someone calling his name.
He wasn’t done with the book!
Wasn’t done with his life!
There were so many plans
He had made with his wife!
Because he wanted so much to know
How things would turn out,
On his lips there’s now the beginning
Of a sad little pout.
It said:
Alright, I’ll go, but I don’t have to like it.
By Roy Dorman
He lies on the couch
With the book on his chest.
This nap now much longer
Than all of the rest.
It began like all others,
Thoughts drifting as sleep came.
But this nap won’t be ending
With someone calling his name.
He wasn’t done with the book!
Wasn’t done with his life!
There were so many plans
He had made with his wife!
Because he wanted so much to know
How things would turn out,
On his lips there’s now the beginning
Of a sad little pout.
It said:
Alright, I’ll go, but I don’t have to like it.
(Roy Dorman, an avid reader, is
retired from the University of
Wisconsin.)
retired from the University of
Wisconsin.)
(Photo by Angela Kamoske)
(Photo by Angela Kamoske)
Sola Ipse! The end of the game is this trap.
Even the beach from Clov’s window is a
desolate stretch, but the mind’s eye is not
the whole universe. Several small ones wait.
Step into the stream pushing through
an almost impenetrable thicket of a
cane brake wilderness; your boots
slip on a muddy bank, the redstarts flit
and call. A deer on the other bank drinks.
You bait up either nightcrawlers or a dry fly
and weary your arms with snagged brush
and repair your bait time and time again;
and though you catch chubs and shiners,
you know beneath the dark green moss
or iron of that water the rainbows gleam.
Frozen ground. Trash of last year’s planting
must all be broken up. Must all be cleaned
out. Prune a tangle of grapevine. And the
trees. And the roses. Even through the gloves
the rose thorns sting, leaving dots of blood
in your palms. After the thaw, dig. Take the
compost out of the three garbage cans that
have stewed all summer, all winter, pour
this slick wet mess into the flats, dig it under,
fouling your hands with the slime of compost
that mixes with blood, and seasons the soil.
You tuck in the smoothed garden, rake it gently
around your plants, pull out the weeds, worry
in drought: water, and in the fall grow bright
tomatoes as big as kittenballs and petalling
out pink and white, yellow and red, the roses.
The country screams with sparrows,
clatters with blackbirds. Sometimes
we put hundreds of miles on the car
to find what we want to see. Sometimes
we must bushwhack over tough country
and climb the sloppy rocks of Parfrey’s
Glen, or scramble over the slick mud
of Pudas Hill all to go beyond the junk
birds and see an ovenbird, a tanager,
the Bachman’s Warbler. It took three
thousand miles west to Oregon and
a thousand south to the Texas Gulf
to eye a Lazuli Bunting, a Spoonbill.
We love books too, but despair hides
behind castle walls of the library; if you
fortress there or in the paranoia of television,
or think too much in isolation or only read
about war or watch the X-Files, play two
golfballs in a game against yourself, of course
the world is full of carp, and weed, sparrows
and desolation. Even the gentle parties with
wine, cheese and friends become literary.
These: seeing Shakespeare live, doing
grassroots politics, making friends who differ
from you, getting married, having children,
loving madly, cherishing blood relatives,
homeland; singing, baiting a hook, using
a shovel, toting binocs--all these and so much
more, but living excitedly not just to do but to
vanish into these things. When the pig-alone
pitches the ham away, to crash outside
through the walls of prison and the cell of
your broken body will get for you as you
vanish, the star and heaven and earth,
the rose, the trout, wonder of the rare bird.
clatters with blackbirds. Sometimes
we put hundreds of miles on the car
to find what we want to see. Sometimes
we must bushwhack over tough country
and climb the sloppy rocks of Parfrey’s
Glen, or scramble over the slick mud
of Pudas Hill all to go beyond the junk
birds and see an ovenbird, a tanager,
the Bachman’s Warbler. It took three
thousand miles west to Oregon and
a thousand south to the Texas Gulf
to eye a Lazuli Bunting, a Spoonbill.
We love books too, but despair hides
behind castle walls of the library; if you
fortress there or in the paranoia of television,
or think too much in isolation or only read
about war or watch the X-Files, play two
golfballs in a game against yourself, of course
the world is full of carp, and weed, sparrows
and desolation. Even the gentle parties with
wine, cheese and friends become literary.
These: seeing Shakespeare live, doing
grassroots politics, making friends who differ
from you, getting married, having children,
loving madly, cherishing blood relatives,
homeland; singing, baiting a hook, using
a shovel, toting binocs--all these and so much
more, but living excitedly not just to do but to
vanish into these things. When the pig-alone
pitches the ham away, to crash outside
through the walls of prison and the cell of
your broken body will get for you as you
vanish, the star and heaven and earth,
the rose, the trout, wonder of the rare bird.
To learn about Steven Fortney's numerous books, go to:
http://stevenfortney.freeservers.com/stevbks.htm
http://stevenfortney.freeservers.com/stevbks.htm
Carving Out
By Jack Harmening
He sits in the back of the class
deaf, absorbed,
absent,
his head bent,
as if pleading with someone,
before the axe strikes.
His executioner points
her finger slicing through the air,
falling upon him,
and asking the deadly question,
What did I just say?
He panics, his future flashes before his eyes,
and he sees where the path ends:
he knows his grades will fall with his head,
no college accepts headless chickens.
He looks down at his work,
and squints.
The teacher gasps, and yells his name,
What is that?
He looks down at his crimson fingers,
trying to remember.
He looks down at his work,
scratches on the desk,
spelling out his name.
By Jack Harmening
He sits in the back of the class
deaf, absorbed,
absent,
his head bent,
as if pleading with someone,
before the axe strikes.
His executioner points
her finger slicing through the air,
falling upon him,
and asking the deadly question,
What did I just say?
He panics, his future flashes before his eyes,
and he sees where the path ends:
he knows his grades will fall with his head,
no college accepts headless chickens.
He looks down at his work,
and squints.
The teacher gasps, and yells his name,
What is that?
He looks down at his crimson fingers,
trying to remember.
He looks down at his work,
scratches on the desk,
spelling out his name.
(Jack Harmening and friends.)
(Jack Harmening is a Senior at Carl Sandburg High School in
Orland Park. He likes chocolate ice cream.)
Orland Park. He likes chocolate ice cream.)
Lake of Fire
The lake is caught
In multi-colored shifting
Sun-filled evening lights…
And day turns dusk…and dusk turns night.
Trees, once barren, dead, and
Gnarled standing lonely on a
Starker winter’s shore bud silently
Into some near forgotten greener time.
I stand and watch
As bats fly low into the branches. I
Almost feel the clinging chill blow
Silent off a frozen lake remembered..
And then, amid a word too still…too calm…
I almost feel the memory times of
Blood-red sunsets…harbingers of
Flame and death which come softly with the night
Hands
Bandaged hands,
Lying in a store-front
Broken window…
Crawling into the street.
I see him
We should go over
You say no…
We walk on.
Later…Same man,
Bandaged hands,
Walks up
And asks for a cigarette.
You give him one.
He says
Will you beat me now?
You say no man.
Bandaged hands shrugs
He looks disappointed
And, pockets bulging
He walks away.
Her Feet…
.
I hear the soft running of her feet,
Westward bound, rhythmically slapping
Wet aginst the asphalt…quickly separating
Her from me in terms of distance.
The grey of one cold and
Lonely morning follows her with it’s
Eyes, reaching silently out to momentarily
Catch just one glimpse of her hand in mine…
And I’ll turn and hide a small
Uncertain tear…Leaving only memory
With a small oil slick waiting it’s turn
To be washed quietly into the streets.
October
October’s grave…
Apart…no future,
And today nothing.
But October’s grave…
One bright
Forgetful moment,
A slow pull on steel
And silence util.
OH GOD
The shattering
Jolting blast…
And then…calm.
AND Later
One who knew her
Brought love but
A moment too late.
Shadows
Small soft shadows playing
dark against some scattered clouds
Feeling sky yet hardly guessing
Death is breathing softly from behind.
If so, then death to life
And light to dark…and day is night, and
Summer spring…while all the word
Stands watching us as
The poles reverse and
I am you…and death plus
Sky and summer sun is
All a whispered moment in some cloud
Westward bound, rhythmically slapping
Wet aginst the asphalt…quickly separating
Her from me in terms of distance.
The grey of one cold and
Lonely morning follows her with it’s
Eyes, reaching silently out to momentarily
Catch just one glimpse of her hand in mine…
And I’ll turn and hide a small
Uncertain tear…Leaving only memory
With a small oil slick waiting it’s turn
To be washed quietly into the streets.
October
October’s grave…
Apart…no future,
And today nothing.
But October’s grave…
One bright
Forgetful moment,
A slow pull on steel
And silence util.
OH GOD
The shattering
Jolting blast…
And then…calm.
AND Later
One who knew her
Brought love but
A moment too late.
Shadows
Small soft shadows playing
dark against some scattered clouds
Feeling sky yet hardly guessing
Death is breathing softly from behind.
If so, then death to life
And light to dark…and day is night, and
Summer spring…while all the word
Stands watching us as
The poles reverse and
I am you…and death plus
Sky and summer sun is
All a whispered moment in some cloud
Tales from GOLGOTHA
By David Ramati
By David Ramati
(David Ramati has worked as an investigative journalist, ship
fitter, welder, freelance writer, border patrol officer, US
Marine in Vietnam, and Israeli Defense Forces Officer.)
fitter, welder, freelance writer, border patrol officer, US
Marine in Vietnam, and Israeli Defense Forces Officer.)
(To see books by Jerry McGinley, go to
http://www.amazon.com/s/ref=ntt_at_ep_srch?_encoding=UT
F8&field-author=Jerry%20McGinley&search-alias=books&so
rt=relevancerank.)
http://www.amazon.com/s/ref=ntt_at_ep_srch?_encoding=UT
F8&field-author=Jerry%20McGinley&search-alias=books&so
rt=relevancerank.)
(Angela Kamoske is a detective with the Madison Police
Department.)
Department.)
Bye Bye Beckett
By Steven Fortney
By Steven Fortney