After All, They’re Only Things by Rose Mary Boehm

I always passed that shop window
on my way to work—
my first job as a married mother of two.

Earthenware at its finest:
a decorative bowl with pulled-up edges,
a carafe with a round belly, an abstract
design covering their surfaces.
Slick.
Painted in a fat yellow,
a summer sky blue,
a bright but gentle red,
and some almost black lines
offsetting the colour fest.

This boldness would be perfect
in the reception area in our house,
a focal point of exuberance and joy,
perfect for the middle of that old round mahogany
table with the loose leg given to me by a friend
in the old days, at a time when I had not even a bed
in my new flat.

With my first paycheck I finally bought
the coveted items from the knick-knack shop,
and delighted at the perfect match.

I am not sure what it was that produced
his ire. But one day soon after showing
my pleasure—during a somewhat heated
argument—he looked into my eyes,
no, not a cold stare,
more a look of deep satisfaction,
then he took both bowl and jug into his hands,
holding them aloft over the hard-wood floor,
the knuckles white.
Then he opened his big hands.
Slowly.



Rose Mary Boehm is a German-born British national living and writing in Lima, Peru, and author of two novels as well as eight poetry collections. Her poetry has been published widely in mostly US poetry reviews (online and print). She was several times nominated for a ‘Pushcart’ and ‘Best of Net’. Her eighth book, LIFE STUFF, has been published by Kelsay Books (November 2023). A new MS is in the works. https://www.rose-mary-boehm-poet.com/

Breaking Even by Steve Klepetar

I drive home from the casino, having almost broken
even at blackjack, having overeaten at the buffet.

The air conditioning blasts on high and everyone is cold.
All around us the air vibrates with disease.

Someone coughs as the van hurtles through the night.
We have come to the old sign begging us to “Drive Careful!”

and I will. I slow down as the road curves downhill, past
the dangerous crossing, where an open field ends in a pretty pond.

We get out, stand on the little foot bridge.
Lightning bugs plunge toward the water in a fiery dance.



Steve Klepetar lives in the Berkshires in Massachusetts. He is on the editorial board of Right Hand Pointing and Verse-Virtual.

Anne Boleyn - Second wife of Henry VIII (died 5-9-1536) by Richard Weaver

Her last
words
spoken
from
the Tower:
"The
executioner
is,
I
believe,
very
expert,
and
my
neck
is
very
slender."
But not
as slender
as the
blade’s
shining edge.



*From the author's series on the final words of persons of historical note



Richard Weaver continues as the official writer-in-residence at the James Joyce Pub, though he splits time with Hooley’s Public House in San Diego.

Jaroslav Hašek (died 1/3/1923) by Richard Weaver

          (The Fate of the Good Soldier Švejk)

The road lengthens. Death never seems near enough.
The wind points its cold finger at me, acknowledging
my existence. But you, my countryman, see me as the Other.
A presence best buried in the marshes. The frozen regions.
The places where no one ever looks. I’m only dying
naturally, and cannot claim to be surprised that Death has
arrived with a poorly printed invitation in hand. If I could read it,
assuming it was legible, I might accept. But for now I choose
to ignore the typography and arrogance. A man can die his way.
No one, not even Death, can dictate otherwise. Our lives are ours.
Therefore, I will die when and where and how I decide. I choose
to die numb. Vodka is good. An easy favorite. The local choice.
Red wine is nice. Symbolically appropriate. But brandy, if handy,
is better than the rest. I will not be denied this death wish. I am
entitled. Military regulations require “one for the road,” and we all
know what that means. I said earlier something about a long road.
It’s shorter now, the road that is, was my life. Humor a good soldier.
“Give me the brandy! No? You are cheating me!”



*From the author's series on the final words of persons of historical note

Richard Weaver continues as the official writer-in-residence at the James Joyce Pub, though he splits time with Hooley’s Public House in San Diego.