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PRIS CAMPBELL
The Pact
Each Spring, when the leaves first attempt
to wriggle their way through stiff stubborn
branches, the lost girls float high beneath
the ice of Lake Okawalla.
Their eyes track the skaters--
those pirouetting birdlike figures
in thick woolen mufflers, the daring
ones skirting the thinning spots that gleam
like opals throughout the warming lake.
Rabbits and deer shy from lake's rim.
They've seen the gray, unblinking eyes, heard
moans in the night, listened to stories
of suicide pacts, stockpiled pills, told and retold.
They lift their heads instead, watch
the stars and moon shiver across the sky
until a dawn sleet crowns thorns onto the trees
and tears melt rivulets into the crackling ice.
***
Visitations
He told me on Thanksgiving,
moved out by Christmas,
this man I finally married,
pirating away shared sea stories
and memories of our footloose ways
in that post Vietnam, one-marriage-down era.
The woman I was disappeared with him.
Occasionally, she re-visits,
frowns at my matched sheets, drapes
to complement the sofa, husband
with hands folded in front of the TV.
She reminds me of sea wind in my face,
clanking halyards, LP's strewn by the bed,
lava lamps, noisy communal meals
and how that blue velvet bedspread felt
against my bare and trembling back.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Pris
Campbell's poetry can be seen in numerous journals and anthologies such as Chiron Review, Boxcar Poetry Review, The Wild
Goose Poetry Review, The Dead Mule and Main Street Rag. She was featured poet in Empowerment4Women, In the
Fray and From East to West. Her third chapbook, Hesitant Commitments, was released by Lummox Press
in 2008. A full length poetry book, Sea Trails, will be published later this year. She was nominated for a Pushcart
Prize in 2008. Sidelined by CFIDS since 1990, she lives in the greater West Palm Beach, Florida.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
RAQUEL D.
BAILEY
(Haiku and Tanka)
a bumblebee's
continuous hum absorbs
my loneliness
***
birdsong
gently deepens
the crimson sky
making its way
to the setting sun
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Originally from Jamaica, Raquel D. Bailey is the founding editor of Lyrical
Passion Poetry E-Zine, sponsoring haiku and tanka contests year-round. She has earned Honorable Mentions in the 8th International
Ludbreg Haiku Calendar Contest 2008, The Haiku Calendar Contest 2008 (Snapshot Press), and in the 2007 Mainichi Daily News
Haiku Contest, Japan. Her poetry appears in The Heron’s Nest, Atlas Poetica,
Other Poetry, EPN, Asahi Haikuist Network, Modern Haik u, Acorn, Red Lights, Simply Haiku, Presence, Frogpond, Mainichi Daily
News, Ribbons, Chrysanthemum, Magnapoets, Shamrock, Wisteria and Cider Press Review.
She resides in Florida.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
SCOTT OWENS
Having His Hands Before
Him
“Less than All cannot satisfy Man”
~William Blake
Having his hands before
him,
having his arms and
shoulders needing work
having his mouth and
eyes
having his feet and
loins
and something called
the void
God wanted more
so with his big right
foot
he split the sky in
half
so with the heel of
his hand
he shaped the day
into light and dark
so with great globules
of spit
he hung the sun and
moon
pissed the stars across
the sky
coughed out clouds
threw down trees and
vines
and bushes and grasses
and even a shrub or
two.
Still, having his
hands before him
his forehead shining
his hair hanging about
his face
having his ears and
nose and high cheekbones
he wanted more
so with his white
teeth
he chewed up bits
of earth
and molded tiger and
lamb
dove and whale, serpent
and flea
so with his toes
he scratched out a
garden
so with his mirror
he chiseled a pair
of little gods
so with his mouth
he said, “Be
fruitful and multiply
but keep your hands
off my tree.”
Then, having his hands
before him,
having his mirror
cracked
his eyebrows knitted
together
his lips pursed inward
having his teeth dripping
and his fruit spoiled
he wanted more
so with his eyes
he cried a flood
so with his breath
he blew up wind
to knock down towers
and walls
so with his tongue
he burned a bush
and etched in stone
and lapped the center
of the sea.
Having his hands before
him
his fingers plucking
his skin
having his chest bared
his belly grown round
his buttocks pushing
out
he wanted more
so with his pelvis
he had a son
so with his silence
he nailed him to a
tree
so with the shadow
of his hand
he took him back
and with his long
spine
he lay down beside
him
and wept deep
into the hands before
him.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Scott Owens has received awards from the North Carolina Poetry Society, the North Carolina Writer’s
Network, the Academy of American Poets, and the Poetry Society of South Carolina for his four collections of poetry and more
than 400 poems published in various journals and anthologies. He is co-editor of Wild Goose Poetry Review, chair of
the Sam Ragan Poetry Prize, author of “Musings” (a weekly poetry column), and founder of Poetry Hickory.
He teaches creative writing at Catawba Valley Community College and has been nominated for two Pushcart Prizes.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
JAMES B. NICOLA
The Bounds of Gratitude
That we are bound
as Earth to spin and sail
in sync around a sun
to make day, night,
growth, seasons; that
brains, flesh-bound, can unveil
the unfathomable source
and end of light;
that somehow were
made mountains, lakes, you, me,
species too numerous
to comprehend,
plus the unnumberable:
infinity,
eternity, points,
pointlessness, a friend,
and awe for these
no language can express
and even stillness
only can exude
in silent sparks,
the end of nothingness
its complement: I
feel my gratitude
is boundless in a
moment’s touch—like this—
the universe contracted
in a kiss.
***
Purple Orange
They loved each other
so. But he was made
of purple; she of orange. Persimmon, Peach
and Rust convinced
her, "He is not your shade,"
while Puce and Lilac lectured him, "To each
his own" and introduced
Purple to Red
and Blue, whom he did see awhile—or tried.
Still loving Orange
from afar, he said,
"To please my friends, I guess." And then he died.
You've seen the rest:
In sunsets, autumn leaves,
and in the depths of blossoms, Purple and
Orange are found united, little bits
of one throughout
the other. Nature grieves
in remedies designed as Love had planned,
forever intermingling opposites.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
James B. Nicola appeared in The Smoking Poet’s first issue
in 2006. Since then he has had over ninety poems appear in a score of other publications including The Lyric, Nimrod, Upstart Crow, Mobius, and upcoming in the Cider Press
Review, and received the Dana Literary Award for poetry. A stage director by profession, his book Playing the Audience won a CHOICE Award as one of the best books of the year. Also a composer, lyricist, and playwright,
his musical Chimes: A Christmas Vaudeville, premiered in Fairbanks, Alaska, with
Santa Claus in attendance on opening night.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
LORI DESROSIERS
Thinking Rock
Small girl steps on
moss,
wades through wild
hyssop.
In the woods she is
safe
from pernicious imaginary
monsters.
Into green glen, to
the thinking stone,
an alluvial formation,
flat topped.
She climbs to the
top, sits,
thinks until she is
tired of thinking.
In Summer warmed by
sun,
in Winter a monument
to frigidity,
still a place to trudge
to,
to leave tracks leading
her
to the jangle of bells
on doorknob,
calling her back to
the house.
When her grandfather
is there,
she watches him smoke
his cheroot,
have a whisky with
her father,
their smoke rings
rise like grey ropes.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Lori Desrosiers spent
her youth frolicking on the banks of the Hudson River, but now calls Westfield, Massachusetts her home. Her chapbook of poetry,
Three Vanities, was recently published by Pudding House Press. She is the publisher of Naugatuck River Review,
a journal of narrative poetry. When not running around to poetry events, she likes to play her guitar and eat sushi, although
not at the same time.
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VIKKI LITTLEMORE
Vergessene Kindheit
Shadowing once pavements,
alien graffiti where
I used to know,
but I still remember
where the sun will fall
at four o’clock,
half-past;
in the moment before
dusk.
Virgin fences where
antiques stood,
cosy grubbiness is
now military steel.
Branches gripped by
baby hands
that were so old,
matured too skyward
to reach.
Once primal school,
dowdy with unsophisticated
dust,
now behind institutional fences and signposts.
New children play
in the yard.
Forgotten bodies now
married,
their children laugh
where I laughed.
The coals of memory
glow and remember
it was ‘the
playground’
and the fences weren’t
barbed.
***
Postcard
You will eternally
be my London shoes,
in the porch
at home in the ignorant North
with London
dust and dirt from the Tube.
A fragile keepsake.
I can’t
wear you.
Preserved as
foreign treasure,
with closed
eyes the many sounds are stirred
of London and
another world.
Foreign poetry
inscribed
on the red in
smudged black ink,
the frayed edges
of a Tube ticket.
Far from the
North
and beloved
northern grit and grime
and dirt and
myriad northern inflections
London understands
and opens unjudgemental arms.
They don’t
have gravy on chips
but you can
read in the park
and not feel
out of place.
Life happens
in London
free from proletariat
self-consciousness
and archaic
self-imposed reserve.
Life is lived
in London,
it’s on
the bottom of my shoes.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Vikki Littlemore
lives in Cheshire, England and has work published in The Glasgow Review, Poetry Monthly
International and Melisma, and was the second runner up in the Birds on The Line featured poet competition.
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DAVID K. CAMPBELL
Needles Dancing in
the Night
Bottle caps, racing form,
ashes coat too few empty space
in which to plan the day
while faded beauties
dance on walls yellowed from too
many cigarettes and way too much empty time.
“It’s always in fear. FEAR IT’S ALL! This feAR!
If anyone ever listen to FEar”
Tonight the color of cancer spills out of moon
on face and garbage piled high
stained light slipping-out broken window
blend _merge_ sickness_ moon_ color,
night dreams of queer boys
and junkies
searching for dead needles and lost change.
This mind is in disease;
digging into brain with ice pick
hollow-out place for newer disease to nest.
My silence enters reflected sound, the echoes
from too many bricks and not enough passageway.
The silence of an overdose… Silently thinking “Am I dead NOW!”
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
David K. Campbell was born and raised in Montreal Quebec. He has produced four books of narrative poetry
titled, The Redemption Quartet. He lives alone with his plants in Toronto and has
two daughters who sometimes love him. Recently, David discovered Michigan and is now working on a new book of prose and poetry
dealing with America (just to piss off Republicans) and a children’s book of poetry and short stories with illustrations
by children in Hastings, Michigan. He is also putting the finishing touches on a CD titled They’ve Eaten All My Poetry and Left Me Only the Words, available on his website. He is off on September
24 to Bangkok where he intends to live indefinitely.
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"One Halloween, he was
a baseball bat. He loves baseball. He loved wearing his wings to Grandma and Grandpa’s house. All the people laughed,
even if they didn’t know what it meant."
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