Mother Is Dying by Howie Good

You’re whichever tree
sheds its leaves first.

The terrible part isn’t how cold it gets.
It’s how much you tremble.



Howie Good’s latest poetry books are A Ghost Sings, a Door Opens from Another New Calligraphy and Robots vs. Kung Fu from AngelHouse Press.

Portraits of Childhood by Rachael Hershon

I.
Shadow of a mill
heavy on roadside
Nearby a dam spits 
water flecked with
cigarette butts
Motorcycles rattle
disappear behind
gridded ranch houses
where last scraps of sun
cling to pine tips

II.
Blue curtains
blue paper masks
extra large johnny
unemptied commode
your father asleep
beside a chiming
heart monitor
weight of your bag
at the foot of his bed

III.
Stretches of brick
hold shards of sun
Silver river
bluefish belly-up
ghosts of violet mountains
inhale waking smokestacks



Rachael Hershon's work has appeared or is forthcoming in The Avalon Literary Review, Poetry Quarterly, and A Quiet Courage. She is from the Boston, Massachusetts area and is currently an undergraduate studying English and Creative Writing at Brandeis University.

The Cleaner by Gareth Culshaw

I was told he was gone by his son.
Remembering his frown, like a
ballast of railway line.
Firm as a cliff edge.

He was ex army. Bringing with him
discipline, strictness.
When he came out he opened up a
cleaning business.

Wiping away the used breaths on glass,
brushing away the dead leaves,
sweeping away the lost voices,
hoovering up dead skin

removing nightmares of wars he had known.



Gareth Culshaw lives in Wales. He has been published in various places across the UK and USA.

Birds at the Burial by Natalie Crick

Near the riverbank where we
Buried her, I light a candle

And wait, patient as a hunter
Detecting what the beast will do

In the next moment.
Someone, somewhere, will see it.

Barn owls celebrate
Over their cathedral of bones,

Screaming skies clawed with crows.
The man asleep on his lumpy mattress

Has a head full of ghosts and
Sad, erotic dreams.

Gulls rise, small white banshees
Worshipping the sun.



Natalie Crick, from Newcastle in the UK, has found delight in writing all of her life and first began writing when she was a very young girl. She graduated from Newcastle University with a degree in English Literature and plans to pursue an MA at Newcastle this year. Her poetry has been published or is forthcoming in a range of journals and magazines including The Lake, Ink Sweat and Tears, Poetry Pacific, Interpreters House and Jet Fuel Review. Her work also features or is forthcoming in a number of anthologies, including Lehigh Valley Vanguard Collections 13. This year her poem, 'Sunday School' was nominated for the Pushcart Prize.

Last Passage by Shulamith Chernoff

          To my mother Shoshanna, 1893–1994

Your skin is stretched taut
on concave bone, worn thin
by ninety-nine years of battle
with wind, sun, and bursts
of joy and rage.
Your arms that commanded
now quiver, your shrill voice
has softened.
The sapphire blue dress
on your thin shoulders,
a shroud of rustling silk.

Your eyes still retain
their cobalt blue, peer through
the veil of memory.
You recall dense
Polish forests, thrusting trees that
pierce clouds and sky.
Your small town Tarnov,
close to Kraków.
You remember the mushrooms
that carpeted the fields
like waxen flowers.
You see the peasants who
plucked feathers from fattened
Polish geese. You feast on berries,
red garlands that cascaded
from baskets of straw.
The peasant market throbbed
with a babble of tongues,
rising in the humid afternoons.

You have not forgotten
the hymn to Kaiser Wilhelm,
or the samovar and feather bed.
Your silver candlesticks
passed from hand to hand.
You remember all the names
of the first-grade children
in the fading leather album.

World War One:
you took a boat of passage,
spent three weeks in steerage
to arrive at Ellis Island.
Deloused and shorn
of given name,
you proclaimed your right
to conquer America.



Shulamith Chernoff is an Associate Professor Emeritus of Education at Southern Connecticut State University. She holds graduate degrees from Columbia University and the Teacher’s Institute of the Jewish Theological Seminary. Her poetry has appeared in Caduceus, Connecticut Review, and Louisiana Literature. Her second collection, Solace, is forthcoming from Five Oaks Press in 2017.

What Remains by Shulamith Chernoff

          To my mother, Shoshanna, 1893–1994

After all these years without you,
your bed still remains untouched.
The white goose down quilt from Poland
still bears the imprint of your body.
Photographs crowd your dresser—
you and Aba, your head erect,
your black hair a crown of braids.
Imperious, your swan neck
and blue eyes commanded attention
even then.

With a cloud of dust,
I open your old trunk.
Three braids lie neatly coiled
in paper: one black, one gray, one white
Here is the brass Russian samovar,
a wedding gift in 1913.
Here are the letters, the fine script
in Polish, Russian’s French, Hebrew,
love letters from my father
when you visited your parents in Tarnov.
I cannot live without you. I long for you.
I am intruding. 

I find your notes to me,
a letter of thanks to Shulenku
for her endless devotion.
Is this the same person I feared
as a child? Your steady script
etched in your diary
before your hands trembled
beyond control.

You left instructions for me,
how to open the safe.
You carefully typed the letter:
I must face the hard reality
that my days are coming to an end.
My illness made a great splash
among my grandchildren.
I lived in a state
of pleasant estivation.

You looked at me for the last time
as I held your fraying letters, your master’s degree,
pictures of your family in Poland,
the Russian samovar gleaming
in the darkened room.



Shulamith Chernoff is an Associate Professor Emeritus of Education at Southern Connecticut State University. She holds graduate degrees from Columbia University and the Teacher’s Institute of the Jewish Theological Seminary. Her poetry has appeared in Caduceus, Connecticut Review, and Louisiana Literature. Her second collection, Solace, is forthcoming from Five Oaks Press in 2017.

Nostalgia by C.C. Russell

A song that you left for me
on a mix tape – somewhere around ’95.
Today, a cover; this softer voice
singing the same words
to a slower tune –
a tone more mournful
than we would have ever imagined
then.



C.C. Russell lives in Wyoming with his wife and daughter. His writing has appeared in such places as Wyvern Lit, Rattle, Word Riot, The Cimarron Review, and The Colorado Review. He has also lived in New York and Ohio.

Things by Richard Martin

Whenever I walk into the living room,

a host of silent voices call to me --

the footstool, sofas, coffee table, pebbles,
candlestick, carpet all remind me

where and when they were bought, given,
collected -- inanimate yet vital;

my armchair embraces me and supports
a tired arm reaching for a glass of wine --

things make it clear that they're essential
to the magnetism of home.



Richard Martin was born in London and studied at Cambridge. For many years he taught English and American literature at the University of Aachen in Germany. He and his wife live just across the border on the slopes of the highest hill in Holland. His poetry has appeared in magazines in England, USA, Ireland, and Austria. He has published three collections.

Translation of a Basketball Slapping the Concrete by C.C. Russell

The way that dusk defeats us,
divides us.

There is a young man
in the apartment complex
across the street
who has been practicing all day,

his limbs robotic in their completed,
perfected movements.

I slowly disappear watching him
as he recedes. Sound. Only sound –
this consistent dribbling over asphalt.

How dusk erases the world
around us,
how dusk leaves
only our habits, their echoing rhythms. 



C.C. Russell lives in Wyoming with his wife and daughter. His writing has appeared in such places as Wyvern Lit, Rattle, Word Riot, The Cimarron Review, and The Colorado Review. He has also lived in New York and Ohio.

I can't by Matthew Borczon

tell enough
stories or
take enough
pills or
write enough
poems
can't stop the
helicopters
from landing
nightly in
my dreams
taking me
back to
the war
I still
call home.



Matthew Borczon is a nurse and Navy sailor from Erie, Pa. He currently has two books available: A Clock of Human Bones (Yellow Chair Review) and Battle Lines (Epic Rites Press). Another book Ghost Train will be published by Weasel Press in 2017.

Data Dada by Howie Good

Somewhere on the edge of town,
sirens woo-who, woo-who, woo-who,
inspiring dread even at this distance,
as I come back from walking Dewey
carrying a little plastic bag of dog shit,
the night sky hole-punched with stars
that I can’t identify but also satellites
in synchronous orbit, 140 by last count
and all peering at us through the dark,
like remnants of the gods of old who,
in a pinch, would eat their own offspring



Howie Good's latest books are A Ghost Sings, a Door Opens from Another New Calligraphy and Robots vs. Kung Fu from Angel House Press.

Here and Now by Richard Martin

A brief flash of blue and brown,
as wings fold their fluttering feather --

a jay has settled itself
in a fork of the chestnut's leafless branches --

from this vantage point,
it seems to survey its surroundings intently --

I contemplate the bird,
savouring the essence of the here and now.



Richard Martin was born in London and studied at Cambridge. For many years he taught English and American literature at the University of Aachen in Germany. He and his wife live just across the border on the slopes of the highest hill in Holland. His poetry has appeared in magazines in England, USA, Ireland, and Austria. He has published three collections.

Thirty-Five by Emily R. Frankenberg

I am the age of youthful presidents,
decrepit models and fading athletes,
as well as others, nondescript throughout the day:
the tired waitress with the memory
and the uniform she hates,
the polished lawyer with the torment in his head,
the distracted sales clerk and the teacher
with a notebook of failed plans.
I’m two years older than the carpenter
who died upon the cross,
and one year younger than Anne Bancroft in The Graduate.
Also, adjusting for the species,
I’m the same age as my cat,
who knows his tail and his routines,
but with persuasion can be made to chase a string.



Emily R. Frankenberg was born in New Jersey, but has lived in Seville, Spain since 2006. She writes in both English and Spanish and has been published in Amaryllis Poetry, Revista Literaria Baquiana, La bolsa de pipas, Typehouse Literary Review, Strong Verse, and the Apeiron Review, as well as in an anthology of poetry released by Editorial Zenú (Colombia).

Something for Nothing by CL Bledsoe

There were plates and bowls, crockery
with little yellow and blue daisies
on them. Every week, IGA had a different
piece. They gave out stamps when
you bought enough. Fill up a book,
and you got something. When
the vacuum broke, Mom saved stamps
in her little book. She had to take
them all the way to the mall in Jonesboro.
Dad said, “You can’t get something
for nothing.” Mom said, “It’s not
nothing.” He wouldn’t take her
until she threatened to go by herself.
On the hour drive up, he repeated,
“You can’t get something for nothing.”
On the drive back, the vacuum sat
in the back seat, quiet as Dad up front. 

 

 

 

CL Bledsoe is the assistant editor for The Dead Mule and author of fourteen books, most recently the poetry collection Trashcans in Love and the flash fiction collection Ray's Sea World. Originally from rural Arkansas, he lives in northern Virginia with his daughter.

Because Everything Matters by Ben Rasnic

The miniature rose bush
shed its paper thin pink
petals & delicate lime green leaves
with the first kiss
of November frost.

Against all odds, we brought the barren
rigid stems inside, carefully
tamping their fibrous roots
into a soothing caress
of organic potting soil;          

gave them a nourishing cocktail
of cool water & Miracle-Gro,
then patiently awaited
the re-animation of fresh green leaves
& vibrant new buds.

It would have been an easier choice
to abandon this life form
to its own primitive resources;
to die a natural death
& simply be replaced

the following spring
than to sacrifice five minutes                                                     
& three cubic feet
of den space,
the difference being       

what separates the dead of winter
from the magic of the season
where each new day begins
with the glow of transparent pink petals
in the pale morning light.



Author of four collections of poetry, Ben Rasnic currently resides in Bowie, Maryland crunching numbers for a living in Northern Virginia. His poems have been nominated for the Pushcart prize and for Best of the Net.

Sleeping by Neil Ellman

          (after the painting by Phillip Guston)

In the morning
when the birds begin
their dawn chatter
and conversations
with the light and rising sun
a shadow puppet
hiding behind a cloud
my smoke-ring dreams
will fade and dissipate       
after still another night
spent, not on sleep,
but squandered
on half-lit cigarettes
empty coffee cups
lined up like sheep
and visions of a life
more imagined than real.

If only I could
cover my head
with blankets
of forget-me-nots
and in the darkness
know the sleep
that others know
and make me feel
as I once did.



Neil Ellman, a poet from New Jersey, has published numerous poems, more than 1,000 of which are ekphrastic, in print and online journals, anthologies and chapbooks throughout the world. He has been nominated twice for the Pushcart Prize and twice for Best of the Net.

dad by Justin Hyde

there are no
warm childhood moments
to savor
when the clouds wax
nostalgia.

it was all barbed wire
misunderstanding
and mutual intransigence.

but he mellowed

i mellowed

the world humbled me
over and over.

at first
i shook his hand.

now
i give him a hug.

like you know
the sun rises
in the east

i know
if i call him up
in any season

he'll come
and save my ass.



Justin Hyde's books and other poems can be found here: http://poets.nyq.org/poet/justinhyde.

blairstown pears by Justin Hyde

uncle denny
worked at a factory
in bell plaine.
he watched nascar on tv
and golfed when he could.
i never saw him angry
or heard him talk sideways about anyone.
he always had a smile
always did what aunt holly said.
every summer
he and aunt holly took me and my six cousins
on an overnight trip
to the amusement park in des moines.
i think he actually enjoyed it.
i judged him simple steady and banal
in my twenties
and never sought his advice.
my son met him a few times
before a back-ache turned cancer.
all he remembers
is uncle denny handing him a pear
from the tree in their back-yard.
blairstown pears he calls them
dad let's go get some blairstown pears.
aunt holly sold the house
and moved to a condo in cedar rapids.
the pear tree is gone. replaced
by an extension
of the driveway.
uncle denny is still there.
thirty-seven steps from grandpa fiester
on the south hill
of the blairstown cemetery.



Justin Hyde's books and other poems can be found here: http://poets.nyq.org/poet/justinhyde.

Fall at the Playground by Martha Christina

Backs to the wind
we watch our young
granddaughters swing

the same swings
we bailed out of
as little girls,
skinning our knees,
but not crying.

Our families are
home for Thanksgiving,
and so we exchange a few
sentences about pies
and brining turkeys,
then: her husband's stents,
my husband's chemo.

"It will be better in the spring,"
she says, and we wipe
our runny noses on our sleeves,
although we know better.



Martha Christina is a frequent contributor to Brevities. Longer work appears recently or is forthcoming in Bryant Literary Review, Muse Literary Journal, Naugatuck River Review, and in earlier postings of Red Eft Review. Her second collection, Against Detachment, was published in April by Pecan Grove Press.

Terminal by Ronald Moran

Too late for me to say to my terminally ill
                         friends,
I hope you feel better soon, when I know
                         they will
not get well, and if they could still respond,
                         they might

want to say, It's Ok, Ron, we are ready,                         
                         a chorus
joining others in that final stage when
                         every
breath comes only in forty second cycles,
                         and

I don't know what I should hope for next:
                         another breath
or cessation, their eyes fixed at either open
                         or partially
closed, never all the way, as if to declare,
                         We tried.



Ronald Moran lives in Simpsonville, South Carolina. His poems have been published in Asheville Poetry Review, 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 thirteen books/chapbooks of poetry. Clemson University Press published his Eye of the World in the spring of this year.