May redwood roots tickle my bones.
May my blood rise as tinted sap.
May my arms lift as limbs to sunlight,
may I embrace the rain.
May these muscles bear massive growth,
may they bend and flex
through squall and storm.
May the over-abundant hair of my body
become filaments of shaggy bark.
May fingers and toes become needles of green,
may the chickadee clutch with tiny feet.
May my dreams flow to cones, become seed.
May my words whistle with the wind
spreading stories, tall tales.
May my unworthy spirit surge
with the glory of sequoia.
May the hawk build a nest at my crown,
may the fox hover at my hollow.
May I resist the rot, repel the insect,
and when at last I fall
May I be sectioned, milled, notched and nailed,
May I become the soul of a house
peopled with children,
crafted with love.
Joe Cottonwood has worked as a carpenter and general handyman since 1976. Nights, he writes. He lives with his high school sweetheart in La Honda, California, where they built a house and raised a family under (and at mercy of) giant redwood trees. More at joecottonwood.com.
Monday, November 20, 2017
Sunday, November 19, 2017
Therapy by David Hanlon
I unrolled
my tightly closed
life map
& began
navigating
my way
through the ruins.
David Hanlon is from Cardiff, Wales, and currently living in Bristol, England. He has a BA in Film Studies and is training part-time as a counsellor/therapist. You can find his work online at Ink, Sweat & Tears, Fourth & Sycamore, Eunoia Review, Amaryllis, Scarlet Leaf Review and One Sentence Poems.
my tightly closed
life map
& began
navigating
my way
through the ruins.
David Hanlon is from Cardiff, Wales, and currently living in Bristol, England. He has a BA in Film Studies and is training part-time as a counsellor/therapist. You can find his work online at Ink, Sweat & Tears, Fourth & Sycamore, Eunoia Review, Amaryllis, Scarlet Leaf Review and One Sentence Poems.
Tuesday, November 14, 2017
The Going-In Bell by Robert Demaree
Still tacked to the closet door
At the cottage that my parents built
On Rust Pond in ’56:
The daily schedule of the tutoring camp
Where my father taught,
Dittoed purple letters faintly legible.
Rising bell 6:45 a.m.
He would walk along the shore
For breakfast and then his class,
Joined with kind, unbookish lads,
Now, too, long departed,
In their struggle with the preterite.
He returned from Puerto Rico in 1926
A teacher of Spanish,
And so he remained the rest of his days,
Never seeking to do anything else,
Not department head or dean—
Well, I don’t know that,
Ambitions, disappointments
Not evident to a child.
A Republican from Indiana,
Of a kind no longer extant,
He once made a small donation
To the campaign of Gerald Ford,
But in the ’30s had passed out leaflets
For the Lincoln Brigade,
Which has made us admirers of
Aaron Copland.
Going-in bell 7:15 a.m.
My parents came back from Mexico
In 1936 with postcards by
Diego Rivera.
Years later, Dad explained to me
The moral roots of the
Inheritance tax.
He would enjoy a glass or two of sherry
And talk about Miguel de Unamuno
And the Generation of ’98.
He was sent by the Chicago Tribune
To cover a gangland hit in
Cicero, Illinois,
And played the horses in Paris in the ’20s.
So in the years of my growing up
In boarding school dormitories
Those days of excitement seemed
Behind him.
We did not toss a baseball
Back and forth.
We did go to Shibe Park
To watch the A’s,
Those sad second-division heroes,
The occasional double play—
Joost to Suder to Fain,
Their pictures taped to my window.
Sitting-down bell 7:20 a.m.
The apartment at The Hill School
Was our home, part of my father’s pay.
So the cottage in New Hampshire
Was the first real estate
They’d ever owned.
I cleared the land
The summer he had a hernia.
The pine paneling has darkened
As if from the pigment of memory.
Our grandchildren are fixing lunch.
Beth sits by the window
Where my dad used to sit,
Drinking coffee,
Smoking his cigarette.
Lights out, 10:00 p.m.
These are not good days in boarding schools,
Learning little, it seems, from the church.
I remember some of Dad’s colleagues
As a bit odd but surely not predators,
Though that could be the naiveté of the time
Or of a son.
Girls finally came to the school and to the camp,
His last classes were co-ed,
Changes coming, in which he would not take part.
He continued to fish
(Small-mouth bass, which my mother
With some reluctance fried in deep fat);
Played the piano by ear,
In the manner of Jelly Roll Morton;
And smiled sweetly at my mother’s kin.
I remember the morning when
He could no longer balance his checkbook.
For several years
We tried to hold at arm’s length
That most outrageous of diseases.
In the hospital, he held on
For his granddaughter to return
From Europe. Oh, goody, he said,
And the wavy amber line went flat.
I recall being miffed
When the school history did not make more
Of his service. I have come to see
His great achievement was in doing
Small things quietly and well,
And with the great kindness
Of which Nemerov spoke.
The limousine approached
The small graveside service,
My mother frail,
Clutching my arm.
Robert Demaree is the author of four book-length collections of poems, including Other Ladders, published in June 2017 by Beech River Books. His poems received first place in competitions sponsored by the Poetry Society of New Hampshire and the Burlington Writers Club, and have appeared in over 150 periodicals. A retired educator, he resides in Wolfeboro, N.H. and Burlington, N.C.
At the cottage that my parents built
On Rust Pond in ’56:
The daily schedule of the tutoring camp
Where my father taught,
Dittoed purple letters faintly legible.
Rising bell 6:45 a.m.
He would walk along the shore
For breakfast and then his class,
Joined with kind, unbookish lads,
Now, too, long departed,
In their struggle with the preterite.
He returned from Puerto Rico in 1926
A teacher of Spanish,
And so he remained the rest of his days,
Never seeking to do anything else,
Not department head or dean—
Well, I don’t know that,
Ambitions, disappointments
Not evident to a child.
A Republican from Indiana,
Of a kind no longer extant,
He once made a small donation
To the campaign of Gerald Ford,
But in the ’30s had passed out leaflets
For the Lincoln Brigade,
Which has made us admirers of
Aaron Copland.
Going-in bell 7:15 a.m.
My parents came back from Mexico
In 1936 with postcards by
Diego Rivera.
Years later, Dad explained to me
The moral roots of the
Inheritance tax.
He would enjoy a glass or two of sherry
And talk about Miguel de Unamuno
And the Generation of ’98.
He was sent by the Chicago Tribune
To cover a gangland hit in
Cicero, Illinois,
And played the horses in Paris in the ’20s.
So in the years of my growing up
In boarding school dormitories
Those days of excitement seemed
Behind him.
We did not toss a baseball
Back and forth.
We did go to Shibe Park
To watch the A’s,
Those sad second-division heroes,
The occasional double play—
Joost to Suder to Fain,
Their pictures taped to my window.
Sitting-down bell 7:20 a.m.
The apartment at The Hill School
Was our home, part of my father’s pay.
So the cottage in New Hampshire
Was the first real estate
They’d ever owned.
I cleared the land
The summer he had a hernia.
The pine paneling has darkened
As if from the pigment of memory.
Our grandchildren are fixing lunch.
Beth sits by the window
Where my dad used to sit,
Drinking coffee,
Smoking his cigarette.
Lights out, 10:00 p.m.
These are not good days in boarding schools,
Learning little, it seems, from the church.
I remember some of Dad’s colleagues
As a bit odd but surely not predators,
Though that could be the naiveté of the time
Or of a son.
Girls finally came to the school and to the camp,
His last classes were co-ed,
Changes coming, in which he would not take part.
He continued to fish
(Small-mouth bass, which my mother
With some reluctance fried in deep fat);
Played the piano by ear,
In the manner of Jelly Roll Morton;
And smiled sweetly at my mother’s kin.
I remember the morning when
He could no longer balance his checkbook.
For several years
We tried to hold at arm’s length
That most outrageous of diseases.
In the hospital, he held on
For his granddaughter to return
From Europe. Oh, goody, he said,
And the wavy amber line went flat.
I recall being miffed
When the school history did not make more
Of his service. I have come to see
His great achievement was in doing
Small things quietly and well,
And with the great kindness
Of which Nemerov spoke.
The limousine approached
The small graveside service,
My mother frail,
Clutching my arm.
Robert Demaree is the author of four book-length collections of poems, including Other Ladders, published in June 2017 by Beech River Books. His poems received first place in competitions sponsored by the Poetry Society of New Hampshire and the Burlington Writers Club, and have appeared in over 150 periodicals. A retired educator, he resides in Wolfeboro, N.H. and Burlington, N.C.
Sunday, November 5, 2017
USS Wasp (CV-18) by Susan L. Leary
It’s December and easier than you thought
to watch yourself die.
Your hands rest beside you on the bed.
You’ve forgotten how to lean forward.
Out front the sun exits the yard in neatly-timed
increments.
Trees are clean-shaven: soldiers
lining the street.
You are spared precision,
spared the grace of birds that smell of cedar,
find heat in the fluff of their self-generating bodies.
Pointing to the vanity:
Let’s play a game, God says, where you try to un-see
yours—
thawing into the sheets: struggling
to eat soup: eclipsed by the backs of heads expecting
one thing of you.
Except your granddaughter is five and you call
her Miss America.
She doesn’t know there’s something called
a pancreas,
isn’t listening for planes.
There was a time you would’ve bayoneted
‘em in the stomach—not thought
twice about it, but you’re bloated now …
and it’s snowing:
the ash of bodies torpedoed in the Pacific
blanketing your undershirt.
Everything tastes
of gunpowder.
Your wife, you think, has never held more perfectly
a spoon.
In a few afternoons, no one wins—
though God will bear down His teeth on every fired
bullet the Heavens knew to save for you.
Coming home,
how many men upon seeing the harbor
beg to turn back to sea?
Susan L. Leary is a Lecturer in English Composition at the University of Miami in Coral Gables, FL. Her poetry has been published in many print and online journals, including most recently Gyroscope Review, The Christian Century, Crack the Spine, Malevolent Soap, and Dime Show Review.
to watch yourself die.
Your hands rest beside you on the bed.
You’ve forgotten how to lean forward.
Out front the sun exits the yard in neatly-timed
increments.
Trees are clean-shaven: soldiers
lining the street.
You are spared precision,
spared the grace of birds that smell of cedar,
find heat in the fluff of their self-generating bodies.
Pointing to the vanity:
Let’s play a game, God says, where you try to un-see
yours—
thawing into the sheets: struggling
to eat soup: eclipsed by the backs of heads expecting
one thing of you.
Except your granddaughter is five and you call
her Miss America.
She doesn’t know there’s something called
a pancreas,
isn’t listening for planes.
There was a time you would’ve bayoneted
‘em in the stomach—not thought
twice about it, but you’re bloated now …
and it’s snowing:
the ash of bodies torpedoed in the Pacific
blanketing your undershirt.
Everything tastes
of gunpowder.
Your wife, you think, has never held more perfectly
a spoon.
In a few afternoons, no one wins—
though God will bear down His teeth on every fired
bullet the Heavens knew to save for you.
Coming home,
how many men upon seeing the harbor
beg to turn back to sea?
Susan L. Leary is a Lecturer in English Composition at the University of Miami in Coral Gables, FL. Her poetry has been published in many print and online journals, including most recently Gyroscope Review, The Christian Century, Crack the Spine, Malevolent Soap, and Dime Show Review.
Sunday, October 29, 2017
Our Hallway by Gareth Culshaw
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.
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.
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).
Saturday, September 30, 2017
Summer Cold by Ben Rasnic
It’s 90 degrees out
but I am holed up inside
with the mother of all colds.
My head swollen
as a blue ribbon pumpkin
at the county fair;
puffy red nostrils
perpetually dripping
like leaky faucets.
Find myself
on a sofa filled with quilts
time travelling to Andy Griffith reruns
sipping chicken noodle soup;
lemon, rosemary & peppermint oils
boiling in the kitchen
my mother singing off key
to the country music
radio station;
slipping once again
into sweet
slumber
Ben Rasnic currently resides in Bowie, Maryland. Author of four published collections (three available from amazon.com), Ben's poems have been nominated for Best of the Net and the Pushcart Prize.
but I am holed up inside
with the mother of all colds.
My head swollen
as a blue ribbon pumpkin
at the county fair;
puffy red nostrils
perpetually dripping
like leaky faucets.
Find myself
on a sofa filled with quilts
time travelling to Andy Griffith reruns
sipping chicken noodle soup;
lemon, rosemary & peppermint oils
boiling in the kitchen
my mother singing off key
to the country music
radio station;
slipping once again
into sweet
slumber
Ben Rasnic currently resides in Bowie, Maryland. Author of four published collections (three available from amazon.com), Ben's poems have been nominated for Best of the Net and the Pushcart Prize.
Monday, September 11, 2017
Closing Exercises: Summer Boarding School (Wolfeboro 2017) by Robert Demaree
The tents by the teaching grove are empty,
Will be coming down soon.
I walk along the lane
And listen to echoes of the summer.
What has been gained here,
What will be remembered
Of these five weeks?
Friends they may not see again;
The confidence to start afresh
At new schools in different places;
The teachers who persuaded them
They could write, or draw, or succeed.
The teachers will file their reports,
Take their own kids
For a last look at the pond,
Lash kayaks to the tops of their cars
Robert Demaree is the author of four book-length collections of poems, including Other Ladders, published in June 2017 by Beech River Books. His poems received first place in competitions sponsored by the Poetry Society of New Hampshire and the Burlington Writers Club, and have appeared in over 150 periodicals. A retired educator, he resides in Wolfeboro, N.H. and Burlington, N.C.
Will be coming down soon.
I walk along the lane
And listen to echoes of the summer.
What has been gained here,
What will be remembered
Of these five weeks?
Friends they may not see again;
The confidence to start afresh
At new schools in different places;
The teachers who persuaded them
They could write, or draw, or succeed.
The teachers will file their reports,
Take their own kids
For a last look at the pond,
Lash kayaks to the tops of their cars
Robert Demaree is the author of four book-length collections of poems, including Other Ladders, published in June 2017 by Beech River Books. His poems received first place in competitions sponsored by the Poetry Society of New Hampshire and the Burlington Writers Club, and have appeared in over 150 periodicals. A retired educator, he resides in Wolfeboro, N.H. and Burlington, N.C.
Friday, September 8, 2017
Off and On Tinty's Racetrack (Plainville, CT, 1952) by Ronald Moran
My best friends, Dick and Roger, asked
me for five bucks so we could buy a car,
purple, with the number 54 fading, sitting
in weeds on Zack's lot next to the pumps
in his gas station, and I said OK before
realizing the three of us had to pay for it
by pumping gas at Zack's, a fee for our
new stock car to vegetate on his side lot.
This was after I found out the car had no
engine and no prospects of ever racing
at Tinty's, our distant goal in buying 54,
where we went Friday nights to the races
on its short track, and where Dick wormed
his way into the pits, trying to con drivers
into letting him take a car out on a Friday.
One did and Dick came in third, more
glory than we could have hoped for then.
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.
me for five bucks so we could buy a car,
purple, with the number 54 fading, sitting
in weeds on Zack's lot next to the pumps
in his gas station, and I said OK before
realizing the three of us had to pay for it
by pumping gas at Zack's, a fee for our
new stock car to vegetate on his side lot.
This was after I found out the car had no
engine and no prospects of ever racing
at Tinty's, our distant goal in buying 54,
where we went Friday nights to the races
on its short track, and where Dick wormed
his way into the pits, trying to con drivers
into letting him take a car out on a Friday.
One did and Dick came in third, more
glory than we could have hoped for then.
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.
Tuesday, September 5, 2017
The Horrible Thing I Did by M. Stone
Recalling it
makes my stomach take a leap
the way it does when I miss the last step
and lose my footing.
It is the pain of a rough poke in the side,
leaving tender organs smarting,
but later I will find no bruise.
It makes me crave my lost religion
and the stern bogeyman in the sky
who can dole out retribution.
Decades have passed,
and I can only try to atone;
the gravity of the act
will not be erased.
makes my stomach take a leap
the way it does when I miss the last step
and lose my footing.
It is the pain of a rough poke in the side,
leaving tender organs smarting,
but later I will find no bruise.
It makes me crave my lost religion
and the stern bogeyman in the sky
who can dole out retribution.
Decades have passed,
and I can only try to atone;
the gravity of the act
will not be erased.
Now when I am tempted
to fetch a stone the size of my palm
and hurl it at some guilty party,
a person I find more wicked than myself,
the memory of the horrible thing I did
stays my hand.
M. Stone is a bookworm, birdwatcher, and stargazer who writes poetry while living in the foothills of the Blue Ridge Mountains. Her poems have appeared or are forthcoming in San Pedro River Review, SOFTBLOW, Calamus Journal, and numerous other print and online journals. She can be reached at writermstone.wordpress.com.
to fetch a stone the size of my palm
and hurl it at some guilty party,
a person I find more wicked than myself,
the memory of the horrible thing I did
stays my hand.
M. Stone is a bookworm, birdwatcher, and stargazer who writes poetry while living in the foothills of the Blue Ridge Mountains. Her poems have appeared or are forthcoming in San Pedro River Review, SOFTBLOW, Calamus Journal, and numerous other print and online journals. She can be reached at writermstone.wordpress.com.
Monday, September 4, 2017
the older hispanic men by Justin Hyde
i met
in detasseling fields
factories
& roofing crews
had nothing
or very little
besides aztec grace
& the dignity
of a bald eagle
high
on their shoulders
something of durango
jalisco
echoes of pancho villa
swirling
in their marrow
men like luis
ramiro
enrique
clockwork
no pensive
shame
or existential
brittle
i stood
in their shade
those lean
wandering
years.
Justin Hyde's books and other poems can be found here: http://poets.nyq.org/poet/justinhyde.
in detasseling fields
factories
& roofing crews
had nothing
or very little
besides aztec grace
& the dignity
of a bald eagle
high
on their shoulders
something of durango
jalisco
echoes of pancho villa
swirling
in their marrow
men like luis
ramiro
enrique
clockwork
no pensive
shame
or existential
brittle
i stood
in their shade
those lean
wandering
years.
Justin Hyde's books and other poems can be found here: http://poets.nyq.org/poet/justinhyde.
Thursday, August 17, 2017
Let's Blame It on Mother by M.J. Iuppa
There was never any drawing paper. We
stole the cardboard that kept our father’s
pressed shirts stiff— careful not to separate
straight pins that fastened the sleeves to
shoulders. We were stealth, trying
to ply the pine drawers open with-
out a squeak, knowing Mother was fast
asleep in the next room.
We gave each other that look as we tip-
toed down the staircase to a room where
we hid with bald-faced lies that became
drawings of the orphanage, of running
away with a red leather suitcase filled with
vinyl 45s & a week’s worth of underwear.
We’d get as far as Petrossi’s barn &
settled in their stable on a mound of hay.
We’d lie there, listening to horses’ slow
breath & considered what would happen
if we answered the black phone
ringing off its hook.
M.J. Iuppa, Director of the Visual & Performing Arts Minor Program and Lecturer in Creative Writing at St. John Fisher College, and a part-time lecturer in Creative Writing at The College at Brockport, was awarded the New York State Chancellor’s Award for Excellence in Adjunct Teaching, 2017.
stole the cardboard that kept our father’s
pressed shirts stiff— careful not to separate
straight pins that fastened the sleeves to
shoulders. We were stealth, trying
to ply the pine drawers open with-
out a squeak, knowing Mother was fast
asleep in the next room.
We gave each other that look as we tip-
toed down the staircase to a room where
we hid with bald-faced lies that became
drawings of the orphanage, of running
away with a red leather suitcase filled with
vinyl 45s & a week’s worth of underwear.
We’d get as far as Petrossi’s barn &
settled in their stable on a mound of hay.
We’d lie there, listening to horses’ slow
breath & considered what would happen
if we answered the black phone
ringing off its hook.
M.J. Iuppa, Director of the Visual & Performing Arts Minor Program and Lecturer in Creative Writing at St. John Fisher College, and a part-time lecturer in Creative Writing at The College at Brockport, was awarded the New York State Chancellor’s Award for Excellence in Adjunct Teaching, 2017.
Wednesday, August 16, 2017
In the Park by Richard Martin
A small blonde-haired boy came skipping past,
waving to me furtively behind his mother's back –
just two of the afternoon wanderers in the park,
where, with some thirty others, I sat patiently
on a flimsy chair to listen to a poetry reading.
Around us stood vast beech and lime trees,
prolific bushes and verdant lawns; the poets
told us they'd read about landscape, gardens,
fields, nature, and, yes, parks. The heavy burls
on the tree trunks became faces, grinning
at the thought of versifying their glory.
On the grass beyond a row of Roman columns,
enthusiasts practised therapeutic exercises –
the sun shone briefly through the clouds;
the reading over, we walked our memories home.
Richard Martin is an English writer who lives in the Netherlands close to the point where Belgium, Germany and Holland meet. After retiring as a university teacher in Germany, he turned his attention to writing, and has published three collections of poetry and numerous poems in magazines in England, the US, and Austria.
waving to me furtively behind his mother's back –
just two of the afternoon wanderers in the park,
where, with some thirty others, I sat patiently
on a flimsy chair to listen to a poetry reading.
Around us stood vast beech and lime trees,
prolific bushes and verdant lawns; the poets
told us they'd read about landscape, gardens,
fields, nature, and, yes, parks. The heavy burls
on the tree trunks became faces, grinning
at the thought of versifying their glory.
On the grass beyond a row of Roman columns,
enthusiasts practised therapeutic exercises –
the sun shone briefly through the clouds;
the reading over, we walked our memories home.
Richard Martin is an English writer who lives in the Netherlands close to the point where Belgium, Germany and Holland meet. After retiring as a university teacher in Germany, he turned his attention to writing, and has published three collections of poetry and numerous poems in magazines in England, the US, and Austria.
Tuesday, August 15, 2017
The Way of the World by Ben Rasnic
Pacing the concrete median strip
adjacent the intersection
of Central Avenue
and Ritchie Road,
his scruffy beard
daubs a face rutted
by hard times;
vacant eyes
expose the emptiness inside.
The cardboard sign
pressed against a soiled, slept on
Army Surplus shirt
reads “Desert Storm Vet
down on his luck
needs help to pay the rent”
and I’m thinking
‘There but for the grace
of God go I’
but the light turns green
& I punch the accelerator
so as not to piss off
those who continue
along this road I travel.
Ben Rasnic currently resides in Bowie, Maryland. Author of four published collections (three available from amazon.com), Ben's poems have been nominated for Best of the Net and the Pushcart Prize.
adjacent the intersection
of Central Avenue
and Ritchie Road,
his scruffy beard
daubs a face rutted
by hard times;
vacant eyes
expose the emptiness inside.
The cardboard sign
pressed against a soiled, slept on
Army Surplus shirt
reads “Desert Storm Vet
down on his luck
needs help to pay the rent”
and I’m thinking
‘There but for the grace
of God go I’
but the light turns green
& I punch the accelerator
so as not to piss off
those who continue
along this road I travel.
Ben Rasnic currently resides in Bowie, Maryland. Author of four published collections (three available from amazon.com), Ben's poems have been nominated for Best of the Net and the Pushcart Prize.
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