tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-63972195275729497332024-03-19T01:56:13.100-07:00Red Eft ReviewRed Eft Review is an online publication dedicated to down-to-earth poetry.Red Eft Revewhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09971640500128801389noreply@blogger.comBlogger1132125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6397219527572949733.post-45911198710617909942024-03-16T05:55:00.000-07:002024-03-16T05:55:37.955-07:00Marking Time by Howie Good<span style="font-family: inherit;">Almost the first thing I do in the morning<br />is take a bunch of pills, usually with my coffee,<br />but sometimes with the sordid remains<br />of a glass of wine from the night before.<br />Back in the fall, I had cancer surgery,<br />followed by thirty sessions of radiation.<br />My skin cracked and peeled like old paint<br />and my bones turned strangely rubbery.<br />Now every three months I must drive<br />into Boston from the South Shore<br />for a precautionary CAT scan of my chest<br />and abdomen. Parking is impossible.<br />The hospital buildings are topped<br />by coils of razor wire. And I’m still dying. <br /><br /><br /><br />Howie Good co-edits the online journal <i>UnLost,</i> dedicated to found poetry.</span>Red Eft Revewhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09971640500128801389noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6397219527572949733.post-25088184144239129372024-03-14T14:46:00.000-07:002024-03-14T14:46:21.745-07:00Emergence by Sarah Russell<span style="font-family: inherit;">Today I saw a single silky thread from aspen <br />to eaves. I traced it and watched a spider, <br />backlit by the sun, weaving precise gossamer <br />tendrils, interconnected. There’s a new hatch <br />of dragonflies at our pond, the final leg <br />of a year’s journey from egg to nymph to adult. <br />It’s called Emergence—their last, fruitful days.<br />It’s what I feel after 80 years—an emergence <br />of days, of seasons, each one savored,<br />and family—eggs, nymphs, adults—the intricacy <br />of webs and silken threads.<br /><br /><br /><br />Sarah Russell’s poetry has been published in <i>Rattle, Misfit Magazine, Red Eft Review,</i> and <i>Third Wednesday.</i> She is a Pushcart Prize and Best of the Net nominee. She has two poetry collections, <u>I lost summer somewhere</u> and <u>Today and Other Seasons</u> (Kelsay Books). She blogs at <a href="https://sarahrussellpoetry.net/">https://SarahRussellPoetry.net</a></span>Red Eft Revewhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09971640500128801389noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6397219527572949733.post-35866655723070322762024-03-13T14:42:00.000-07:002024-03-13T14:42:36.606-07:00Autumn by Sarah Russell<span style="font-family: inherit;">Sugar maples are the first to turn,<br />mottled orange and scarlet with the green,<br />trying on the season. I need a sweater<br />now for morning walks.<br /><br />The geese abandon summer ponds<br />in keening, migrant skeins to follow<br />shorelines south.<br /><br />In twilight, remnant fireflies<br />glint urgent calls to mate, hopeful,<br />as we are, for one last tryst<br />before winter.<br /><br /><br /><br />Sarah Russell’s poetry has been published in <i>Rattle, Misfit Magazine, Red Eft Review,</i> and <i>Third Wednesday.</i> She is a Pushcart Prize and Best of the Net nominee. She has two poetry collections, <u>I lost summer somewhere</u> and <u>Today and Other Seasons</u> (Kelsay Books). She blogs at <a href="https://sarahrussellpoetry.net/">https://SarahRussellPoetry.net</a></span>Red Eft Revewhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09971640500128801389noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6397219527572949733.post-36986973929859211342024-03-12T15:13:00.000-07:002024-03-12T15:13:55.489-07:00Ode to My Purse by Sarah Russell<span style="font-family: inherit;">The one that’s 10 years old —<br />its leather soiled and supple,<br />lining grayed by a thousand<br />ins and outs of billfolds, keys,<br />candy. The purse fits me,<br /><br />softening with use, sagging<br />into the middle of itself, scarred<br />by day to day, but refusing<br />to concede to age, zippers<br />still meshing, handle still<br />carrying its weight, stitching<br />still strong.<br /><br /><br /><br />Sarah Russell’s poetry has been published in<i> Rattle, Misfit Magazine, Red Eft Review,</i> and <i>Third Wednesday.</i> She is a Pushcart Prize and Best of the Net nominee. She has two poetry collections, <u>I lost summer somewhere</u> and <u>Today and Other Seasons</u> (Kelsay Books). She blogs at <a href="https://sarahrussellpoetry.net/">https://SarahRussellPoetry.net</a></span>Red Eft Revewhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09971640500128801389noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6397219527572949733.post-70785592657358008552024-03-06T14:20:00.000-08:002024-03-06T14:20:03.767-08:00Textures by Ahrend Torrey<span style="font-family: inherit;">Do we only live when the big promotion is given? <br /><br />Do we only live when the awful day comes, and the ambulance arrives, <br />and everyone’s gathered around our loved one? <br /><br />Do we only live on exciting vacations to foreign countries?<br /><br /> Or <br /><br />do we also live when we don’t realize we’re living at all—between <br />big memories? <br /><br />—Like now, Deek and Dova are tearing up the grass, <br />are chasing each other’s tail, <br /><br />and Purl (my cat) is peering up the storm door <br />at a tree frog <br />stuck to the glass. <br /><br />My husband just stepped from his office: we ate hummus together, <br />during his fifteen-minute /break/ from class. <br /><br />Do these textures also make up living? Of course, <br />let us feel them—<br /><br />I’m learning they’re quickest to wear away.<br />They never last.<br /><br /><br /><br />Ahrend Torrey is the author of <u>Ripples</u> (Pinyon Publishing, 2023), <u>Bird City, American Eye</u> (Pinyon Publishing, 2022) and <u>Small Blue Harbor</u> (Poetry Box Select, 2019). His work has appeared in <i>storySouth, The Greensboro Review,</i> and <i>The Perch</i> (a journal of the Yale Program for Recovery and Community Health, a program of the Yale School of Medicine), among others. He earned his MA/MFA in creative writing from Wilkes University in Wilkes-Barre, Pennsylvania, and is a recipient of the Etruscan Prize awarded by Etruscan Press. He lives in Chicago with his husband Jonathan, their two rat terriers Dichter and Dova, and Purl their cat.</span>Red Eft Revewhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09971640500128801389noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6397219527572949733.post-2102969796123957382024-03-05T18:14:00.000-08:002024-03-05T18:14:26.603-08:00The End is Music by A.R. Williams<span style="font-family: inherit;">Cascading water pours over<br />rocks vested in <br />moss, whispering to me<br />like a mother soothing her child. <br /><br />At a distance,<br />a visitor crunches through the underbrush<br />as the rain’s rhythmic<br />clattering swells. Suddenly, a<br />croaking frog calls to me like the town crier,<br />heralding the arrival of night break. <br /><br />Reclining in wooded solitude, <br />I end the day<br />with nature's symphony.<br /><br /><br /><br />A.R. Williams is the author of <u>A Funeral in the Wild</u> (Kelsay Books, 2024) and editor of <i>East Ridge Review.</i></span>Red Eft Revewhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09971640500128801389noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6397219527572949733.post-47122862639171398482024-03-04T14:58:00.000-08:002024-03-04T14:58:28.195-08:00Gratitude List #48 by Ace Boggess<span style="font-family: inherit;">Forgive me when I praise my wealth<br />of aspects not yet praised:<br /><br />aches in back, ankles, knees<br />of which I complain<br />to have something to say<br />when conversations come to me;<br /><br />the tornado that leapt me,<br />a last-minute pardon,<br />its straight-line downdrafts<br />painting a swirling mural<br />of muted colors;<br /><br />all advances I missed<br />while locked in a cell<br />so I stepped from that time machine<br />into a shocking future of fascination;<br /><br />the comets hidden by city clouds;<br /><br />the women & men I didn’t love<br />while too afraid of their touch I craved.<br /><br />Praise my pain & fear.<br />Praise absences, no-<br />second-chances.<br />Praise cuisines I’ve never tasted.<br />Praise suffering & praise contempt.<br /><br />Not once have I praised my awfulness.<br />I praise it now & know this brings me peace.<br /><br /><br /><br />Ace Boggess is author of six books of poetry, most recently <u>Escape Envy</u>. His writing has appeared in <i>Indiana Review, Michigan Quarterly Review, Notre Dame Review, Hanging Loose,</i> and other journals. An ex-con, he lives in Charleston, West Virginia, where he writes and tries to stay out of trouble. His seventh collection, <u>Tell Us How to Live</u>, is forthcoming in 2024 from Fernwood Press.</span>Red Eft Revewhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09971640500128801389noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6397219527572949733.post-45720603366261993322024-03-03T13:55:00.000-08:002024-03-03T13:55:39.181-08:00With Six Grandsons Behind the Wheel by Sharon Waller Knutson<span style="font-family: inherit;">The call we fear<br />we're going to get comes<br />while we’re eating<br />popcorn and watching<br />television in the evening.<br /><br />It’s our oldest son<br />who just turned fifty.<br />I hear sadness<br />in his voice<br />and clutch my cell<br />phone like a raft.<br /><br />I gasp for air<br />as he speaks<br />of a car collision,<br />our second oldest<br />grandson in a coma<br />in an ICU, a machine<br />breathing for him.<br /><br />I see the baby<br />with chubby cheeks<br />and curls turn into<br />a tall twenty-five-<br />year-old reciting<br />his vows in a suit<br />just three months ago.<br /><br /><i>My heart is broken,</i><br />I say as my son<br />and his father go silent.<br />I wish I could<br />change places with him.<br />But all I can do is wait.<br /><br />On his fifth day in the ICU,<br />we get another call.<br />This time his mother<br />shouts, <i>He’s breathing<br />on his own and opened<br />one eye and said,<br />What’s up Mama?</i><br /><br /><br /><br />Sharon Waller Knutson has been nominated for a Pushcart Prize and Best of the Net. She has published 12 books of poetry, including the most recent, <u>The Leading Ladies of My Life</u> (Cyberwit 2023) and its sequel, <u>My Grandfather is a Cowboy</u> (Cyberwit 2024.) She has published 1,000 poems in more than 60 publications. She is the editor of <i>Storyteller Poetry Review </i>and lives in Arizona.</span>Red Eft Revewhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09971640500128801389noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6397219527572949733.post-28399955390746357882024-02-19T18:03:00.000-08:002024-02-19T18:03:33.128-08:00When We Were Younger by Martha Christina<span style="font-family: inherit;"><i>I’m beginning to shuffle,</i><br />my older sister says in<br />our weekly long distance<br />phone call. <i>Remember <br />how Mom always yelled<br />‘pick up your feet’<br />as we ran to get away <br />from her, and ‘stand up <br />straight’ each time she <br />caught us slouching?</i><br /><br />We reminisce about how <br />straight our mother stood, <br />her back like a ramrod. We <br />remember her quick temper, <br />sweetened by a surprise dessert <br />after a day filled with scolding.<br /><br />Neither of us speaks of<br />our mother’s own eventual<br />shuffling and slouching,<br />nor the silence she chose <br />when we visited, no longer <br />recognized; instead, we <br />agree on her quick-tempered <br />young self, her posture, her <br />scolding, her excellent pudding.<br /><br /><br /><br />Martha Christina has published two collections: <u>Staying Found </u>(Fleur-de-lis Press) and <u>Against Detachment</u> (Pecan Grove Press). Her work appears in earlier issues of <i>Red Eft Review,</i> and recently in <i>Star 82 Review, Crab Orchard Review,</i> and <i>Tiny Seed Journal. </i>Born and raised in Indiana, she now lives in Bristol, Rhode Island.</span>Red Eft Revewhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09971640500128801389noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6397219527572949733.post-25327864158461497092024-02-18T07:28:00.000-08:002024-02-18T07:28:48.907-08:00Waiting by Martha Christina<span style="font-family: inherit;">Small songbirds crowd<br />the feeders: finches, a pair <br />of Carolina wrens, a solitary <br />junco. Three squirrels join <br />them at the old stump, strewn<br />with wild bird seed. . .as if <br />they weren’t all wild. <br /><br />The church clock four blocks<br />away strikes noon. “By noon,” <br />the surgeon said, “your mom <br />should be back in her room <br />and lucid.” <br /><br />The birds abandon the hanging<br />feeder, leave it swinging in their <br />abrupt departure. A crow lands,<br />folds its dark wings, paces <br />among the spilled seeds.<br /><br /><br /><br />Martha Christina has published two collections: <u>Staying Found</u> (Fleur-de-lis Press) and <u>Against Detachment</u> (Pecan Grove Press). Her work appears in earlier issues of <i>Red Eft Review,</i> and recently in <i>Star 82 Review, Crab Orchard Review, </i>and <i>Tiny Seed Journal.</i> Born and raised in Indiana, she now lives in Bristol, Rhode Island.</span>Red Eft Revewhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09971640500128801389noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6397219527572949733.post-14548514726174315182024-02-17T14:06:00.000-08:002024-02-17T14:06:42.642-08:00A Gift by Martha Christina<span style="font-family: inherit;">On his birthday<br />my friend, Michael,<br />will have an MRI.<br />His neurologist<br />wants to affirm<br />or rule out<br />suspected <br />Parkinson’s.<br /><br />For now, his <br />diagnosis is <br />essential <br />tremor. <i>Not <br />essential to me, </i><br />Michael laughs, <br />as if diagnostic <br />labels were a joke.<br /><br /><br /><br />Martha Christina has published two collections: <u>Staying Found</u> (Fleur-de-lis Press) and <u>Against Detachment</u> (Pecan Grove Press). Her work appears in earlier issues of <i>Red Eft Review, </i>and recently in <i>Star 82 Review, Crab Orchard Review,</i> and <i>Tiny Seed Journal.</i> Born and raised in Indiana, she now lives in Bristol, Rhode Island.</span>Red Eft Revewhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09971640500128801389noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6397219527572949733.post-70496935531222560792024-02-11T09:22:00.000-08:002024-02-11T09:22:50.095-08:00Reunion by Steve Deutsch<span style="font-family: inherit;">Mom and Dad</span><br /><span style="font-family: inherit;">loved lupine,</span><br /><span style="font-family: inherit;">but couldn’t control it.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: inherit;">Year after year, they’d plant</span><br /><span style="font-family: inherit;">the finest seeds</span><br /><span style="font-family: inherit;">in the finest soil</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: inherit;">but it bloomed where it would.</span><br /><span style="font-family: inherit;">My brother left </span><br /><span style="font-family: inherit;">home the day </span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: inherit;">after his sixteenth birthday.</span><br /><span style="font-family: inherit;">I hear from him now </span><br /><span style="font-family: inherit;">and again—chicken scratch</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: inherit;">on the back of a postcard</span><br /><span style="font-family: inherit;">or a long-distance call</span><br /><span style="font-family: inherit;">from some place</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: inherit;">in the California desert</span><br /><span style="font-family: inherit;">where lupines are native.</span><br /><span style="font-family: inherit;">Perhaps he is harvesting</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: inherit;">some to bring home—</span><br /><span style="font-family: inherit;">a handsome gift</span><br /><span style="font-family: inherit;">for a nurturing couple.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: inherit;">The lupines come up</span><br /><span style="font-family: inherit;">whenever they will</span><br /><span style="font-family: inherit;">wherever they will</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: inherit;">and my brother</span><br /><span style="font-family: inherit;">just called </span><br /><span style="font-family: inherit;">from someplace new.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: inherit;">In a better world the lupine</span><br /><span style="font-family: inherit;">Would grow where they plant it</span><br /><span style="font-family: inherit;">and my brother would walk in the door.</span><br /><br /><br /><br /><span style="font-family: inherit;">Steve Deutsch is poetry editor of </span><i style="font-family: inherit;">Centered Magazine</i><span style="font-family: inherit;"> and poet in residence at the Bellefonte Art Museum. He has been nominated three times for the Pushcart Prize. Steve's chapbook, </span><u style="font-family: inherit;">Perhaps You Can</u><span style="font-family: inherit;">, was published in 2019 by Kelsay Press. His </span>full-length<span style="font-family: inherit;"> books, <u>Persistence of Memory</u> and <u>Going, Going, Gone</u>, were also published by Kelsay Press. Another collection, <u>Slipping Away</u>, was published this past spring and his latest, <u>Brooklyn</u>, was awarded the Sinclair Poetry Prize from Evening Street Press and has just been published.</span>Red Eft Revewhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09971640500128801389noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6397219527572949733.post-14544826960299232172024-01-29T14:38:00.000-08:002024-01-29T14:38:10.007-08:00Over the Hill to the Poor House by Kelley White<span style="font-family: inherit;">It’s not on the shelf. I kept it in the antique</span><br /><span style="font-family: inherit;">bookshelf, that might have been my mother’s</span><br /><span style="font-family: inherit;">(or your father’s), the one that locked with</span><br /><span style="font-family: inherit;">a tiny key and was missing one of its glass</span><br /><span style="font-family: inherit;">doors, (which made the lock after all ineffective)</span><br /><span style="font-family: inherit;">and held a </span>six-volume<span style="font-family: inherit;"> set of </span><i style="font-family: inherit;">THE THOUSAND<br />AND ONE NIGHTS</i><span style="font-family: inherit;"> and early Jules Verne</span><br /><span style="font-family: inherit;">and a dear pink pocket copy of </span><i style="font-family: inherit;">A CHRISTMAS<br />CAROL</i><span style="font-family: inherit;"> with Tiny Tim in a </span>small, gilded<span style="font-family: inherit;"> oval</span><br /><span style="font-family: inherit;">frame on the cover. You remember your mother</span><br /><span style="font-family: inherit;">reading it to you, so it may have been a picture</span><br /><span style="font-family: inherit;">book, but I think it may have been music,</span><br /><span style="font-family: inherit;">a song, a strange lullaby, for I find images</span><br /><span style="font-family: inherit;">of sheet music with ornate flourishes, golden</span><br /><span style="font-family: inherit;">trumpets at each corner. Or it might have been</span><br /><span style="font-family: inherit;">a movie. A movie we saw together. The old couple</span><br /><span style="font-family: inherit;">put out of their home. Their children unwilling</span><br /><span style="font-family: inherit;">to take them in. Oh, those selfish children! Those</span><br /><span style="font-family: inherit;">selfish grandchildren! And I have lost both shelf</span><br /><span style="font-family: inherit;">and book. And forgotten the music. If it ever</span><br /><span style="font-family: inherit;">existed, any of it, at all.</span><br /><br /><br /><br /><span style="font-family: inherit;">Pediatrician Kelley White has worked in inner city Philadelphia and rural New Hampshire. Her poems have appeared in <i>Exquisite Corpse, Rattle</i> and <i>JAMA.</i> Her most recent collection is <u>NO. HOPE STREET</u> (Kelsay Books). She received a 2008 Pennsylvania Council on the Arts grant.</span><br /> Red Eft Revewhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09971640500128801389noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6397219527572949733.post-83621568675026955182024-01-28T07:19:00.000-08:002024-01-28T07:19:54.447-08:00On Forbidden Drive, Along the Wissahickon by Kelley White<span style="font-family: inherit;">The chestnut gelding nuzzles the blue-eyed<br />filly along the bridle path. Ah! This is too easy<br />a metaphor. You and I walk like heavy machinery.<br />My game knee clicking, you stopping at every lamppost<br />to stretch your back. (You look like a marathon<br />runner drenched in sweat and Gatorade looking<br />for his time on the great clicking clock.) But<br /><br />the horses are beautiful. Velvet muzzles. (It’s a cliché<br />but there is no other word for it once you’ve run<br />the back of your hand against them.) And those long<br />lashed eyes. The filly bows her head. And for<br />the moment a gentle breeze wafts the bitter tang<br />of horse away from us and plays about the corners<br />my parted lips. Ah, they snort, not unlike your<br /><br />evening noises when I turn in the nearly dark room.<br />(Used to be I’d wait, pretending sleep until you parted<br />the sheets. And then pretend an accidental roll<br />into your arms. And then.) Well, we are old now. Content<br />with just the little touches of comfort. (Almost. Though<br />there are those surprise evening invigorations. . .)<br />The girl on the filly rises from the saddle, urges her<br /><br />horse up a little rise; the old man on the gelding digs<br />his heals into its side. There is nickering, blowing,<br />both horses straining against the reins. And they<br />are parted. You and I swing hands together for a moment.<br />Then we part.<br /><br /><br /><br />Pediatrician Kelley White has worked in inner city Philadelphia and rural New Hampshire. Her poems have appeared in <i>Exquisite Corpse, Rattle</i> and <i>JAMA.</i> Her most recent collection is <u>NO. HOPE STREET</u> (Kelsay Books). She received a 2008 Pennsylvania Council on the Arts grant.</span>Red Eft Revewhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09971640500128801389noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6397219527572949733.post-33479182378578223842024-01-24T14:48:00.000-08:002024-01-24T14:48:53.571-08:00It Was Late August When Princess Di Crashed and I Tried to Walk on the Ocean by Susanna Stephens<span style="font-family: inherit;">Summers were plops of raspberry ice cream on a driveway <br />of broken scallop shells, the way the late afternoon sun poured <br />through lattice work on the Dutch-style windmill, its rays spilling <br />into a shadow on a mop head of grass, chunks of Orleans lobster <br />flesh dunked into fatty halcyon, Mom scouring <br /><br />the flea market for jigsaw puzzles and Wentworth China. It’s the kind <br />of ease that comes with enough idle time and the way we drop pieces like <br /><br />the look on my mother’s face when she walked through the door <br />after a long day of work, pallid save for <br /><br />rosy blotches once she had her glass of merlot. I was trying to walk <br />on the ocean, going to that reservoir in my chest where the tears live, <br />on that late August day, but an egret at the marsh cocked its head <br />as if to say,<br /><i><br />This has nothing to do with Princess Di. </i><br />And it was right: I was 14, never paid attention <br />to royalty let alone wear makeup, but why <br />so much crying, save for <br /><br />how does a mother hold all the pieces of herself <br />and those of her children who wander into the night?<br /><br /><br /><br />Susanna Stephens, Ph.D. is a psychoanalyst, poet and mother living in Brooklyn, NY. Her work is published or forthcoming in <i>Rust & Moth, ROOM: A Sketchbook for Analytic Action,</i> and <i>DIVISION/Review. </i>In addition to writing, she maintains a private practice in Manhattan.</span>Red Eft Revewhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09971640500128801389noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6397219527572949733.post-20026824268539922562024-01-23T04:31:00.000-08:002024-01-28T07:28:08.978-08:00Playing in the Street by Anne Mesquita<span style="font-family: inherit;">There was a time the boys across the street,<br />age nine and eleven,<br /><br />would ring our bell, a basketball under an arm.<br /><i>Can Gregg play?</i><br /><br />Never mind that Gregg was 52.<br />Like watching him age in reverse, slipping back into his youth.<br /><br />As if we got to witness him playing in the neighborhood on Myrtle Avenue<br />as a child, playing ball, or cowboys with his buddies<br /><br />in Vineland, New Jersey, circa 1948.<br />He spoke often about his aunt as if we lived with her.<br /><br />Finally he called everyone,<br />even his daughters, <i>Mom.</i><br /><br /><br /><br />Anne Mesquita studies poetry at the Hudson Valley Writers Center. She is producing a collection about her father’s illness, grief, and coming-of-age. She works in Libraries Administration at Columbia University. She lives in Westchester, New York with her husband and daughter.</span>Red Eft Revewhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09971640500128801389noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6397219527572949733.post-76800755576748628712024-01-22T14:44:00.000-08:002024-01-22T14:44:55.296-08:00Rewritten Memories by Mark Danowsky<span style="font-family: inherit;">You tell yourself the story <br />Over and over<br />But only in part <br />So each time a little frays <br />Around the edges <br />Until reality and memory</span><div><span style="font-family: inherit;">Lose sight of each other<br /><br /><br /><br />Mark Danowsky is Editor-in-Chief of <i>ONE ART: a journal of poetry.</i> His short poetry collections include <u>Meatless</u> (Plan B Press), <u>Violet Flame</u> (tiny wren lit), <u>JAWN</u> (Moonstone Press), and <u>As Falls Trees</u> (NightBallet Press). <u>Take Care</u> is forthcoming from Moon Tide Press in 2025.</span></div>Red Eft Revewhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09971640500128801389noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6397219527572949733.post-7945411092911333002024-01-21T07:45:00.000-08:002024-01-21T07:45:02.291-08:00heady taste by David Q. Hutcheson-Tipton<span style="font-family: inherit;">crabapples<br />were bitter<br />from the first bite, <br />but that <br />childhood tart—<br /><br /></span><div><span style="font-family: inherit;">like the taste<br />of mint or<br />parsley<br />filched from<br />the neighbor's<br />garden—<br /><br />was the taste<br />of freedom,<br />autonomy,<br />a simple but<br />powerful start <br />to making your <br />own way<br />in the world,<br />heady<br /><br />like the<br />scent of <br />lilac,<br /><br />like the<br />stings of<br />bees you tried<br />to catch<br />in mason jars<br /><br /><br /><br />David Q. Hutcheson-Tipton is a Denver-based poet and semi-retired physician. His poems have been curated in <i>Unlost Journal, One Sentence Poems,</i> and <i>Mountains Talking. </i></span></div>Red Eft Revewhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09971640500128801389noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6397219527572949733.post-47302288332363039872024-01-20T06:45:00.000-08:002024-01-20T06:45:16.729-08:00Horseshoe Crab by Jack Rossi<span style="font-family: inherit;">The bay is restless this morning.<br />Waves hiss their complaints <br />and slap the sand for my attention,<br /><br />as I step carefully among the <br />slipper shells, razor clams, and seaweed strands<br />along the highwater line,<br /><br /></span><div><span style="font-family: inherit;">where a horseshoe crab, <br />upended, legs rhythmically pedaling air,<br />waits the return of the tide.<br /><br />He’s in no hurry.<br />The dark clouds are of no mind.<br />He does not fear death – like me,<br /><br />carefully lifting him back to the sea.<br /><br /><br /><br />Jack Rossi is a landscape architect and multi-media artist from Woodstock, Vermont. He has been writing since childhood and studied poetry later in life at Dartmouth College. Jack enjoys writing about the subtle whispers nature reveals when we look a little more intently. His poems have been published in <i>PoemTown</i> and <i>PoemCity</i> (Vermont poetry walking anthology events) as well as the <i>Sycamore Review</i> and other college literary journals. In the winter you can find him high in the hills of Vermont teaching alpine skiing to the young and old.</span></div>Red Eft Revewhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09971640500128801389noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6397219527572949733.post-29847342156444947512024-01-18T15:42:00.000-08:002024-01-18T15:42:27.656-08:00The C Word by Howie Good<span style="font-family: inherit;">I’m a cancer survivor – for now, anyway.<br />Every three months, I must have blood drawn,<br />and my chest scanned, to determine if any<br /><br />cancer cells migrated, nomads in search<br />of grass and water. “You’re going to feel a pinch,”<br />the motherly woman in the lab coat says.<br /><br />I stare straight ahead to avoid watching her<br />insert the needle. Holiday decorations are still up<br />on the wall, although Christmas is long over.<br /><br />It feels actually more like a sting than a pinch.<br /><br /><br /><br />Howie Good's newest poetry collection is <u>Frowny Face</u>, a mix of his prose poems and collages from Redhawk Publications. He co-edits the online journal <i>UnLost,</i> dedicated to found poetry.</span>Red Eft Revewhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09971640500128801389noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6397219527572949733.post-63228321519420638082024-01-17T14:51:00.000-08:002024-01-17T14:51:22.836-08:00Dog Star by Russell Rowland<span style="font-family: inherit;">Fourteen years ago Rufus was a pup: goodness,<br />that’s a weight of years<br />for a big dog to carry, even with four legs—<br /><br />and Bob who walked him was pushing a walker<br />himself when they went out. A lot<br />of stop-and-go, since pees came hard for Rufus.<br /><br />Well, I haven’t caught up to inquire;<br /><br />still, either arrangements were made on behalf<br />of Rufus, or else Rufus made<br />arrangements on his own behalf—because now<br /><br />I see Bob shuffling with his walker,<br />all alone. His head is bowed, and other things<br />could account for that—<br /><br />aside from walking a Rufus who isn’t there.<br /><br />Meanwhile, Sirius ascends to heaven—<br />Dog Star, part of Canis Major, the Great Dog;<br />brightest star in Earth’s dark sky—<br /><br />visible cloudless nights this time of year.<br /><br /><br /><br />Seven-time Pushcart Prize nominee Russell Rowland writes from New Hampshire’s Lakes Region, His latest poetry book, <u>Magnificat</u>, is available from Encircle Publications.</span>Red Eft Revewhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09971640500128801389noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6397219527572949733.post-50140511244180180212024-01-16T18:24:00.000-08:002024-01-16T18:24:06.786-08:00An English Teacher Reflects by Lynn Hess<span style="font-family: inherit;">School's out today—<br />from hallways children burst<br />like milkweed from pods, but I remain<br />to pluck thumbtacks from boards,<br />stack grammar books, tug stubborn <br />gummy bears out of bare cubbies.<br />Another school year, gone.<br /> <br />Beneath a shelf, a tattered paper plane<br />extends a wing inscribed <br />“Juan loves Diane!” <br />A missive missile launching<br />a first love. I wonder, <br />did it ever reach its mark?<br /> <br />I wonder whether Luke will learn to spell. <br />Will Mia ever master punctuation? <br />Out in the yard, the final yellow bus<br />slaps shut its doors.<br />Another class departs.<br /> <br />Again, I tuck <i>Jane Eyre</i> and <i>Frankenstein</i><br />beneath a summer quilt of frayed art paper. <br />Life moves on, unmoving, <br />I’m content an eighth-grader forever<br />who, like a figure on Keats' timeless urn, <br />expresses truth, so others <br />may know beauty.<br /><br /><br /><br />Lynn Hess is a retired teacher who also conducted poetry-writing workshops in elementary and middle schools. Her poetry has appeared in magazines including <i>Spoon River Quarterly, Blackberry, Encore, The Berkshire Sampler, youngperson, </i>and<i> Aeolian-Harp. </i><u>Where Tigers Roar in Silence</u>, a book of her poetry for children, was published by Lime Rock Press. </span>Red Eft Revewhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09971640500128801389noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6397219527572949733.post-34276109707949811652024-01-14T06:31:00.000-08:002024-01-14T06:31:08.869-08:00Stray Kids of Fernandina Beach by Steven Croft<span style="font-family: inherit;"><i>hunger a small price for our endless summer,<br />free of parents, chores, older brothers<br /></i><br />The chrome-glinting cars of island tourists<br />swished by, between us, five darkly tanned boys spanning<br />both sides of Atlantic Avenue, barefoot in bathing suits.<br />Shirtless, like crows scavenging for leftover bits<br />of nourishment, we lift feet occasionally to extract<br />pesky sandspurs, search verge grass for castaway bottles<br />we can return to Jiffy for a five-cent deposit.<br /><br />We find the richest cache, four bottles,<br />by the entrance to Fort Clinch State Park,<br />a reputed burial place of Blackbeard's gold --<br />somehow appropriate. My group waits to run across<br />the hot, shimmering asphalt which can pierce through<br />calloused soles with kettle-hot heat, our arms full<br />of bottles. Four girls old enough to drive yell wildly<br />and wave. I can't wave back.<br /><br />Down the strip, past The Surf Motel, the waterslide,<br />go-karts, we enter Jiffy like conquerors, holding enough<br />bottles to buy two bags of potato chips. Heading<br />under the Main Beach Pavilion's corrugated metal roof, we<br />divide the spoils on a concrete picnic table, talk about<br />that day we asked a lady grilling at one of the pavilion's<br />battered steel grills if we could have one of her burgers, sizzling<br />with seductive aroma. "You boys hungry, sure!" She gave<br />each of us one, saying, "We just homefolks from Callahan."<br /><br />After the chips disappear from the table, we go watch<br />the go-karts, dreaming of five dollars and shoes -- a sign<br />in red says, SHOES REQUIRED -- that would let us race around<br />the oval track (driver's licenses not required). We drift<br />to the nearest apartment complex with its fenced pool,<br />FOR RESIDENTS ONLY. We swim as the guests of Clint if<br />questioned -- a schoolmate resident gone to summer with<br />his mother in another town. Later, as day fades, we'll<br />collect our bikes from their stack behind Jiffy. I'll ride home,<br />feet turning petals, mouth already tasting dinner's leftovers.<br /><br /><i>hunger a small price for our endless summer,<br />free of parents, chores, older brothers</i><br /><br /><br /><br />Steven Croft lives on a barrier island off the coast of Georgia. He is the author of <u>At Home with the Dreamlike Earth </u>(The Poetry Box, 2023). His poems have appeared in online and print journals and have been nominated for the Pushcart Prize and Best of the Net.</span><br />Red Eft Revewhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09971640500128801389noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6397219527572949733.post-28944005694270357712024-01-12T18:01:00.000-08:002024-01-12T18:01:05.893-08:00Father Knows Best by Sharon Waller Knutson<span style="font-family: inherit;">My father is sitting<br />at his desk grading papers<br />and eating a Snickers<br />while waiting for his ride<br /><br />after the faculty and students<br />with bad grades,<br />attitudes and tempers<br />have left the middle school<br /><br />for broken homes, part<br />time jobs or friends<br />when he hears footsteps<br />on the stairs and a scrawny<br /><br />guy with glasses sticks<br />his head in the door<br />and says, <i>Gordy and his boys<br />are coming to kill you.</i><br /><br /><i>Go call the cops,</i> my father<br />says as tires squeal<br />on the pavement and boots<br />pound down the hallway.<br /><br />With one arm shriveled<br />from shrapnel in the war,<br />my fifty something father<br />channels his younger cowboy.<br /><br />Tackles the three teen<br />football stars and disarms<br />them one by one<br />and has them hogtied<br /><br />and in a pile with his foot<br />on the chest of the biggest<br />by the time the cops show up<br />with guns and handcuffs.<br /><br />After the front page newspaper<br />headlines hail him a hero,<br />the hoots and hollers,<br />high fives and fist bumps<br /><br />fly the way of my father<br />and for the rest of the school year<br />my father’s students are obedient<br />while his attackers stew in jail.<br /><br /><br /><br />Sharon Waller Knutson has been nominated for a Pushcart Prize and Best of the Net. She has published 12 books of poetry, including the most recent, <u>The Leading Ladies of My Life</u> (Cyberwit 2023) and its sequel, <u>My Grandfather is a Cowboy</u> (Cyberwit 2024.) She has published 1,000 poems in more than 60 publications. She is the editor of <i>Storyteller Poetry Review</i> and lives in Arizona.</span>Red Eft Revewhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09971640500128801389noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6397219527572949733.post-50800247081122388592024-01-11T15:33:00.000-08:002024-01-11T15:35:25.536-08:001000 Piece Puzzle by Jacqueline Jules<span style="font-family: inherit;">She found the battered box in the basement,<br />searching through her father’s old things.<br />“A puzzle! Grandma, can we do it?”<br />We dumped a thousand pieces<br />on a table, sorting through the colors,<br />lining straight edges to form a frame.<br /><br /></span><div><span style="font-family: inherit;">“So many pieces, Grandma.<br />Do you think we’ll ever finish?”<br />“Maybe.” I shrugged, pressing<br />a small cardboard shape of solid blue<br />into the socket of a matching shape.<br /><br />And thinking how I’ve spent<br />hours, days, years putting together<br />a life with thousands of jagged parts<br />I’ve had to turn again and again<br />before they snapped into place.<br /><br /><br /><br />Jacqueline Jules is the author of <u>Manna in the Morning</u> (Kelsay Books, 2021), <u>Itzhak Perlman's Broken String</u> (winner of the 2016 Helen Kay Chapbook Prize from Evening Street Press), and <u>Smoke at the Pentagon: Poems to Remember</u> (Bushel & Peck, 2023). Her poetry has appeared in over 100 publications. For more information visit <a href="http://www.jacquelinejules.com/">www.jacquelinejules.com</a>.</span></div>Red Eft Revewhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09971640500128801389noreply@blogger.com1