| Issue Three |
Midnight Fishing at Devils Lake
By Jerry McGinley
I lie silent, my back moist against smooth,
cool stone, and watch and listen:
a specter hides among quartzite statues,
chalk-white birches, bent by a breeze,
sketch dot-to-dot patterns on the black sky,
waves lick the rocky shore, whispering
mystic litanies: “I wish…I wish… I wish…”
Some primal force is prowling here.
Its shadow slides along the violet wall.
The rippled reflection of the waxing gibbous moon
sparkles softly across the surface of the lake.
I set down my pole, close my eyes, breathe deeply.
Inhale the crisp night air, hold, then release,
allowing all thoughts and worldly cares to leave.
Breathe in and relax, feel myself hover above
all concerns and troubles, exhale completely.
Hear the hoot of a passing owl, smell the smoke
of a nearby campfire. Slowly setting my spirit free.
The golden light of the reflected moon now shines
on my inner eye lids. I allow the light to take me
on an inward journey, solemn, peaceful and quiet,
till I am standing in the halo of my Inner Eye.
By Jerry McGinley
I lie silent, my back moist against smooth,
cool stone, and watch and listen:
a specter hides among quartzite statues,
chalk-white birches, bent by a breeze,
sketch dot-to-dot patterns on the black sky,
waves lick the rocky shore, whispering
mystic litanies: “I wish…I wish… I wish…”
Some primal force is prowling here.
Its shadow slides along the violet wall.
The rippled reflection of the waxing gibbous moon
sparkles softly across the surface of the lake.
I set down my pole, close my eyes, breathe deeply.
Inhale the crisp night air, hold, then release,
allowing all thoughts and worldly cares to leave.
Breathe in and relax, feel myself hover above
all concerns and troubles, exhale completely.
Hear the hoot of a passing owl, smell the smoke
of a nearby campfire. Slowly setting my spirit free.
The golden light of the reflected moon now shines
on my inner eye lids. I allow the light to take me
on an inward journey, solemn, peaceful and quiet,
till I am standing in the halo of my Inner Eye.
(Painting "Night Fishing" by Ashley Baldwin-Smith. See more of
Ashley's work at http://www.ashwinstudio.co.uk.
Ashley's work at http://www.ashwinstudio.co.uk.
honor's call
by caleb dyer
they will watch but they won't tell
this is truly a living hell
they lie behind their sinister grins
and on you they'll blame their sins
conspiracies grow, corruption is vast
thousands of ignorant vessels amassed
they won;t have it any other way
by their laws you must obey
but we must stand up, we will not coincide
by your rules i won't abide
walk away and leave the knife inside
the unjust laws of land are staggered
from loss of blood my body is haggard
and as they slowly lay me down
in a box, underground
no air, no breath, no decibel of sound
just pitch black for what seems like an eternity
until i dissolved from this world of modernity
my body now hollow, my soul is drawn
to the gates of judgement, my memories foregone
i hope that one day you'll discover the truth
and avenge me out of feelings of ruth
uncover the lies and liberate us all
rise up against, and answer honor's call
by caleb dyer
they will watch but they won't tell
this is truly a living hell
they lie behind their sinister grins
and on you they'll blame their sins
conspiracies grow, corruption is vast
thousands of ignorant vessels amassed
they won;t have it any other way
by their laws you must obey
but we must stand up, we will not coincide
by your rules i won't abide
walk away and leave the knife inside
the unjust laws of land are staggered
from loss of blood my body is haggard
and as they slowly lay me down
in a box, underground
no air, no breath, no decibel of sound
just pitch black for what seems like an eternity
until i dissolved from this world of modernity
my body now hollow, my soul is drawn
to the gates of judgement, my memories foregone
i hope that one day you'll discover the truth
and avenge me out of feelings of ruth
uncover the lies and liberate us all
rise up against, and answer honor's call
(photo by caleb dyer)
Tommy
By Kathryn Guelcher
One terrible detail struck me
when I thought I had read them all.
That she had held her baby again,
but for the first time in two weeks.
Two weeks.
A quarter of his precious, precarious life
spent un-held
I knew about the tumors, the fluid,
the impossible odds,
but not about the not-holding.
I had assumed she could cradle the
warmth of his imperfect perfection
directly to her heart
all these weeks.
If only I could give her that much,
I would.
Though my second-hand sympathy
has no rights in this matter,
neither family nor friend.
But my sorrow is hers.
Her sorrow, only hers.
His life on hold, un-held.
By Kathryn Guelcher
One terrible detail struck me
when I thought I had read them all.
That she had held her baby again,
but for the first time in two weeks.
Two weeks.
A quarter of his precious, precarious life
spent un-held
I knew about the tumors, the fluid,
the impossible odds,
but not about the not-holding.
I had assumed she could cradle the
warmth of his imperfect perfection
directly to her heart
all these weeks.
If only I could give her that much,
I would.
Though my second-hand sympathy
has no rights in this matter,
neither family nor friend.
But my sorrow is hers.
Her sorrow, only hers.
His life on hold, un-held.
It Must Have Been a Moving Piece
By Kathryn Guelcher
I discover an old notebook
In a seldom used drawer of my desk.
I read one entry, then another, the rest.
The crisp pages of this slender volume
Are not yet filled.
The last entry I find is this:
I read that poem of yours.
I took some shallow breaths
And one so deep it poked my liver.
I mean to hold this breath,
Slip off these clothes and
Slide into the murkiness of the page.
Upon resurfacing, I will swim,
not unlike a water moccasin
slaloming between the words.
My familiar scrawl reveals a response
to a verse forgotten or absorbed.
Perhaps I had held what I now seek.
By Kathryn Guelcher
I discover an old notebook
In a seldom used drawer of my desk.
I read one entry, then another, the rest.
The crisp pages of this slender volume
Are not yet filled.
The last entry I find is this:
I read that poem of yours.
I took some shallow breaths
And one so deep it poked my liver.
I mean to hold this breath,
Slip off these clothes and
Slide into the murkiness of the page.
Upon resurfacing, I will swim,
not unlike a water moccasin
slaloming between the words.
My familiar scrawl reveals a response
to a verse forgotten or absorbed.
Perhaps I had held what I now seek.
Wrestling
By Kathryn Guelcher
For Dr. Roark
He was the professor who taught me the most
about Shakespeare, Toni Morrison, writing, and teaching
and commas--with an intellect as fine-tuned as his humor.
I’m not sure how it will turn out in the end
without him
even this would be 33% too long.
Maybe I never would have seen him again.
Yet, I feel the extinguished blaze from this distance
because it is distinctly colder.
Perhaps I am kindling scattered by wind. So
many of us are, then. On the other hand,
consider the loss to those who
will not have souls ignited in years to come
will not learn to live in the transience of ambiguity,
uncertainty, the moving forward wisely
without knowing yet. Clarity comes later. Just begin,
commit, and welcome confusion. Wrestle it all
so a clearer answer can emerge.
Until then, I will warm
my hands here and weigh this immense loss
in such a world
amidst so much kindling.
By Kathryn Guelcher
For Dr. Roark
He was the professor who taught me the most
about Shakespeare, Toni Morrison, writing, and teaching
and commas--with an intellect as fine-tuned as his humor.
I’m not sure how it will turn out in the end
without him
even this would be 33% too long.
Maybe I never would have seen him again.
Yet, I feel the extinguished blaze from this distance
because it is distinctly colder.
Perhaps I am kindling scattered by wind. So
many of us are, then. On the other hand,
consider the loss to those who
will not have souls ignited in years to come
will not learn to live in the transience of ambiguity,
uncertainty, the moving forward wisely
without knowing yet. Clarity comes later. Just begin,
commit, and welcome confusion. Wrestle it all
so a clearer answer can emerge.
Until then, I will warm
my hands here and weigh this immense loss
in such a world
amidst so much kindling.
2nd Poem on a Starbuck’s Napkin
By Kathryn Guelcher
I could render you a poem
so beautiful
that you will discover your heart.
You will understand its longings,
soothe its desires, make it whole,
cradle it gently in your hands
as you watch it grow
and grow,
until you break it
gently, like bread,
into large consumable pieces
which you fearlessly share with others
and thereby discover the mysteries of this
complex universe.
Just provide for me
an unmoving,
ungraded
stack
of high
school
essays.
By Kathryn Guelcher
I could render you a poem
so beautiful
that you will discover your heart.
You will understand its longings,
soothe its desires, make it whole,
cradle it gently in your hands
as you watch it grow
and grow,
until you break it
gently, like bread,
into large consumable pieces
which you fearlessly share with others
and thereby discover the mysteries of this
complex universe.
Just provide for me
an unmoving,
ungraded
stack
of high
school
essays.
(Kathryn Guelcher teaches English at a high school in a
suburb outside of Chicago. She has published four poems
in three publications including bluepepper.blogspot.com
and yourdailypoem.com and has had 7 other poems
accepted at: Bluepepper, yourdailypoem.com, Fat City
Review, Bird's Eye Review. She credits inspirational
colleagues for her continued efforts in poetry writing.)
suburb outside of Chicago. She has published four poems
in three publications including bluepepper.blogspot.com
and yourdailypoem.com and has had 7 other poems
accepted at: Bluepepper, yourdailypoem.com, Fat City
Review, Bird's Eye Review. She credits inspirational
colleagues for her continued efforts in poetry writing.)
NEGLECT
By Charlie Tarjan
At times
I answer emails in my head
Neglecting to hit the proper keys
Or any keys
Which seems to be an important component
Of communication.
There’s more.
I often write poems while driving
With both hands on the wheel
Memorizing the phrases and alignment
But losing it all
Between the driveway and the porch.
One more.
I’ve sabotaged friendships
Because of my telephone allergy.
For that I’m sorry.
By Charlie Tarjan
At times
I answer emails in my head
Neglecting to hit the proper keys
Or any keys
Which seems to be an important component
Of communication.
There’s more.
I often write poems while driving
With both hands on the wheel
Memorizing the phrases and alignment
But losing it all
Between the driveway and the porch.
One more.
I’ve sabotaged friendships
Because of my telephone allergy.
For that I’m sorry.
NO MARKETABLE SKILLS
By Charlie Tarjan
My father, the car mechanic,
Owned his own repair shop.
He could fix anything
Before it drove him to his death.
A corner of our basement
Devoted to his hobby,
A massive model train set
Double tracks, plastic towns,
Homemade tunnels.
I was too young, or he was too busy, or tired
For me to learn.
Time was too short.
Now, I’m left with words, no skills,
Only words,
Which still sometimes escape me.
By Charlie Tarjan
My father, the car mechanic,
Owned his own repair shop.
He could fix anything
Before it drove him to his death.
A corner of our basement
Devoted to his hobby,
A massive model train set
Double tracks, plastic towns,
Homemade tunnels.
I was too young, or he was too busy, or tired
For me to learn.
Time was too short.
Now, I’m left with words, no skills,
Only words,
Which still sometimes escape me.
JUST PERHAPS
By Charlie Tarjan
I step in front of the class
Demanding their attention
By simply raising my hand;
It’s my turn.
Request denied.
My words bounce off the backs of Ashley and Brooke, the stealthy texters,
Who haven’t heard a word all year.
Alice nods in the back; every class needs a nodder.
Absent Jake makes an appearance to study Bio …
In my English class, the home of buzzing chaos.
I announce they’ve finalized my retirement plans.
Starting in June, I’ll write useless unpublished poetry.
My heart will bleed on the pages
That no one will ever see.
All worthless energy.
I’ve had a career of practice.
Leah mumbles, “Vanity! All is vanity”:
A hidden September theme.
I nod.
Perhaps a single poem just might be published.
By Charlie Tarjan
I step in front of the class
Demanding their attention
By simply raising my hand;
It’s my turn.
Request denied.
My words bounce off the backs of Ashley and Brooke, the stealthy texters,
Who haven’t heard a word all year.
Alice nods in the back; every class needs a nodder.
Absent Jake makes an appearance to study Bio …
In my English class, the home of buzzing chaos.
I announce they’ve finalized my retirement plans.
Starting in June, I’ll write useless unpublished poetry.
My heart will bleed on the pages
That no one will ever see.
All worthless energy.
I’ve had a career of practice.
Leah mumbles, “Vanity! All is vanity”:
A hidden September theme.
I nod.
Perhaps a single poem just might be published.
STALL TACTICS
By Charlie Tarjan
Professor Chambers liked my symbols
I didn’t know there were any. I wanted to write
Holdenesque because that’s all I knew, about a
young man’s first encounter with a prostitute,
which I didn’t know. I ended with a former
ex-college girl who didn’t exist.
“You should write something happy,” he said.
I asked him when it was due.
The Last Catholic in America liked my humor about
being lost in a grocery store, mistakenly buying cabbage,
not lettuce, with an obscure reference to a
cardboard castle king with a real identity and a fake name.
“Send me something longer,” he said.
I had nothing longer.
And no address.
By Charlie Tarjan
Professor Chambers liked my symbols
I didn’t know there were any. I wanted to write
Holdenesque because that’s all I knew, about a
young man’s first encounter with a prostitute,
which I didn’t know. I ended with a former
ex-college girl who didn’t exist.
“You should write something happy,” he said.
I asked him when it was due.
The Last Catholic in America liked my humor about
being lost in a grocery store, mistakenly buying cabbage,
not lettuce, with an obscure reference to a
cardboard castle king with a real identity and a fake name.
“Send me something longer,” he said.
I had nothing longer.
And no address.
(Charlie Tarjan is a recently retired high school English teacher
in the Chicagoland area. His poems have appeared in The
English Journal and The Rectangle. He is now attempting to
publish a collection of poems – one poem at a time.)
in the Chicagoland area. His poems have appeared in The
English Journal and The Rectangle. He is now attempting to
publish a collection of poems – one poem at a time.)
Lake
By David Ramati
The wind blows inward from
The churning, slowly freezing lake…forming
Soft-white ice against the drooping
Trees windblown through and through
Then…and there…and then again it’s
Always some new tomorrow, always new choices
Always the cold return of winter’s lost delights
As the frozen wind winds softly through the drooping trees…
There I stand with you, or at least your shadow,
Waiting, watching this strange happening and
Wondering why we are once again together, only half again,
Half what we used to be apart…
Only you’re dead…and I’m dead…and that
Great world of sadness left behind is like
A slowly rotting of sometime autumn long ago
Forgotten in some youthful frolic…
And you’re dead…and we’re dead…alone once more
Lost in our togetherness and standing by the lake…
waiting for the spray and foam to mold us
Into some deceptively quiet, and new formed patterns.
By David Ramati
The wind blows inward from
The churning, slowly freezing lake…forming
Soft-white ice against the drooping
Trees windblown through and through
Then…and there…and then again it’s
Always some new tomorrow, always new choices
Always the cold return of winter’s lost delights
As the frozen wind winds softly through the drooping trees…
There I stand with you, or at least your shadow,
Waiting, watching this strange happening and
Wondering why we are once again together, only half again,
Half what we used to be apart…
Only you’re dead…and I’m dead…and that
Great world of sadness left behind is like
A slowly rotting of sometime autumn long ago
Forgotten in some youthful frolic…
And you’re dead…and we’re dead…alone once more
Lost in our togetherness and standing by the lake…
waiting for the spray and foam to mold us
Into some deceptively quiet, and new formed patterns.
(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. He is also a weapons
expert and ceramic armor engineer, who has learned Kabbalah with
the famous Rabbi Ashleg, one of the most important Kabbalah
Masters of our time.)
fitter, welder, freelance writer, border patrol officer, US Marine in
Vietnam, and Israeli Defense Forces Officer. He is also a weapons
expert and ceramic armor engineer, who has learned Kabbalah with
the famous Rabbi Ashleg, one of the most important Kabbalah
Masters of our time.)
Cookout Embers
By Colleen M. Farrelly
Smoke circles upwards in small curlicues from
Grandpa’s grill as brats and hamburgers sizzle
and hiss, spilling their juices as they become
Memorial Day’s dinner, our epistles
to a family united. We sit down,
say grace, and dig into the feast. We drizzle
barbeque sauce, pickles, onions, and drown
our plates with potato salad and sauerkraut.
Nearby, Grandma sets freshly-baked, fudgy-brown
dessert, the perfect end to our meal, no doubt.
As we scarf down our dinner, a gentle breeze
rustles tree leaves, and the grill’s embers, about
to go out behind us as we eat, release
the last of their heat, puttering out with ease.
By Colleen M. Farrelly
Smoke circles upwards in small curlicues from
Grandpa’s grill as brats and hamburgers sizzle
and hiss, spilling their juices as they become
Memorial Day’s dinner, our epistles
to a family united. We sit down,
say grace, and dig into the feast. We drizzle
barbeque sauce, pickles, onions, and drown
our plates with potato salad and sauerkraut.
Nearby, Grandma sets freshly-baked, fudgy-brown
dessert, the perfect end to our meal, no doubt.
As we scarf down our dinner, a gentle breeze
rustles tree leaves, and the grill’s embers, about
to go out behind us as we eat, release
the last of their heat, puttering out with ease.
The Accident
By Colleen M. Farrelly
A jolt! a jerk! a violent lurch!
A metallic scratch! a deafening crack!
The world is a whirlpool of window and glass—
The pungent odor of petrol spilled—
The illusion of spinning,
My seat spiraling upward.
The world is closing in—
I’m drowning in a metallic sea.
Must…
Keep…
Focus—
Focus on,
on…
The roof!
The roof engulfing me,
strangling me,
crushing me…
Darkness encroaches.
Light fades away.
And all is still.
By Colleen M. Farrelly
A jolt! a jerk! a violent lurch!
A metallic scratch! a deafening crack!
The world is a whirlpool of window and glass—
The pungent odor of petrol spilled—
The illusion of spinning,
My seat spiraling upward.
The world is closing in—
I’m drowning in a metallic sea.
Must…
Keep…
Focus—
Focus on,
on…
The roof!
The roof engulfing me,
strangling me,
crushing me…
Darkness encroaches.
Light fades away.
And all is still.
Lake Michigan Nor’easter
By Colleen M. Farrelly
Waves crash over the
frozen shoreline’s banks, tossing
ice chunks onto piles,
creating winding cave systems
sheltered from frigid, whipping winds.
By Colleen M. Farrelly
Waves crash over the
frozen shoreline’s banks, tossing
ice chunks onto piles,
creating winding cave systems
sheltered from frigid, whipping winds.
Medical Examiner Case #73152
By Colleen M. Farrelly
On my gurney, he sleeps peacefully.
In life a young, haunted soldier, now he sleeps.
Beside his closed case file read carefully,
he sleeps.
Found beneath the bags and bottles, he sleeps
in an alley behind a club barely
an hour after expiring, here he sleeps.
Gone the pain, gone the struggle. Though only
twenty-eight, no one hears, and no one weeps.
Accidentally or intentionally,
now he sleeps.
By Colleen M. Farrelly
On my gurney, he sleeps peacefully.
In life a young, haunted soldier, now he sleeps.
Beside his closed case file read carefully,
he sleeps.
Found beneath the bags and bottles, he sleeps
in an alley behind a club barely
an hour after expiring, here he sleeps.
Gone the pain, gone the struggle. Though only
twenty-eight, no one hears, and no one weeps.
Accidentally or intentionally,
now he sleeps.
(Colleen M. Farrelly has been recently featured in Four and Twenty,
Vine Leaves Literary Journal, The Recusant, and RiverLit, among
others.)
Vine Leaves Literary Journal, The Recusant, and RiverLit, among
others.)
Christmas 2003
By Steven Fortney
I walk under this winter
sky in the delightful cold
with Orion at eight o’clock
in the southeastern verge,
I see the Christmas lights
that shine from inside our
house and that brightens
this quiet neighborhood,
truly, a festival of lights!
We have left a house full of
the noise of children, of the
bright wrappings of celebration
and an open table rich with
crown roast and rum pie. I know
that all children are tonight’s
sacred child, are Emmanuel,
not one more precious than
another. Not one less. I have
watched my children achieve
their own rich parenthood
and as my son and his wife
and their new child prepare
to drive to their own home,
as they leave I call out:
“Even in this time, this dark
night, we lead idyllic lives!”
My heart for our children
and their children is a rabbit
that leaps out and multiplies,
scatters over earthquakes,
fecund, holy, and ecstatic.
By Steven Fortney
I walk under this winter
sky in the delightful cold
with Orion at eight o’clock
in the southeastern verge,
I see the Christmas lights
that shine from inside our
house and that brightens
this quiet neighborhood,
truly, a festival of lights!
We have left a house full of
the noise of children, of the
bright wrappings of celebration
and an open table rich with
crown roast and rum pie. I know
that all children are tonight’s
sacred child, are Emmanuel,
not one more precious than
another. Not one less. I have
watched my children achieve
their own rich parenthood
and as my son and his wife
and their new child prepare
to drive to their own home,
as they leave I call out:
“Even in this time, this dark
night, we lead idyllic lives!”
My heart for our children
and their children is a rabbit
that leaps out and multiplies,
scatters over earthquakes,
fecund, holy, and ecstatic.
War
By David Ramati
I have lived…and died
And once again I am alive amid the
Wreckage of that human flesh which once
Was recognizable friends of mine.
Wretched survivors we,
Our lives spared to tell a tale
Of futility and regret as we
Men of courage and also cowards grow old together.
By David Ramati
I have lived…and died
And once again I am alive amid the
Wreckage of that human flesh which once
Was recognizable friends of mine.
Wretched survivors we,
Our lives spared to tell a tale
Of futility and regret as we
Men of courage and also cowards grow old together.
(photo by caleb dyer)
To check Steven Fortney's books,
go to:
http://stevenfortney.freeservers.com/
stevbks.htm
go to:
http://stevenfortney.freeservers.com/
stevbks.htm
A FACE
By Robert Bly
I don't know about this face. As Bill
Would say-it has handles, but what will
You do with it? It gets me into doctors'
Offices, and it helps on the passport,
But whose face is it?
I don't think it's me. It's some other person's
Face, whom I haven't met. We exchanged
Faces, long ago, when I decided on
The best way to be famous. I remember that day-
It was about noon.
And now I'm a kind of agent for
Myself-the best part of me, of course.
But my face is confused. "Do you love
Me?" it asks. I don't know about that-
Do I have to answer?
By Robert Bly
I don't know about this face. As Bill
Would say-it has handles, but what will
You do with it? It gets me into doctors'
Offices, and it helps on the passport,
But whose face is it?
I don't think it's me. It's some other person's
Face, whom I haven't met. We exchanged
Faces, long ago, when I decided on
The best way to be famous. I remember that day-
It was about noon.
And now I'm a kind of agent for
Myself-the best part of me, of course.
But my face is confused. "Do you love
Me?" it asks. I don't know about that-
Do I have to answer?
(Robert Bly is one of the most influential writers in America
over the last half century, publishing more than 50 books of
poetry, nonfiction, and translations. He is also a respected
editor, political activist, and cultural icon. Few writers have
ever had a greater impact on modern literature. The recipient
of the National Book Award, Mr. Bly lives in Minnesota.)
over the last half century, publishing more than 50 books of
poetry, nonfiction, and translations. He is also a respected
editor, political activist, and cultural icon. Few writers have
ever had a greater impact on modern literature. The recipient
of the National Book Award, Mr. Bly lives in Minnesota.)
NEW ORLEANS PARADES
By David Steingass
Mardi Gras lasts a full week, but the average is one parade every three days. The Boy
Who Won’t Play Fair runs continuously. No More Lunatic Republicans Forever is a
favorite. Our Dear Friend Dead of AIDS gathers one Monday morning a month at two-
fifteen in Harry’s Corner for the pre-march champagne toast. The Girl Who Got Away
appears in brunette, redhead, and Jolie Blon versions, especially for St. Patty’s Day, a
Roman spectacle for the bare-fanged coliseum crowds. Today she stands with tight
kinked Orphan Annie-hair and twirls strings of plastic beads from the upper deck of her
three-storey float. They settle like nooses around exposed necks paralyzed by the
spectacle. Irish potatoes also fall from her hands, with cabbage skulls big enough to kill
what they hit. When she shows her Spanish onions, promising to meet later in a fern
courtyard, you imagine her bare feet floating like mandolin notes along cool flagstone
paths. In the distance, ocean liner orchestras strike up fox trots for patrons in patent
leather shoes and white shirts too bright to look at. Blood’s mixed intensions hammer
skulls. An excitement difficult to describe fills the air. Applause crescendos as the ship’s
crew lowers rescue boats into the icy North Atlantic. The full spectacle sounds ready to
appear around the corner.
By David Steingass
Mardi Gras lasts a full week, but the average is one parade every three days. The Boy
Who Won’t Play Fair runs continuously. No More Lunatic Republicans Forever is a
favorite. Our Dear Friend Dead of AIDS gathers one Monday morning a month at two-
fifteen in Harry’s Corner for the pre-march champagne toast. The Girl Who Got Away
appears in brunette, redhead, and Jolie Blon versions, especially for St. Patty’s Day, a
Roman spectacle for the bare-fanged coliseum crowds. Today she stands with tight
kinked Orphan Annie-hair and twirls strings of plastic beads from the upper deck of her
three-storey float. They settle like nooses around exposed necks paralyzed by the
spectacle. Irish potatoes also fall from her hands, with cabbage skulls big enough to kill
what they hit. When she shows her Spanish onions, promising to meet later in a fern
courtyard, you imagine her bare feet floating like mandolin notes along cool flagstone
paths. In the distance, ocean liner orchestras strike up fox trots for patrons in patent
leather shoes and white shirts too bright to look at. Blood’s mixed intensions hammer
skulls. An excitement difficult to describe fills the air. Applause crescendos as the ship’s
crew lowers rescue boats into the icy North Atlantic. The full spectacle sounds ready to
appear around the corner.
(David Steingass is the author of
several books, including GreatPlains:
A Prairie Lovesong, Fishing For
Dynamite, and Body Compass.)
several books, including GreatPlains:
A Prairie Lovesong, Fishing For
Dynamite, and Body Compass.)
Upon Leaving the Party, After Talking for Hours
By Kristin Spooner
I couldn’t look at you
when I hugged you good-bye
wishing my puffy coat
was not yet on
so that I could’ve actually felt
what our first hug was.
But the coat was already on,
Snug, zipped, a shelter,
So I just hugged you good-bye
when I should have stayed
or asked you to walk me to my car.
or at least had the courage
to take off the coat, to feel
the first hints of the shape
of your body.
And if I had done any of those things,
we might have held hands,
and then we perhaps would have kissed, and
I might’ve even said, “I think
I could love you someday”
and you might’ve said, “I think
I could love you someday, too.”
And then
we would have kissed again
and said good-bye,
all the while knowing
that it was really only the beginning.
But instead
I just hugged you good-bye
and couldn’t look at your face.
And my coat was so thick
but as I walked to my car
in the darkest winter air
I was shaking.
By Kristin Spooner
I couldn’t look at you
when I hugged you good-bye
wishing my puffy coat
was not yet on
so that I could’ve actually felt
what our first hug was.
But the coat was already on,
Snug, zipped, a shelter,
So I just hugged you good-bye
when I should have stayed
or asked you to walk me to my car.
or at least had the courage
to take off the coat, to feel
the first hints of the shape
of your body.
And if I had done any of those things,
we might have held hands,
and then we perhaps would have kissed, and
I might’ve even said, “I think
I could love you someday”
and you might’ve said, “I think
I could love you someday, too.”
And then
we would have kissed again
and said good-bye,
all the while knowing
that it was really only the beginning.
But instead
I just hugged you good-bye
and couldn’t look at your face.
And my coat was so thick
but as I walked to my car
in the darkest winter air
I was shaking.
(Kristin Spooner teachers high
school English in the Chicago area.)
school English in the Chicago area.)
RAIN
By Kaitlyn L. Dulfer
Mischievous smirks that turn to smiles and sprints, a shared escape to the joyful abandonment
of drops that hit so hard they bounce back.
A car ride, somber words followed by a screaming silence
and a darkness so heavy it has to fall.
White luxury, the scent of tea, sand trickling off - a place of peace and of breath so deep it can only come
from washing off a long day in the sun.
A slow image of dancing, turning, arms outstretched, smiles wide, joy so big it threatens to burst,
a rain so hard that bones and blacktop get soft.
A pain that has to be held to keep from breaking while the sun comes up
and branching tracks make their way down the glass.
The tentative steps back to the arms of a loving Father after a long time away,
a welcome, wet sting that never felt so good.
A commonality connecting a string of separate significants
By Kaitlyn L. Dulfer
Mischievous smirks that turn to smiles and sprints, a shared escape to the joyful abandonment
of drops that hit so hard they bounce back.
A car ride, somber words followed by a screaming silence
and a darkness so heavy it has to fall.
White luxury, the scent of tea, sand trickling off - a place of peace and of breath so deep it can only come
from washing off a long day in the sun.
A slow image of dancing, turning, arms outstretched, smiles wide, joy so big it threatens to burst,
a rain so hard that bones and blacktop get soft.
A pain that has to be held to keep from breaking while the sun comes up
and branching tracks make their way down the glass.
The tentative steps back to the arms of a loving Father after a long time away,
a welcome, wet sting that never felt so good.
A commonality connecting a string of separate significants
(Kaitlyn Dulfer is a student
at the University of Illinois
in Champaign.)
at the University of Illinois
in Champaign.)
PANDA BEAR
Michael Keshigian
Because he was terrified of loneliness,
he granted me life
and the ability to share with him
what little time he had remaining.
I placated his hours of isolation.
With no mobility,
he carried me everywhere,
onto the veranda with its view of the lake
on most sunny days
and nightly, in front of the television.
I could hear him limping
as he approached from the hall,
his gait, a telltale sign of concern.
Will he discuss his wife’s departure
or the considerable ineptitude
of political leaders?
Neighbors never visited,
they thought him odd, reclusive,
yet I know he would have welcomed
even the most abbreviated conversation.
No one complained about him,
he once entered a burning house
across the street
to save the wailing dog,
observation, his forte,
he knew no one was home.
The woman, living there,
who sobbed incessantly,
occasionally waved as she pulled
from out her driveway.
These midnight thoughts
are my only escape
from his ceaseless chatter.
I stare at him as he sleeps.
In the morning, he will open the blinds
and the sun will continue to melt
my button black eyes to a faded gray.
How I envy him. I yearn for eyelids
and a single night of obscurity.
Michael Keshigian
Because he was terrified of loneliness,
he granted me life
and the ability to share with him
what little time he had remaining.
I placated his hours of isolation.
With no mobility,
he carried me everywhere,
onto the veranda with its view of the lake
on most sunny days
and nightly, in front of the television.
I could hear him limping
as he approached from the hall,
his gait, a telltale sign of concern.
Will he discuss his wife’s departure
or the considerable ineptitude
of political leaders?
Neighbors never visited,
they thought him odd, reclusive,
yet I know he would have welcomed
even the most abbreviated conversation.
No one complained about him,
he once entered a burning house
across the street
to save the wailing dog,
observation, his forte,
he knew no one was home.
The woman, living there,
who sobbed incessantly,
occasionally waved as she pulled
from out her driveway.
These midnight thoughts
are my only escape
from his ceaseless chatter.
I stare at him as he sleeps.
In the morning, he will open the blinds
and the sun will continue to melt
my button black eyes to a faded gray.
How I envy him. I yearn for eyelids
and a single night of obscurity.
HOARDING LIFE
Michael Keshigian
His home was full of collectibles,
paintings, books, crafts,
possessing various degrees
of monetary worth and desirability,
yet what he cherished most
were items of menial worth
but considerable sentimentality,
items that pulled him back in time,
a large coffee can
he painted green for his
three year old son for gathering rocks,
elementary songbooks,
a dilapidated grandfather’s
rocking chair, springs so rusty
they would snap if weighted upon,
the old Doberman’s chew toy,
his father’s tools,
buildup from previous generations
he hopes his children
will have the courage to discard
as he did with little thought
with his mother-in-law’s mementos
when his wife
was lost in remembrance,
grasping old photographs
and birthday cards
she once sent with our children’s
infant signatures attached.
Michael Keshigian
His home was full of collectibles,
paintings, books, crafts,
possessing various degrees
of monetary worth and desirability,
yet what he cherished most
were items of menial worth
but considerable sentimentality,
items that pulled him back in time,
a large coffee can
he painted green for his
three year old son for gathering rocks,
elementary songbooks,
a dilapidated grandfather’s
rocking chair, springs so rusty
they would snap if weighted upon,
the old Doberman’s chew toy,
his father’s tools,
buildup from previous generations
he hopes his children
will have the courage to discard
as he did with little thought
with his mother-in-law’s mementos
when his wife
was lost in remembrance,
grasping old photographs
and birthday cards
she once sent with our children’s
infant signatures attached.
(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)