The scythe rests against the wall
along with forgotten jackets
and a riding helmet last worn
when she was interested.
Dust has painted all we know
in the hall. Bird food slips
out of a hole in a bag. Nails
and screws, taken out but never
used, wait to punch and turn.
A pair of gloves wrinkle like skin,
haven’t pulled a weed in months.
The hallway is the back alley
of the house, like the brain,
where you leave certain things.
And hope they fade away.
Gareth Culshaw lives in Wales. His first collection will be published by FutureCycle Press in 2018.
Sunday, October 29, 2017
Thursday, October 19, 2017
Plymouth Rock by Sarah Henry
The rock is ten
tons of granite.
I saw it years ago
and figured out
the story--
the pilgrims hustled
down a gangplank
from the Mayflower
and landed on the rock.
They schmoozed
the Indians and made
Thanksgiving dinner
without electricity.
They couldn’t
flick a switch
as we do.
We spend
Thanksgiving
watching football
on TV
and eating turkey
from a store.
We can google
Plymouth Rock
and get a surprise:
historically,
the pilgrims didn’t
land there at all.
Sarah Henry's poems have appeared in the Pittsburgh Post-Gazette, the Pittsburgh Poetry Review, Soundings East, The Hollins Critic and many other journals, as well as six anthologies. CheapPop and Donut Factory featured her humorous prose.
tons of granite.
I saw it years ago
and figured out
the story--
the pilgrims hustled
down a gangplank
from the Mayflower
and landed on the rock.
They schmoozed
the Indians and made
Thanksgiving dinner
without electricity.
They couldn’t
flick a switch
as we do.
We spend
Thanksgiving
watching football
on TV
and eating turkey
from a store.
We can google
Plymouth Rock
and get a surprise:
historically,
the pilgrims didn’t
land there at all.
Sarah Henry's poems have appeared in the Pittsburgh Post-Gazette, the Pittsburgh Poetry Review, Soundings East, The Hollins Critic and many other journals, as well as six anthologies. CheapPop and Donut Factory featured her humorous prose.
Thursday, October 12, 2017
knock at the door by Justin Hyde
farro
boiling on the stove
large
handsome man
blue slacks
widow’s peak
my eyes
find his eyes
they find
the ground
his eyes again
please
don’t take my wife
from me
his adam’s apple
moves up
it moves
down
my hands
find the
front of my jeans
find each other
calluses like
muted pyramids
he turns
& walks away.
Justin Hyde's books and other poems can be found here: http://poets.nyq.org/poet/justinhyde.
boiling on the stove
large
handsome man
blue slacks
widow’s peak
my eyes
find his eyes
they find
the ground
his eyes again
please
don’t take my wife
from me
his adam’s apple
moves up
it moves
down
my hands
find the
front of my jeans
find each other
calluses like
muted pyramids
he turns
& walks away.
Justin Hyde's books and other poems can be found here: http://poets.nyq.org/poet/justinhyde.
Tuesday, October 10, 2017
Nocturne by Steve Klepetar
The sun has turned away.
Now comes a season of tall corn
browning in fields, and darkness
dropping earlier each day.
Nobody sleeps on the beaches,
and wind cuts through the hills.
Dark valleys echo with sound.
By now, all the doors have closed.
Through windows, faint blue
ghosts of TV light.
There’s a walker in the chill.
Leaves swirl at his feet
as he steps across the bridge,
water below black and heavy as lead.
Steve Klepetar lives in Saint Cloud, Minnesota. His work has appeared widely in the U.S. and abroad, and has received several nominations for Best of the Net and the Pushcart Prize, including four in 2016. Recent collections include: “A Landscape in Hell;” “Family Reunion;” and “How Fascism Comes to America.”
Now comes a season of tall corn
browning in fields, and darkness
dropping earlier each day.
Nobody sleeps on the beaches,
and wind cuts through the hills.
Dark valleys echo with sound.
By now, all the doors have closed.
Through windows, faint blue
ghosts of TV light.
There’s a walker in the chill.
Leaves swirl at his feet
as he steps across the bridge,
water below black and heavy as lead.
Steve Klepetar lives in Saint Cloud, Minnesota. His work has appeared widely in the U.S. and abroad, and has received several nominations for Best of the Net and the Pushcart Prize, including four in 2016. Recent collections include: “A Landscape in Hell;” “Family Reunion;” and “How Fascism Comes to America.”
Friday, October 6, 2017
Friday by Ronald Moran
is the prelude for a widow's weekend of long,
quiet days,
like Saturday, with couples coupling all day
in or out
of the suburbs, holding hands on walks around
the block
in warm weather, or planting, harvesting, raking,
bagging,
or just sharing the same air indoors on a couch,
like Sunday,
sitting alone in a pew, still grieving the loss
of her spouse,
or maybe she's saving a place for someone
to share
a hymnal, to lean easily against a shoulder
again.
Ronald Moran has poems in current or forthcoming issues of Asheville Poetry Review, Southern Poetry Review, and Tar River Poetry. In March he was inducted into Clemson University’s CAAH Hall of Fame.
quiet days,
like Saturday, with couples coupling all day
in or out
of the suburbs, holding hands on walks around
the block
in warm weather, or planting, harvesting, raking,
bagging,
or just sharing the same air indoors on a couch,
like Sunday,
sitting alone in a pew, still grieving the loss
of her spouse,
or maybe she's saving a place for someone
to share
a hymnal, to lean easily against a shoulder
again.
Ronald Moran has poems in current or forthcoming issues of Asheville Poetry Review, Southern Poetry Review, and Tar River Poetry. In March he was inducted into Clemson University’s CAAH Hall of Fame.
Wednesday, October 4, 2017
Waiting by Martha Christina
What’s your name?
the woman beside me asks.
We’re each waiting
for a bus in this small town’s
gift shop and bus stop. We’re
standing next to a display
of plastic bears clasping
painted hearts: female
names from Ann to Zoe.
Before I can answer,
she says hers is Linda,
. . .but the Ls are all gone.
She tells me how long she’s lived
in this town I’m just passing through;
where she works, how many years
she’s worked there, and that she has
the weekend off. She tells me
her coat is new, and she hasn’t
put the hood up because
it knocks her earmuffs off.
She tells me she has a cat: black
and white. His name is Kitty
but there’s only Kathy and besides
he’s a boy and besides he wouldn’t
like a bear and besides he can’t read.
She tells me she likes the bus,
takes it every Friday to a dance
two towns away where
friends will meet her,
and bring her home.
When her bus pulls up,
she claps her hands,
gives the driver her ticket,
asks his name, and if he
remembers her. He nods,
smiles a kind smile.
She waves as her bus
pulls away, leaving me
still, unnamed.
Martha Christina is a frequent contributor to Brevities. Longer work appears in Innisfree Poetry Journal, Naugatuck River Review, earlier postings of Red Eft Review, and most recently in the anthology Ice Cream Poems from World Enough Writers. She has published two collections: Staying Found (Fleur-de-lis Press) and Against Detachment (Pecan Grove Press).
the woman beside me asks.
We’re each waiting
for a bus in this small town’s
gift shop and bus stop. We’re
standing next to a display
of plastic bears clasping
painted hearts: female
names from Ann to Zoe.
Before I can answer,
she says hers is Linda,
. . .but the Ls are all gone.
She tells me how long she’s lived
in this town I’m just passing through;
where she works, how many years
she’s worked there, and that she has
the weekend off. She tells me
her coat is new, and she hasn’t
put the hood up because
it knocks her earmuffs off.
She tells me she has a cat: black
and white. His name is Kitty
but there’s only Kathy and besides
he’s a boy and besides he wouldn’t
like a bear and besides he can’t read.
She tells me she likes the bus,
takes it every Friday to a dance
two towns away where
friends will meet her,
and bring her home.
When her bus pulls up,
she claps her hands,
gives the driver her ticket,
asks his name, and if he
remembers her. He nods,
smiles a kind smile.
She waves as her bus
pulls away, leaving me
still, unnamed.
Martha Christina is a frequent contributor to Brevities. Longer work appears in Innisfree Poetry Journal, Naugatuck River Review, earlier postings of Red Eft Review, and most recently in the anthology Ice Cream Poems from World Enough Writers. She has published two collections: Staying Found (Fleur-de-lis Press) and Against Detachment (Pecan Grove Press).
Tuesday, October 3, 2017
Outside of Eastham by Martha Christina
1
a digital sign alerts drivers:
CONTROLLED
BURN AHEAD
2
The firefighter
directing traffic
waves us on. “No
worries,” she says,
smiling, “Everything’s
under control.”
3
Smoke drifts
across the road.
Memory follows.
4
My mother
at flash point. . .
with access
to matches.
Martha Christina is a frequent contributor to Brevities. Longer work appears in Innisfree Poetry Journal, Naugatuck River Review, earlier postings of Red Eft Review, and most recently in the anthology Ice Cream Poems from World Enough Writers. She has published two collections: Staying Found (Fleur-de-lis Press) and Against Detachment (Pecan Grove Press).
a digital sign alerts drivers:
CONTROLLED
BURN AHEAD
2
The firefighter
directing traffic
waves us on. “No
worries,” she says,
smiling, “Everything’s
under control.”
3
Smoke drifts
across the road.
Memory follows.
4
My mother
at flash point. . .
with access
to matches.
Martha Christina is a frequent contributor to Brevities. Longer work appears in Innisfree Poetry Journal, Naugatuck River Review, earlier postings of Red Eft Review, and most recently in the anthology Ice Cream Poems from World Enough Writers. She has published two collections: Staying Found (Fleur-de-lis Press) and Against Detachment (Pecan Grove Press).
Monday, October 2, 2017
A New Song at Stop & Shop by Martha Christina
2008
The young clerk at register 3
counts herself among
the lucky ones: working
in a resort town, plenty
to eat, money to send home.
She sings and sways
as the conveyor belt
presents its bounty: Over. . .
running over. . . .My cup
is full and running over.
2017
She keeps
her H2B visa
on her person.
Going to work,
at work,
coming home,
she keeps
quiet.
Martha Christina is a frequent contributor to Brevities. Longer work appears in Innisfree Poetry Journal, Naugatuck River Review, earlier postings of Red Eft Review, and most recently in the anthology Ice Cream Poems from World Enough Writers. She has published two collections: Staying Found (Fleur-de-lis Press) and Against Detachment (Pecan Grove Press).
The young clerk at register 3
counts herself among
the lucky ones: working
in a resort town, plenty
to eat, money to send home.
She sings and sways
as the conveyor belt
presents its bounty: Over. . .
running over. . . .My cup
is full and running over.
2017
She keeps
her H2B visa
on her person.
Going to work,
at work,
coming home,
she keeps
quiet.
Martha Christina is a frequent contributor to Brevities. Longer work appears in Innisfree Poetry Journal, Naugatuck River Review, earlier postings of Red Eft Review, and most recently in the anthology Ice Cream Poems from World Enough Writers. She has published two collections: Staying Found (Fleur-de-lis Press) and Against Detachment (Pecan Grove Press).
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)