White Flag Raised by Corey D. Cook

 

 

My fourth chapbook, White Flag Raised, was recently released by Kattywompus Press and is available for purchase online (http://kattywompuspress.com/).

 

Sammy Greenspan (Editor of Kattywompus Press):

"Take a dash of married life with young kids, mix in a pinch of childhood memories and teen angst, and season with longing for your real life: Cook’s poems offer a humble and honest banquet of growing up, growing into one’s own skin, coming of age and coming out."



Perception: Summer by Bob Carlton

Light breeze:
cottonwood leaves
catch the light, twist
it into shadow.



Bob Carlton (www.bobcarlton3.weebly.com) lives and works in Leander, TX.

Brown Sofa by Sandy Benitez

Three sturdy bison
grazed on a patch of greenery
in otherwise yellow fields;
the distance between us
a chain-link fence
and a busy roadway.
A year ago,
I thought I saw
an oversized, furry brown sofa.
The lone bison didn't move,
it just lay there,
watching the world go by.
I thought of the homeless
who frequent Weston Park,
sleeping beneath the arbor
together
but always alone.



Sandy Benitez is the founding editor of Flutter Press, Poppy Road Review, and Black Poppy Review. Her latest chapbook, The Lilac City, was published by Origami Poems Project. Her first book, a YA paranormal fantasy novella titled, The Rosegiver, will be released later this month. Sandy resides in Southern California with her husband and two children.

Blue Couch by Sandy Benitez

Yesterday,
driving along familiar streets
of San Jacinto,
towards charter schools,
a sapphire blue couch
squatted in an empty parking lot.
It appeared disheveled
but otherwise in good condition.
Not much further down,
near an abandoned railroad track
a single, grungy sneaker
tossed aside like garbage.
Yet another loose thread
in the tattered fabric
of this forgotten town.



Sandy Benitez is the founding editor of Flutter Press, Poppy Road Review, and Black Poppy Review. Her latest chapbook, The Lilac City, was published by Origami Poems Project. Her first book, a YA paranormal fantasy novella titled, The Rosegiver, will be released later this month. Sandy resides in Southern California with her husband and two children.

The Shiver by Tom Montag

The shiver
of a winter
morning.

The light.
Birds at
the feeder.

My need
for one more
moment

like this.
Again, morning,
again.



Tom Montag, Fairwater, Wisconsin, is most recently the author of In This Place: Selected Poems 1982-2013. In 2015, he was the featured poet at Atticus Review (April) and Contemporary American Voices (August). Home-made music is important to him: he plays once a week with a friend, for their own amusement.

Angkor Wat by Tina Hacker

          A Temple Complex in Cambodia

Tourists see
a spiritual wonder,
marvel of architecture,
international treasure.

I see stairs.

A decay of branches
and logs that carried ancient
pilgrims closer to heaven
separate the present-day steps.

One flight up
one down.

Two sheer cliffs
of steep, wobbly planks.
The lower stairs, orphaned
of railings, the upper,
corded with them.

Lifelines of difficult labors.

Tourists lean
on partners and walking sticks,
mine their cache
of muscle memory
to balance as they inch
from the lower stairs
to those with the handrail.

They grasp it
as if it were the arm of God.



Tina Hacker is writing about her interesting experiences on a recent tour to Thailand, Laos, Cambodia and Vietnam. Her full-length poetry book, Listening to Night Whistles, published by Aldrich Press and her chapbook, Cutting It, published by The Lives You Touch Publications are available on Amazon. A four-time Pushcart Prize nominee, she has work in a wide variety of journals.

Grace Chapel by David Jibson

Remnants of a neon sign that once proclaimed,
Jesus Saves, dangle from a frayed wire
above the boarded over front door.
The pastor, who worked days at a grain elevator,
packed up and moved his family to the city years ago
before the last of his congregation died out.
Ragweed and goldenrod have pushed themselves
up through the graveled parking lot where flat-bed trucks
and the occasional tractor would gather
Sunday mornings and Wednesday evenings
for long sermons that floated out through windows
open to the summer air.
The last of them was about forgiveness,
according to a fallen sign that lays on its back
in a patch of stinging nettles
which it wears like a thorny crown.



David Jibson lives in Ann Arbor, Michigan where he is an associate editor of Third Wednesday, a literary arts journal, a member of The Crazy Wisdom Poetry Circle and The Poetry Society of Michigan. He is retired from a long career in Social Work, most recently with a Hospice agency. He believes the most important element in his poetry is "story".

First Snow by David Jibson

It arrived early this year,
a week before Thanksgiving
and heavier, I think,
than we have ever seen.
The ground was still warm,
of course, so it began melting
even before it stopped falling.
The fort in the park rose one day
and fell the next, like
the walls of Jericho.
The snowman in the neighbor’s yard
walked off sometime during the night,
leaving only his ragged, knitted scarf behind.



David Jibson lives in Ann Arbor, Michigan where he is an associate editor of Third Wednesday, a literary arts journal, a member of The Crazy Wisdom Poetry Circle and The Poetry Society of Michigan. He is retired from a long career in Social Work, most recently with a Hospice agency. He believes the most important element in his poetry is "story".

Winter Solstice by Ronald Moran

Only if one insists on interpreting day
                    as light
is this the shortest day of the year,
                    a misnomer

at best––at worst, a cause to admit
                    the bleakness
of one's life, as mirrored in the absence
                    of light,

as if clouds obtained, their low-lying
                    legions
parading, so as to honor one's general
                    affirmation

of the law of correspondences, used
                    too often
to justify the slow but nonetheless sad
                    drop

into darkness, when one can say today,
                    at least,
O yes. It must be in the stars, or, rather,
                    their absence.



Ronald Moran lives in Simpsonville, South Carolina. His poems have been published in Commonweal, Connecticut Poetry Review, Louisiana Review, Maryland Poetry Review, Negative Capability, North American Review, Northwest Review, South Carolina Review, Southern Review, Tar River Poetry, The Wallace Stevens Journal, and in twelve books/chapbooks of poetry. Clemson University Press will publish his Eye of the World shortly. He has won a number of awards and his work is archived in Special Collections at Furman University.

Interlude by Ed Ahern

The small being sleeps on my chest.
My breathing sways plump arms.
He unable, me unwilling to rise and part.
We are never closer than this touching
that he will not remember
and I will not forget.
Unconcern nestled into gentle custody.
Neither knowing, or just now caring
about changes to come.



Ed Ahern resumed writing after forty odd years in foreign intelligence and international sales. He has his original wife, but advises that after forty eight years they are both out of warranty. Ed's had over a hundred stories and poems published so far, and two books.

PTSD 1 by Matt Borczon

My muse
is the
severed
leg that
I find
in my
bed
in every
single
nightmare
I’ve had
since the
war.



Matt Borczon is a writer and nurse from Erie, Pa. He was stationed in the busiest combat hospital in Afghanistan from 2010-11. He writes about war and his experiences since coming home. His work has been published in Yellow Chair Review, Dead Snakes, Busted Dharma and The Pressure Press. His chapbook, A Clock of Human Bones, will be published by Yellow Chair Review in early 2016.

Waiting for the Ball to Drop in Times Square by Melissa Fite Johnson

We might not have come if we’d considered
thirteen degrees for seven hours, every muscle tensed,
bladders engorged. Last year, we didn’t sing

U2 songs with a dozen college kids from Ireland
or watch thirty-somethings from Barcelona
swallow grapes whole at six p.m., the Spanish New Year, 

and we couldn’t have comprehended the sound
of one million voices counting back from ten
until ours were lost among them. Last year,

we were only two people watching on TV,
but we had one bathroom apiece, and hot chocolate
cradled against our bellies like tiny radiators.



Melissa Fite Johnson’s poetry has appeared in such publications as I-70 Review, The New Verse News, and Inscape Magazine. Her first collection, While the Kettle’s On (Little Balkans Press, 2015), won the Nelson Poetry Book Award. Melissa and her husband live in Kansas, where she teaches English. Her website: melissafitejohnson.com.

High School Pep Band by Melissa Fite Johnson

My flute part never sounded like the song
on its own. When I practiced,
my brother poked his head in my room,
asked if I had any idea what the hell I was doing.
But with the band, the flutes’ voices
soared higher than even the trumpets’
bold balloon squeaks.

The trumpets—and indeed the trombones,
saxes, tubas, even clarinets—
none of them questioned our worth.
We had each other’s backs. We had to.

At the basketball games, we held a kind of
nerd power. No one said much
to us in classes or the halls, but they
loved us at games. They yelled
the words to every song. Together we lifted
those boys, high as the cheerleaders
somersaulting into the air. We were
part of something on those nights.
We were really in high school.

On Mondays we were back to visitor status,
stepping aside to let a row of letter jackets pass.



Melissa Fite Johnson’s poetry has appeared in such publications as I-70 Review, The New Verse News, and Inscape Magazine. Her first collection, While the Kettle’s On (Little Balkans Press, 2015), won the Nelson Poetry Book Award. Melissa and her husband live in Kansas, where she teaches English. Her website: melissafitejohnson.com.

Apology by Laura Lee Washburn

I tell my nephew, I’m sorry
about your crazy grandma.

My mother will be pleased to know
he doesn’t ask which one.

That was some messed up shit,
he says. How’s grandpa, I want to know.

They’ve both lost it, he says.
I live far enough away to learn their dramas

late or not at all and I’m really sorry
truly that she spent four days crying

on the couch, her face scratched,
the dog in city custody, quarantined,

that my nephew cried, that my father cried,
that she lied, that she turned her

own chocolate lab over to animal control
because who does that, who calls the city

because the dog was playing and your
heads bumped even if you are moving soon

to Florida to a retirement village and you
just don’t want to deal anymore

with things so big and messy like the yard
or a pool or a garage full of tools or your

two year old dog, or all these meds. And
pretty soon, if she can ever get down there,

she’ll sign her husband over, too. I send
my nephew a picture of a reindeer hat
because he shows me his creepy eye with antlers ink.

That’s it. I go out and look at the crocuses
that aren’t dead yet, but only a little frayed from snow.



Laura Lee Washburn is the Director of Creative Writing at Pittsburg State University in Kansas, and the author of This Good Warm Place: 10th Anniversary Expanded Edition (March Street) and Watching the Contortionists (Palanquin Chapbook Prize). Her poetry has appeared in such journals as Cavalier Literary Couture, Carolina Quarterly, Ninth Letter, The Sun, Red Rock Review, and Valparaiso Review. Born in Virginia Beach, Virginia, she has also lived and worked in Arizona and in Missouri. She is married to the writer Roland Sodowsky and is one of the founders and the Co-President of the Board of SEK Women Helping Women (https://www.facebook.com/sekwhw).

Blowing Leaves by Howie Good

Devoid of anything even close
to resembling a fresh idea,
I’m hunched in front of my laptop
and staring out the window
at a man in a foam baseball cap
and an Army fatigue jacket who,
as if emboldened by the barbaric yawp
of his backpack leaf blower,
walks with a forward lean
into the long shadows of late afternoon,
an incautious conjurer inspiring
the last raggedy remnants
of summer to get up and dance.



Howie Good’s latest poetry collections are Bad for the Heart (Prolific Press) and Dark Specks in a Blue Sky (Another New Calligraphy). He is recipient of the 2015 Press Americana Prize for Poetry for his forthcoming collection Dangerous Acts Starring Unstable Elements.

On My Return by John Grey

It's not what I expected on my return. 
My boyhood home hadn't changed
one slap of paint, one poster on the wall.
Those left behind felt most comfortable
in nothing ever moving on.
It all was where I left it.
That made the love so much easier.

All the hopes, the promise, the beginnings, were intact.
Even ones that ended badly.
Fingermarks, books in shelves,
old letters in drawers, ceramics on mantles,
even the clock that hadn't worked in years -
those were the bearings of a life.

Back to such normalcy,
I sat at the table with familiar faces
discussing how life ought to be.

Mother said, we can clean now, varnish,
even move furniture around.
I tried but was of no help
because I could imagine no other house but this.



John Grey is an Australian poet, US resident. Recently published in New Plains Review, Perceptions and the anthology, No Achilles with work upcoming in Big Muddy Review, Gargoyle, Coal City Review and Nebo.

Your Recovery by John Grey

I can't get away from them -
TV, the internet, twitter,
even talk around the water cooler -
celebrities have assumed the role
of the center of the universe.

But then you call me =
you're out of hospital.

At last, news sends me a gift.
It doesn't care who's dating who
or wearing what designer dress.

I can imagine you seated on your patio,
family around you,
setting sun drenching your face.

You're coddling a wine glass in your wrinkled hand.
You're distanced from the superficial
by a canyon of heart and mind

The wine, I'm sure, tastes like the earth and growing,
like the land that spreads before you,
a family history in blades of grass and fences.

A smile plays out
beneath your warm farm-girl eyes.
You doze, contented, with the past around you,
dream a year not yet lived.



John Grey is an Australian poet, US resident. Recently published in New Plains Review, Perceptions and the anthology, No Achilles with work upcoming in Big Muddy Review, Gargoyle, Coal City Review and Nebo.

Great Blue Heron at Powder Mill by John Grey

The great blue heron's startle
is not the quick dart of the song sparrow
to the nearest bush..
Nor is it the crow's high caw
or the chickadee's Morse Code trill.
It doesn't flap noisily into gear
like the mourning dove
or join the pigeons
in high-tailing it up to the upper eaves.

It's almost dusk, late summer.
The pond is brown, the weather dry.
The heron stalks unseen fish,
moving slow, deliberate.
One long thin leg unfolds forward
like a ballerina in slow motion,
the other pivots in the mud.

It doesn't see me as other birds do.
Still sensing water's seismic shift with thin, sharp beak.
I fill the corner of an eye.
Its feathered crown rises,
wings gradually fill the horizontal.
It doesn't so much fear me
as appreciate that it and I are fated
to never occupy the same lush feeding grounds.
No hurry in its takeoff,
merely a gentle flap, an arcing of the neck,
a graceful lift,
a measured glide over the tree-tops.
So much for the slow, ambling, earthbound gait
of the rest of us..



John Grey is an Australian poet, US resident. Recently published in New Plains Review, Perceptions and the anthology, No Achilles with work upcoming in Big Muddy Review, Gargoyle, Coal City Review and Nebo.

Embrace by Mitchell Krockmalnik Grabois

Her embrace broke my neck
She weighed only ninety-four pounds
but each ounce was purely intense

Her husband had threatened to kill her
He suffered from psychotic jealousy

She focused only on her survival
and had even forgotten her son

She still loved her husband
a foible common to abused women

She owned no pets
She was afraid of the dark

She hid books behind books
in her son’s bookcase

Her husband didn’t believe in women
reading books
He didn’t want her to speak to
or even look at
other men
There were men in books

She woke frequently in the middle of the night
to check for rabbits in her garden
She stopped when she and her husband were evicted

If she were murdered
she told me
she would come to my roof
in the form of two swans
necks entwined

Her embrace was powered by desperation
My only armor was
my good intentions

The sinews stood out on her arms
Her skin was blue
but she’d concealed their hue
with flesh-colored make-up

This was the third time
I’d had my neck broken
once when I was playing college football
the second when I was driving drunk

My doctor says that a spine was not designed for this
level of abuse



Mitchell Krockmalnik Grabois has had over nine hundred of his poems and fictions appear in literary magazines in the U.S. and abroad. He has been nominated for the Pushcart Prize and The Best of the Net for work published in 2011 through 2014. His novel, Two-Headed Dog, based on his work as a clinical psychologist in a state hospital, is available for Kindle and Nook, or as a print edition. He lives in Denver. He works at combating his own ego, as Ego is the source of Greed, and Greed is destroying our world.

Light Confession by Maril Crabtree

Talk to me
about your night fears.
How you keep the light on
beside your bed,
hoping you won’t wake
and feel the familiar terror.

How you sleep
on your side, turned away
from the window, knowing
they could come through anyway.

How your dreams
are the only things that save you
from your own dread.

How ready you are
to plunge into the undiscovered
day, into whatever is on
the other side of night.



Maril Crabtree’s most recent chapbook is Tying the Light (Finishing Line Press). Her work has appeared in journals such as Kalliope, I-70 Review, Coal City Review, Main Street Rag, and Third Wednesday, She previously served as poetry editor for Kansas City Voices. More of her work can be seen at www.marilcrabtree.com.