| Issue 1 |
When The East is Golden
By Sarah E. Peterson
What can I do
with a beautiful sunrise That is
bound to make a perfect day?
Blushing skies with
Bubbles of bluey grey clouds
except where the sun is: those clouds
are gold.
Gilt edged rooftops and sparkling emerald grass,
silent trees waiting to be washed in splendid morning
The sidewalk counts its way to the edge of the
Spinning world, all the way to where the brightest star
pops up on the horizon
Making the nighttime dark flee swiftly into tomorrow
Flowing across the earth in light leaps and sunny somersaults
What can I do with a beautiful sunrise
That is bound to make a perfect day?
Can I capture it and put it in a box, just
a small box in my closet
Or should I snatch the marigold rays as they slant
across my window, and store them up in my soul?
By Sarah E. Peterson
What can I do
with a beautiful sunrise That is
bound to make a perfect day?
Blushing skies with
Bubbles of bluey grey clouds
except where the sun is: those clouds
are gold.
Gilt edged rooftops and sparkling emerald grass,
silent trees waiting to be washed in splendid morning
The sidewalk counts its way to the edge of the
Spinning world, all the way to where the brightest star
pops up on the horizon
Making the nighttime dark flee swiftly into tomorrow
Flowing across the earth in light leaps and sunny somersaults
What can I do with a beautiful sunrise
That is bound to make a perfect day?
Can I capture it and put it in a box, just
a small box in my closet
Or should I snatch the marigold rays as they slant
across my window, and store them up in my soul?
Hush
By Sarah E. Peterson
I open my window really wide
so all the wind comes in
And crashes through my room, making
the ghosts shudder and whisk away into the corners
where the shadows stand still and dark.
I watch the street lights spill
slippery stripes of silver on the sidewalk
where cursing silhouettes dodge and dash
between cold splashes of cloud tears.
I climb up in a high tree,
get all shivery and rained-on
with black leaves slapping my arms
And great envelopes of nighttime landing
in my lap.
Then I huddle back
my hair drips and my fingers are lost in an iceberg,
my nose froze more than Alaska
But my smile is stitched on with puddly permanency.
I wink at the ghosts before
I fall asleep.
By Sarah E. Peterson
I open my window really wide
so all the wind comes in
And crashes through my room, making
the ghosts shudder and whisk away into the corners
where the shadows stand still and dark.
I watch the street lights spill
slippery stripes of silver on the sidewalk
where cursing silhouettes dodge and dash
between cold splashes of cloud tears.
I climb up in a high tree,
get all shivery and rained-on
with black leaves slapping my arms
And great envelopes of nighttime landing
in my lap.
Then I huddle back
my hair drips and my fingers are lost in an iceberg,
my nose froze more than Alaska
But my smile is stitched on with puddly permanency.
I wink at the ghosts before
I fall asleep.
Not Sure
By Roy Dorman
You see their numerical input everyday in those online polls.
President Obama: 48%
Governor Romney: 46%
Undecided: 6%
Should Tom give up Scientology to win Katie back?
Yes, they were a cute couple: 61%
No, he's not right for her: 32%
Not Sure: 7%
Should guns be banned from playground areas?
Yes, the safety of our children is important: 82%
No, don't take away our 2nd Amendment rights: 10%
Don't Know: 8%
Who are these folks who are Undecided, Not Sure, Don’t
Know?
Why do they somehow feel compelled to cast their online
non-opinions?
Are they the same people in each poll?
How do they ever make decisions in their everyday lives?
Should knitting be allowed in fast-food restaurants?
Yes: 53%. No: 33%. Don't Know: 14%.
Oh my, there are even more of them this time.
Should we be worried about this fledgling trend?
Hmmm. Not Sure.
By Roy Dorman
You see their numerical input everyday in those online polls.
President Obama: 48%
Governor Romney: 46%
Undecided: 6%
Should Tom give up Scientology to win Katie back?
Yes, they were a cute couple: 61%
No, he's not right for her: 32%
Not Sure: 7%
Should guns be banned from playground areas?
Yes, the safety of our children is important: 82%
No, don't take away our 2nd Amendment rights: 10%
Don't Know: 8%
Who are these folks who are Undecided, Not Sure, Don’t
Know?
Why do they somehow feel compelled to cast their online
non-opinions?
Are they the same people in each poll?
How do they ever make decisions in their everyday lives?
Should knitting be allowed in fast-food restaurants?
Yes: 53%. No: 33%. Don't Know: 14%.
Oh my, there are even more of them this time.
Should we be worried about this fledgling trend?
Hmmm. Not Sure.
three haiku
by matt landon
an old veteran
forgets why
no one visits
slumbering bear
dreams of honey
in the springtime
lost a scent
by river's edge
taunted by the fox
darkness
by caleb dyer
as the day draws to an end, the darkness starts to descend
the sounds and shadows escalate, they haunt me as they decimate
my fear is enormous this can not be real, this devilish horror never to be revealed
rationalism faded with the light, i wont make it through this night
as the sun is slowly setting, my despair grows and i begin sweating
the evil creatures of the dark awake, their existence forever remains opaque
i lie shaking but cannot move, there is nothing i can prove
the darkness is sinister and with it brings death, and at that moment i let out a
breath
their so close i can't escape, i see silhouettes of gruesome shapes
the halls echo with thundering stomping, the wailing, gnashing of teeth and cawing
i pray for the morning to come, into immortal dreams i succumb
attrition burning in my soul, my mind gives me no console
high-pitched screaching assults my ears, making me tremble with a thousand fears
they've found me now there is no hope, my flesh has no chance to cope
and left here are my last words, beware the darkness and the birds
BIGFOOT’S BACK IN TOWN!
By David Steingass
These guys don’t want to find Bigfoot—
They want to be Bigfoot.
—Robert Michael Pyle, Where Bigfoot Walks
Life’s so good in the land of the elk, the Dutch oven and the grizzly,
what brings him with six feet of diamondback
looped on his neck like castanets
back? Good question, one of a string you forget once he struts like an oak
trunk wrapped in fur, daring you or any
flatfoot try to diminish
him in any way. You should say: Where were you when I had to choose
the fork in the trail, how many eons ago?
Problem is his hair
that’s way better — senator-grade better, with glossy spring wire-curls –– than
yours. Yes, your scars don’t show. There’s still wispy
hair enough for that. Plus,
you can explain your canines. Still, you stare at that shock, that juicy
slab of mane. And when he shouts, Let’s sail
in our skins! And, Child
support’s a plot against adults! And even, Responsibility betrays
carnivores! his tone, and his roar’s vitality
curdle your blood.
The louder he’s free,
the more he begins to resemble your brother-in-law
on opening day---as in how many beers does he throw down
before furniture
starts to break? And when he takes up nicknames
you thought died in study hall, you feel their rusty grain
gnash your spine’s
chain of teeth. If your joints crack
when he swaggers like a statue of the football coach
you hated,
invent stories to save you later in the Do
Drop Inn. Explain how no one knows karate if you get
a good one in first.
Flash the smile that goes with your traffic
finger, your all-American white-knuckled Goodbye.
By David Steingass
These guys don’t want to find Bigfoot—
They want to be Bigfoot.
—Robert Michael Pyle, Where Bigfoot Walks
Life’s so good in the land of the elk, the Dutch oven and the grizzly,
what brings him with six feet of diamondback
looped on his neck like castanets
back? Good question, one of a string you forget once he struts like an oak
trunk wrapped in fur, daring you or any
flatfoot try to diminish
him in any way. You should say: Where were you when I had to choose
the fork in the trail, how many eons ago?
Problem is his hair
that’s way better — senator-grade better, with glossy spring wire-curls –– than
yours. Yes, your scars don’t show. There’s still wispy
hair enough for that. Plus,
you can explain your canines. Still, you stare at that shock, that juicy
slab of mane. And when he shouts, Let’s sail
in our skins! And, Child
support’s a plot against adults! And even, Responsibility betrays
carnivores! his tone, and his roar’s vitality
curdle your blood.
The louder he’s free,
the more he begins to resemble your brother-in-law
on opening day---as in how many beers does he throw down
before furniture
starts to break? And when he takes up nicknames
you thought died in study hall, you feel their rusty grain
gnash your spine’s
chain of teeth. If your joints crack
when he swaggers like a statue of the football coach
you hated,
invent stories to save you later in the Do
Drop Inn. Explain how no one knows karate if you get
a good one in first.
Flash the smile that goes with your traffic
finger, your all-American white-knuckled Goodbye.
| FARM BOYS By David Steingass For Jack Miller and Jerry Bourquin Turns out farm boys love the dark, that deep black summer soup they fall so far into the danger is they lose themselves. Not that they’re likely ever to say the word love. Pull out his fingernails and a farm boy might not say love. Nor admit the queasy off-balance flavor he senses about midnight. “Hey,” he’ll say instead. Sentences like these form most of his conversation, especially if he’s faced with a subject like the consistency of darkness. Say he gets caught with a woman he’s not related to who wants to talk. “The night feels like a blanket of emotion,” he knows she’ll say sooner or later without a breath of warning. Stunned, the farm boy can only say, “Depends” as he watches a chasm open in the earth between his feet. He moves from bedazzled to bewildered to bedeviled in the time it takes maybe three of these sentences to thunk against his head. If she’d ask about something he knows about, like how many bales of first-cut hay to expect from an acre of land –– maybe. Maybe. But this? “Sure,” he says. He stares into the dark out of the front room window as though he’s hearing a news report from another dimension describe an invasion of mutant deer flies. “You betcha,” he expands, feeling his hands begin to flutter as his heart tap dances in his chest. His mind begins to tug like a big catfish as his body, no matter how he shivers for control, opens into the black puzzle of night. |
HOW STORMS ON MOUNT KATAHDIN CHANGE OUR LIVES
By David Steingass
Thunderstorms rattle Maine’s tectonic plates. Odd-sized stacks of mountains ––green, black, and
white –– surge all night through our sleep. The Moose Lodge swirls like a renegade ferryboat.
We crowd its rail to watch the President jabber born-again code at parishioners clinging to batty
belfries. Puritans washed by lightning flee serpentine insurrections. Mistress Bradstreet spits into
her hands and digs in to lead off the last half of the ninth for the Scarlet Letters.
In the morning, new horizons leap into the clear salt air. We wander the ocean shore’s rich
combination of smells –– bare roots, rye toast, mud flats. We felt thinner. Something ominous
seems forgiven. Islands with names like Mount Katahdin pop up like wet loons. Friends lost for
years swim back into memory. Surprise, an emotion as stark as a loon’s red eye, floats on the
rising water.
By David Steingass
Thunderstorms rattle Maine’s tectonic plates. Odd-sized stacks of mountains ––green, black, and
white –– surge all night through our sleep. The Moose Lodge swirls like a renegade ferryboat.
We crowd its rail to watch the President jabber born-again code at parishioners clinging to batty
belfries. Puritans washed by lightning flee serpentine insurrections. Mistress Bradstreet spits into
her hands and digs in to lead off the last half of the ninth for the Scarlet Letters.
In the morning, new horizons leap into the clear salt air. We wander the ocean shore’s rich
combination of smells –– bare roots, rye toast, mud flats. We felt thinner. Something ominous
seems forgiven. Islands with names like Mount Katahdin pop up like wet loons. Friends lost for
years swim back into memory. Surprise, an emotion as stark as a loon’s red eye, floats on the
rising water.
NORTH WOODS SPORTS BAR
By David Steingass
The weirdness of television and advertising
––Gary Snyder
Glitzy motorbikes roll in off the highway. The bikers unzip their leather and shake out their hair
to become women, marvelous creatures from the deep woods! Someone remembers how
Calvinists regarded the forest. “Destroy the underbrush, they said. Last refuge of savages and
sexual thoughts.”
“You value things that don’t come easily,” a redheaded biker tells him. “Don’t we all?” he says.
“Au contraire,” she laughs in a way that makes him think amber, the oldest decorative
substance. He hears the amber deep in her voice, how its electric charge rubs the smoky dialect
of sagas.
By David Steingass
The weirdness of television and advertising
––Gary Snyder
Glitzy motorbikes roll in off the highway. The bikers unzip their leather and shake out their hair
to become women, marvelous creatures from the deep woods! Someone remembers how
Calvinists regarded the forest. “Destroy the underbrush, they said. Last refuge of savages and
sexual thoughts.”
“You value things that don’t come easily,” a redheaded biker tells him. “Don’t we all?” he says.
“Au contraire,” she laughs in a way that makes him think amber, the oldest decorative
substance. He hears the amber deep in her voice, how its electric charge rubs the smoky dialect
of sagas.
(David Steingass has published
Fishing for Dynamite and
GreatPlains with Red Dragonfly
Press. Aliens: Prose Poems is
forthcoming.)
The Cardinal
By Kristin Spooner
On an early morning so crisp it snapped like an apple,
a cardinal—red and stark against the slate sky—
perched on the sideview mirror of a tan sedan.
It perched there for only a few seconds;
then, it flew slightly up and out so that
it faced the car’s mirror from less than a foot away, and then
it slammed into the mirror
and plummeted to the black asphalt.
The cardinal stayed still on the asphalt for a few seconds,
and then flapped back up to its mirror perch.
Then the bird repeated the act, with no variation, no hesitation—
up, out, slam, down—
and showed no signs of stopping.
By Kristin Spooner
On an early morning so crisp it snapped like an apple,
a cardinal—red and stark against the slate sky—
perched on the sideview mirror of a tan sedan.
It perched there for only a few seconds;
then, it flew slightly up and out so that
it faced the car’s mirror from less than a foot away, and then
it slammed into the mirror
and plummeted to the black asphalt.
The cardinal stayed still on the asphalt for a few seconds,
and then flapped back up to its mirror perch.
Then the bird repeated the act, with no variation, no hesitation—
up, out, slam, down—
and showed no signs of stopping.
At the Lake
Kristin Spooner
My father can’t swim.
He never learned, and at 64 years old,
he does not plan on learning.
My father does not swim,
but for two weeks each summer,
he vacations with my mom at a lake in Michigan.
While she casually dives from the dock, wades with swans,
or floats on a rubber inner tube,
he sits where he can see her,
on a rusted red metal chair in the shoreline grass,
and works through his stack of library books
until the sun ducks behind the trees.
Kristin Spooner
My father can’t swim.
He never learned, and at 64 years old,
he does not plan on learning.
My father does not swim,
but for two weeks each summer,
he vacations with my mom at a lake in Michigan.
While she casually dives from the dock, wades with swans,
or floats on a rubber inner tube,
he sits where he can see her,
on a rusted red metal chair in the shoreline grass,
and works through his stack of library books
until the sun ducks behind the trees.
Fliers
By Kristin Spooner
She comes toward me in the hallway but doesn’t see me;
she heads up the stairs with two friends who look like her:
blond or mostly blond, skinny jeans, brand-name sweatshirts.
I hear her: “Oh my God, look at what this says—
I’ve already torn down three today.”
I see her: she rips down a flier—posted that morning—
advertising the first meeting of the Muslim Student Association.
She laughs as she crumples the paper and shoves it into the hands
of one of her friends, who also laughs.
The girl is fifteen, a tenth-grader, one of
3,800 students in the school where I teach teenagers
about verbs and mockingbirds and metaphors.
For a moment, when I see her rip the flier off the wall
and hear the callous laughter that follows,
I want to turn and run
or burrow beneath the linoleum tiles
or buy a one-way ticket to
somewhere, anywhere else,
because I have failed, this is supposed to be my job,
it is my fault that there is a teenager, just a girl, who
wakes up each day and thinks she can
tear down whatever she wants
abuse whomever she decides
and allow ignorance to be her guide.
Instead, I stop her and her friends at the top of the stairs.
“What are you doing?” I ask her,
as I take the crumpled flier and smooth it flat.
She does not answer.
“Why did you tear this down?” I ask her,
many times, and every time, she says
“I don’t know,”
and she looks everywhere
but in my eyes.
By Kristin Spooner
She comes toward me in the hallway but doesn’t see me;
she heads up the stairs with two friends who look like her:
blond or mostly blond, skinny jeans, brand-name sweatshirts.
I hear her: “Oh my God, look at what this says—
I’ve already torn down three today.”
I see her: she rips down a flier—posted that morning—
advertising the first meeting of the Muslim Student Association.
She laughs as she crumples the paper and shoves it into the hands
of one of her friends, who also laughs.
The girl is fifteen, a tenth-grader, one of
3,800 students in the school where I teach teenagers
about verbs and mockingbirds and metaphors.
For a moment, when I see her rip the flier off the wall
and hear the callous laughter that follows,
I want to turn and run
or burrow beneath the linoleum tiles
or buy a one-way ticket to
somewhere, anywhere else,
because I have failed, this is supposed to be my job,
it is my fault that there is a teenager, just a girl, who
wakes up each day and thinks she can
tear down whatever she wants
abuse whomever she decides
and allow ignorance to be her guide.
Instead, I stop her and her friends at the top of the stairs.
“What are you doing?” I ask her,
as I take the crumpled flier and smooth it flat.
She does not answer.
“Why did you tear this down?” I ask her,
many times, and every time, she says
“I don’t know,”
and she looks everywhere
but in my eyes.
(Kristin Spooner is a high school English teacher in the
southwest suburbs of Chicago. She graduated with a B.A.
from Augustana College and completed a Master’s Degree
in Literature at the University of Missouri-Columbia. She
has also studied writing at DePaul University.)
southwest suburbs of Chicago. She graduated with a B.A.
from Augustana College and completed a Master’s Degree
in Literature at the University of Missouri-Columbia. She
has also studied writing at DePaul University.)
Ashlyn
By Colleen M. Farrelly
Carrying her baby, she stumbles in
our clinic’s back door from the parking lot,
silent as her eyes widen and begin
to tear up. She and her boyfriend have fought
again. Her youthful face caked in makeup,
she dons her Northface coat, mittens, and hat;
her smeared mascara betrays the breakup
we’d overheard from next door’s Laundromat.
Her red scarf lies across her baby’s coat—
red until I see the white tassels hanging
limply. Blood steeps the scarf from her slit throat
as she struggles to speak. Collapsing
to the floor with her son, we rush to her,
but she succumbs to her lover’s anger.
By Colleen M. Farrelly
Carrying her baby, she stumbles in
our clinic’s back door from the parking lot,
silent as her eyes widen and begin
to tear up. She and her boyfriend have fought
again. Her youthful face caked in makeup,
she dons her Northface coat, mittens, and hat;
her smeared mascara betrays the breakup
we’d overheard from next door’s Laundromat.
Her red scarf lies across her baby’s coat—
red until I see the white tassels hanging
limply. Blood steeps the scarf from her slit throat
as she struggles to speak. Collapsing
to the floor with her son, we rush to her,
but she succumbs to her lover’s anger.
Forgotten
By Colleen M. Farrelly
He lies still on the jungle path outside
a small village. Holes riddle his rebel
uniform—scars of this war, this devil
born of suffering—and blood steeps dirt beside
him, dirt stained red from wars it could not hide.
His RPG lies amongst the rubble
of last night’s battle. His rebel’s struggle
mirrors man’s power struggle worldwide.
Empty bottles strewn across his nearby
camp contrast the face I see in the light.
His face bears no trace of war, no trace of
sorrow; he’s just another child to die
in a forgotten war, hidden from sight
by politics, crying out: where is love?
By Colleen M. Farrelly
He lies still on the jungle path outside
a small village. Holes riddle his rebel
uniform—scars of this war, this devil
born of suffering—and blood steeps dirt beside
him, dirt stained red from wars it could not hide.
His RPG lies amongst the rubble
of last night’s battle. His rebel’s struggle
mirrors man’s power struggle worldwide.
Empty bottles strewn across his nearby
camp contrast the face I see in the light.
His face bears no trace of war, no trace of
sorrow; he’s just another child to die
in a forgotten war, hidden from sight
by politics, crying out: where is love?
Are You My Enemy?
By Colleen M. Farrelly
I.
Are you my enemy? As children, we
laughed and cried and played together under
the Illinois sun. Once, we fought to free
the abused kittens found in our neighbor’s
cellar; now, you fight against liberty.
Amid the roar of battle, I steady
my gun against the wall for another
charge and see a face I know—a soldier
in another uniform. Can it be?
Are you my enemy?
At the ball park, I tended your skinned knee;
at Gettysburg, you are still my brother.
But, though we share a common mother,
we serve different fathers. You ask me,
“Are you my enemy?”
II.
Are you my enemy? I hear singing
from your trenches; thought I don’t understand
the words, familiar melodies ring
true in my heart, warming our no man’s land
this Christmas Eve amidst ceaseless fighting.
Beyond the barbed wire, a white flag flying
in the distance—in waning light—commands
our attention much as the merry band
from the Other Side, leaving us asking,
“Are they our enemy?”
Slowly, we offer them our own blessings
and join their celebration: bread and canned
meat, shared hymns, and traditions from lands
not so far away. To us, war is confusing:
Who is my enemy?
III.
Who is my enemy? I’m told that you
are, that I should hate you… but I don’t hate
anyone, least of all the girl next door. Few
men agree, as bombings have increased of late
and I hear whispers of a coming coup.
You helped my grandma with groceries two
weeks ago, looking past religious debate
and rhetoric to open our front gate
and carry bags of Challah bread. You knew:
we are not enemies.
I look deep within my heart to find what’s true
and what’s born of fear. You’re my friend, my mate,
and the only one to whom I relate.
We share what Romeo and Julliette knew:
Why are we enemies?
By Colleen M. Farrelly
I.
Are you my enemy? As children, we
laughed and cried and played together under
the Illinois sun. Once, we fought to free
the abused kittens found in our neighbor’s
cellar; now, you fight against liberty.
Amid the roar of battle, I steady
my gun against the wall for another
charge and see a face I know—a soldier
in another uniform. Can it be?
Are you my enemy?
At the ball park, I tended your skinned knee;
at Gettysburg, you are still my brother.
But, though we share a common mother,
we serve different fathers. You ask me,
“Are you my enemy?”
II.
Are you my enemy? I hear singing
from your trenches; thought I don’t understand
the words, familiar melodies ring
true in my heart, warming our no man’s land
this Christmas Eve amidst ceaseless fighting.
Beyond the barbed wire, a white flag flying
in the distance—in waning light—commands
our attention much as the merry band
from the Other Side, leaving us asking,
“Are they our enemy?”
Slowly, we offer them our own blessings
and join their celebration: bread and canned
meat, shared hymns, and traditions from lands
not so far away. To us, war is confusing:
Who is my enemy?
III.
Who is my enemy? I’m told that you
are, that I should hate you… but I don’t hate
anyone, least of all the girl next door. Few
men agree, as bombings have increased of late
and I hear whispers of a coming coup.
You helped my grandma with groceries two
weeks ago, looking past religious debate
and rhetoric to open our front gate
and carry bags of Challah bread. You knew:
we are not enemies.
I look deep within my heart to find what’s true
and what’s born of fear. You’re my friend, my mate,
and the only one to whom I relate.
We share what Romeo and Julliette knew:
Why are we enemies?
Do You See Me Sleeping Over There?
By Colleen M. Farrelly
Do you see me sleeping over there,
shivering under today’s papers on my bench,
as you wander past with dogs, but not with care?
Tonight, I curl up with my bags on the stairs
of an old, stone cathedral in your city’s square.
Do you see me sleeping over there?
Your disgust multiplies my despair.
Hopeless, helpless in my private hell,
you hurry past me. Do any of you care?
My family hopes and prays that somewhere
a shelter will take me in, always wondering:
Have you seen my child over there?
With broken eyes and dirty hands, I bear
my soul to you, silently pleading for your help.
But you talk past my pain without a care
No longer suffering, no longer aware,
now I sleep beyond the fence of your cemetery.
Do you see me sleeping over there?
You once walked past me, but you did not care.
By Colleen M. Farrelly
Do you see me sleeping over there,
shivering under today’s papers on my bench,
as you wander past with dogs, but not with care?
Tonight, I curl up with my bags on the stairs
of an old, stone cathedral in your city’s square.
Do you see me sleeping over there?
Your disgust multiplies my despair.
Hopeless, helpless in my private hell,
you hurry past me. Do any of you care?
My family hopes and prays that somewhere
a shelter will take me in, always wondering:
Have you seen my child over there?
With broken eyes and dirty hands, I bear
my soul to you, silently pleading for your help.
But you talk past my pain without a care
No longer suffering, no longer aware,
now I sleep beyond the fence of your cemetery.
Do you see me sleeping over there?
You once walked past me, but you did not care.
(Colleen M. Farrelly, a current graduate student at University of
Miami, enjoys writing poetry as a way to balance her scientific
work with her creative side. Her favorite poets include Dylan
Thomas, John Donne, and Edgar Allen Poe, and she aspires to
contribute to the long tradition of formal verse. She has been
recently featured in Four and Twenty, Vine Leaves Literary
Journal, The Recusant, and RiverLit, among others.)
Miami, enjoys writing poetry as a way to balance her scientific
work with her creative side. Her favorite poets include Dylan
Thomas, John Donne, and Edgar Allen Poe, and she aspires to
contribute to the long tradition of formal verse. She has been
recently featured in Four and Twenty, Vine Leaves Literary
Journal, The Recusant, and RiverLit, among others.)
Catch a Falling Star
By Steven Fortney
You don’t often see that, she said,
a paper blowing around; usually it’s
pasted to a fence or in a ditch. We did
see a paper blowing once, I said,
in southern Arizona, more than one.
They’re pretty trashy down there.
Then there was that time in Carlisle
I watched in my dad’s car as
the expiration flag of the parking
meter flipped up; and then in Eau
Claire of an evening I was there
as the street lights winked on.
And do you remember that time
in the Arkansas countryside we saw
a brand new van hit a running deer;
or when outside Knoxville a truck
tire shattered? and not just road killed
deer or broken retread by the roadside?
These things often happen for me,
being there as events manifest:
up at exactly the right time to see
the bobcat stride across our field,
yellow birds in sunlight meditate
as spirit flies to the end of time.
That night you and I stayed up late
to watch the aurora, and a sudden
shooting star fell and mingled. And
yesterday, abiding in the glow of our
sun porch, I watch my orchid, its life
expending, there, as the last blossom fell.
By Steven Fortney
You don’t often see that, she said,
a paper blowing around; usually it’s
pasted to a fence or in a ditch. We did
see a paper blowing once, I said,
in southern Arizona, more than one.
They’re pretty trashy down there.
Then there was that time in Carlisle
I watched in my dad’s car as
the expiration flag of the parking
meter flipped up; and then in Eau
Claire of an evening I was there
as the street lights winked on.
And do you remember that time
in the Arkansas countryside we saw
a brand new van hit a running deer;
or when outside Knoxville a truck
tire shattered? and not just road killed
deer or broken retread by the roadside?
These things often happen for me,
being there as events manifest:
up at exactly the right time to see
the bobcat stride across our field,
yellow birds in sunlight meditate
as spirit flies to the end of time.
That night you and I stayed up late
to watch the aurora, and a sudden
shooting star fell and mingled. And
yesterday, abiding in the glow of our
sun porch, I watch my orchid, its life
expending, there, as the last blossom fell.
The Star-maker Plays
By Steven Fortney
for Buz, Sardonicus, d. May 1, 2012
After dipping His wand
In the soap, sometimes
He merely waves His hand
And strings of bubbles appear
Like galaxies in deep space
And are blown in wind
And chance throughout
His neighborhood;
And sometimes He breathes
Through the circle of
The wand and bubbles
Come to life and strings
Through town, some
Popping early--grass broken,
Some winging, disappearing.
He makes this one slowly,
A special bubble.
There comes a membrane
Prism that brightens its skin
All colors, red, blue, yellow,
Magenta, that slip over
The globe as rainbows,
Pulsing, moving, changing,
Alive. As it ages, the colors
Weaken and the skin frays,
Tears, and the bubble pops,
Flecks of soap shed mortality;
And His breath joins breath;
Emptiness joins emptiness.
By Steven Fortney
for Buz, Sardonicus, d. May 1, 2012
After dipping His wand
In the soap, sometimes
He merely waves His hand
And strings of bubbles appear
Like galaxies in deep space
And are blown in wind
And chance throughout
His neighborhood;
And sometimes He breathes
Through the circle of
The wand and bubbles
Come to life and strings
Through town, some
Popping early--grass broken,
Some winging, disappearing.
He makes this one slowly,
A special bubble.
There comes a membrane
Prism that brightens its skin
All colors, red, blue, yellow,
Magenta, that slip over
The globe as rainbows,
Pulsing, moving, changing,
Alive. As it ages, the colors
Weaken and the skin frays,
Tears, and the bubble pops,
Flecks of soap shed mortality;
And His breath joins breath;
Emptiness joins emptiness.
(Steven Fortney has published
numerous novels, poems, and
essays. His latest book is
Ghosts Dancing.)
numerous novels, poems, and
essays. His latest book is
Ghosts Dancing.)
Days
By R.K. Mitby
Some say—just put it behind you;
Drive on with the things in your life—
But those lingering days in the Nam
Filled with moments of terror and strife
Are engraved like a brand in the memory
With flashbacks so vividly clear—
Reliving the carnage of battles
Especially as those days draw near.
For those dead you know that you’re living,
And those days forever you’ll grieve,
While striving all life for fulfillment—
The questions and whys never cease.
And one has a mom who remembers,
Another a spouse who supports,
But many just suffer in silence
And find solace with only cohorts.
By R.K. Mitby
Some say—just put it behind you;
Drive on with the things in your life—
But those lingering days in the Nam
Filled with moments of terror and strife
Are engraved like a brand in the memory
With flashbacks so vividly clear—
Reliving the carnage of battles
Especially as those days draw near.
For those dead you know that you’re living,
And those days forever you’ll grieve,
While striving all life for fulfillment—
The questions and whys never cease.
And one has a mom who remembers,
Another a spouse who supports,
But many just suffer in silence
And find solace with only cohorts.
Sixties Beauties
By R.K. Mitby
Where did sixties beauties go
Who used to rule the floor?
They’re dancing in their bedrooms
In a mirror like years before.
When some get out in public
And hear an old-time band,
Belting out the music
That they can understand—
They start to slowly wiggle—
Get up and dance around
To the drummer’s steady beat
And that great, old sixties sound,
And the wrinkles tend to wander,
And the pounds just peel away,
And they are out there dancing
In their era and their day.
By R.K. Mitby
Where did sixties beauties go
Who used to rule the floor?
They’re dancing in their bedrooms
In a mirror like years before.
When some get out in public
And hear an old-time band,
Belting out the music
That they can understand—
They start to slowly wiggle—
Get up and dance around
To the drummer’s steady beat
And that great, old sixties sound,
And the wrinkles tend to wander,
And the pounds just peel away,
And they are out there dancing
In their era and their day.
(Sarah E. Peterson is a senior at
Zeeland West High School, and
one of five children. She says,
"I write poetry as often as
possible because it is how I
think, how I cope, and how I
view the world.")
Zeeland West High School, and
one of five children. She says,
"I write poetry as often as
possible because it is how I
think, how I cope, and how I
view the world.")
Summer Fox
By Jerry McGinley
The first time we met, he was loping up
the darkening path behind the house.
I was splitting kindling in the oak grove.
I saw him first—a graceful rusty amber banner,
from arrow nose to white-tipped tail,
angular ears and chin, frosted cheek tufts.
When he saw me, our gazes locked:
his face, simple, sad, sympathetic,
his yellow eyes zealous, vibrant.
He spoke first, nose twitching, ears flicking:
“Join me, brother, I’ll lead the way
to a stream teeming with brook trout.
And a meadow swarming with field mice,
rabbits, chipmunks, pine squirrels.
Run with me, brother, taste the wind.”
“But I eat my supper cooked and sleep
in a soft, warm bed.” I whispered.
“I drink black tea in front of the tv.”
He trotted off, confused, dejected, tail sagging,
paws barely touching the fragrant earth.
I watched his silhouette disappear into shadows.
Next day I was weeding tomatoes when I saw
him on the path. He stood silent, patient,
then said, “Join me, brother, it’s time.
I’ll lead you up the ridge to the wild berries.
We’ll feast on pheasant and fat young grouse.
Sip our fill from the gurgling, cool spring.”
I sighed, “But my supper simmers on the stove.
My soft chair waits beside the window fan.
Don’t you see? My world is here. I cannot go.”
He spoke calmly, “Sometimes I go hungry.
Sometimes my den is cold. Often I am hunted.
But, brother, I am free. Follow me!”
Speechless, I shook my head and watched his
somber retreat, looking back just once,
before silently vanishing into the darkness.
I didn’t eat my supper that night, but sat alone
on the porch gazing into the night. At midnight
I crawled off to bed, but I never fell asleep.
By Jerry McGinley
The first time we met, he was loping up
the darkening path behind the house.
I was splitting kindling in the oak grove.
I saw him first—a graceful rusty amber banner,
from arrow nose to white-tipped tail,
angular ears and chin, frosted cheek tufts.
When he saw me, our gazes locked:
his face, simple, sad, sympathetic,
his yellow eyes zealous, vibrant.
He spoke first, nose twitching, ears flicking:
“Join me, brother, I’ll lead the way
to a stream teeming with brook trout.
And a meadow swarming with field mice,
rabbits, chipmunks, pine squirrels.
Run with me, brother, taste the wind.”
“But I eat my supper cooked and sleep
in a soft, warm bed.” I whispered.
“I drink black tea in front of the tv.”
He trotted off, confused, dejected, tail sagging,
paws barely touching the fragrant earth.
I watched his silhouette disappear into shadows.
Next day I was weeding tomatoes when I saw
him on the path. He stood silent, patient,
then said, “Join me, brother, it’s time.
I’ll lead you up the ridge to the wild berries.
We’ll feast on pheasant and fat young grouse.
Sip our fill from the gurgling, cool spring.”
I sighed, “But my supper simmers on the stove.
My soft chair waits beside the window fan.
Don’t you see? My world is here. I cannot go.”
He spoke calmly, “Sometimes I go hungry.
Sometimes my den is cold. Often I am hunted.
But, brother, I am free. Follow me!”
Speechless, I shook my head and watched his
somber retreat, looking back just once,
before silently vanishing into the darkness.
I didn’t eat my supper that night, but sat alone
on the porch gazing into the night. At midnight
I crawled off to bed, but I never fell asleep.
Roadkill Song
By Jerry McGinley
We were brothers once
half a million years ago.
We gathered hickory nuts,
wild berries, chicory roots.
We slept in damp mossy caves,
heated by our own flesh and fur.
Fire was still too strange,
saved for suns and stars.
But I messed up my Karma,
and evolved backward
through simpler forms.
You moved on, stood upright.
Tonight your headlights
caught my feral yellow eyes.
I froze in the icy brightness
of your unnatural glare.
Tomorrow crows will come
to ingest and transport my
chi to another place, someday
perhaps, our paths will cross again.
By Jerry McGinley
We were brothers once
half a million years ago.
We gathered hickory nuts,
wild berries, chicory roots.
We slept in damp mossy caves,
heated by our own flesh and fur.
Fire was still too strange,
saved for suns and stars.
But I messed up my Karma,
and evolved backward
through simpler forms.
You moved on, stood upright.
Tonight your headlights
caught my feral yellow eyes.
I froze in the icy brightness
of your unnatural glare.
Tomorrow crows will come
to ingest and transport my
chi to another place, someday
perhaps, our paths will cross again.
