Homeless Man in Downtown Cheyenne by Sheryl L. Nelms

head
protected

by a red
motorcycle helmet

he sports

a ragged plaid shirt
cutoff jeans

and orange
flip flops

while balancing
a backpack

holding a silver
baseball bat

that threatens
invaders

of his space



Sheryl L. Nelms is from Marysville, Kansas. She graduated from South Dakota State University. She has had over 5,000 articles, stories and poems published, including fourteen individual collections of her poems*. She is a three time Pushcart Prize nominee.

*For a longer list of credits, visit http://www.pw.org/content/sheryl_l_nelms.

Catalpa Beans by Sheryl L. Nelms

hang
from the

leafless branches

in slim bunches
of brown

rattled
by the wind

they
sound

like dry
bones

bumping



Sheryl L. Nelms is from Marysville, Kansas. She graduated from South Dakota State University. She has had over 5,000 articles, stories and poems published, including fourteen individual collections of her poems*. She is a three time Pushcart Prize nominee.

*For a longer list of credits, visit http://www.pw.org/content/sheryl_l_nelms.

Keep by Claire Hersom

          - for Beulah and John

The window panes
are small and dry,
with a bubble or two,
corners chipped, but sturdy.
Through them is the other side,
a world away.

Keep busy.
Know what the words coming
will be made of.

Keep moving.
Make sure there's
a place to sit, hang your coat,
a plain wall for photos,
and a wood stove to warm
aching hands.
Move the rocker, face
a view of flowers,
and, if you can, birds
at a feeder.

Keep your eye on the sun.
It appears behind the pines
each morning to engage
with the world as it is,
no complaint.



Claire Hersom’s work has appeared in several poetry journals including Yankee Magazine’s New England Memories. In 2012, her book Drowning: A Poetic Memoir (Moon Pie Press, Westbrook, ME, 2008) was supplemental text for the University of Maine’s Rockland campus. Claire serves on the Board of Directors for Maine Equal Justice Partners, a non-profit organization dedicated to finding legislative solutions to poverty in Maine.

Haiku for the Hospice Thrift Store by Jane Vincent Taylor

Dainty handkerchiefs

once secured upon our heads at Mass

girls with no hats

 

small cut glass bowls

we dug out of oatmeal boxes

almost weevil poor

 

a beaded party purse

to carry cigarettes and mints

smells lindy like

 

a pile of vinyl

thirty-threes and forty-fives

black and groovy

 

in a velvet box

like my own old diamond ring

leftover fireworks

 

 

 

Jane Vincent Taylor is a poet who lives in Oklahoma City and teaches creative writing at Ghost Ranch in New Mexico. Website: janevincenttaylor.blogspot.com.

Housekeeping by Jane Vincent Taylor

Hanging curtains, polishing mirrors, separating rooms from other rooms
          that can't be eaten in, dusting,
          fluffing pillows, whitening grout, these
          are not the domestic arts I can claim to know.
Under the sink I might as well have only my grandma's Babo,
          a jug of bleach, Dawn, Brillo pads.

House, I regret I cannot keep you polished, stylish, fit
          and congruent of aesthetic.
Now I'm banging another nail into the fading lemon yellow wall
          to hang my mother's Mexican landscape.

Sandy soil and cactus are about to blow into our rooms.
The sun is rising over an ancient mesa. Maybe
I should find a broom and be the old woman
          sweeping back the desert at the threshold of adobe.
Some days my mother, too, threw off chores to paint a picture.



Jane Vincent Taylor is a poet who lives in Oklahoma City and teaches creative writing at Ghost Ranch in New Mexico. Website: janevincenttaylor.blogspot.com.

Reading a Coworker's Obituary by Corey D. Cook

She answered the phone
for six months or so
before being asked to leave,
she answered the phone breathlessly,
always breathlessly,
& tried to direct calls,
tried to take messages.

She left patients on hold
far too long
& unknowingly hung up
on others.

She left messages on your desk
& the caller’s name
would be spelled wrong,
or the phone number
would be missing a digit,
or the piece of paper
would have Coke stains on it.

She spoke of her dog,
her dog that slept in bed with her,
snarled at the maintenance man.

She died in her apartment
& you know her dog nudged her,
howled at the door
& she would have dutifully responded,
if only she could.



First published in ugly cousin



Corey D. Cook works at a hospital in New Hampshire and lives in Vermont. He edits Red Eft Review.