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| Photo courtesy of Jay Peasley |
George Moore
A
Desert’s Difference
The
uncertainty of a place is
my
place within it. Deserts here
are
at the windows in wind
that
does not relinquish its fierce
hold
on the day, even when night
intrudes,
and the Kandahar hotel
seems
a baked clay room with
small
glass fittings of light.
Still,
there is freedom here.
The
men sit in doorways smoking
and
there’s the dry sound
of
hammers bending out plates,
as
the body of heat transcends
the
day’s impossible mission.
I
am free to move as I please
through
the desert, the place
that
best matches my mind’s sere
planet,
the proper arena
for
a future tasting of wheat
fields
and thick streams. When
I
get home, there will be more
to
do than remember. So what then
is
really important? I live here
while
here, I live elsewhere
in
dreams, in the cold of night
when
darkness takes me in
and
makes real my other selves.
š
Poem
at the Bottom of a Pond
I
recall Thoreau swimming
the
length of the pond to discover
the
distance, the truth of his body’s
claim
on this earth, and his skin
like
mine, radiating beneath
the
surface of the water. I let
the
poem out as a bubble
from
my mouth. He floated
awkwardly
in a world that
would
not let him sink.
I
was wondering instead after
the
monsters of the lake, those
creatures
only boys can conjure.
The
poem buoyed us up, its body
the
surface of my understanding,
and
let me drop, down to the pond’s
rich
bottom, down to the final
wonder,
coming up for air.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
George Moore has published poetry in The
Atlantic Monthly, Poetry, North American Review, Orion, Colorado Review, Nimrod, Meridian, Chelsea, Southern Poetry Review,
Southwest Review, Chariton Review, and has been nominated for a Pushcart Prize four times.
In 2007, he was a finalist for the Richard Snyder Memorial Prize, from Ashland Poetry Press, and earlier for The National
Poetry Series, The Brittingham Poetry Award, and the Anhinga Poetry Prize. His
third print collection is Headhunting (Edwin Mellen, 2002), a travelogue on ritual
practices of love and possession. Moore also has e-books, All Night Card Game in the Back Room of Time (Pulpbits, 2007) and a CD, Tree
in the Wall, (CDchapbooks.com, 2006). He teaches literature at the University
of Colorado—Boulder.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Alice Shapiro
Song
Melancholy
mood usurps a tendency to act
as
I stare into the starry blue firmament.
No
one hears the twinkle of sky-lights.
Can
you listen to the soul of a falling leaf
or
is it too close to the scratch at your heart?
Higher,
we reach until an unbearable ache
pumps
up and down like a breath,
and
deep scars halt new words from forming.
Words
that cleanse, pave a portion of hope
on
our treacherous path. Reach. Reach out
a
hand and I might play and float beyond
moods
that settle us. Reach my mind in a kind
of
lagoon, tropics that surround with green,
lush
green curtains of embracing scent.
If
I could sing, our voice would rise and rise.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Alice Shapiro has been writing since 1985 when she studied under William Packard, founder of The New York Quarterly and professor at NYU. Her poetry credits include her first collection of poems, Cracked: Timeless Topics of Nature, Courage and Endurance, published by TotalRecall Press (2009), a chapbook,
Seasons of the Heart with Scars Publications (2007), and contributions in Silent Actor, New Verse News and the anthologies Poetry Connoisseur
(third prize winner), Antologia del Nuovo Mondo, and Thank You, Gorbachov!
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Gary Aker
Triple
Letter Score
The
conversation counts double or triple
like
big letter scores on the Scrabble board
at
the end
not
waiting wanting fearing
just
near her ending
sitting
by the nurses’ station
when
I call
They
give her the phone
We
talk
one
more time
I
hear and understand how
Parkinson’s
can twist her mouth
constrict
her throat
make
her tongue thick and awkward
Just
to be able to hear her words
not
too raspy or low
is
a double letter score
at
least
she
is hearing me today
able
to hold the phone
up
to her ear stuffed with a hearing aid
understand
and decipher my words
Her
brain’s not too muddied
by
medication or depression
and
confusion
Once
in such a state she said
You
really did come to visit me for Mother’s day
that
wasn’t something I dreamed
Yes
Mom I was there
remember
we went out to eat
and
fed the ducks
At
a pond near Chicago’s O’Hare Airport
the
dreams land
then
take off
and
fade over the horizon
But
not before
a
big triple letter word score today
She
knew it was me all right
her
voice always raspy but I didn’t have to say
what
what
every
two minutes
Each
of us wants to be here
more
not
less
to
be present for these gifts
I
climb this tall tree
put
the star up on top
and
curl underneath
her
sparkling words
like
jewels around the neck
of
the longest winter night
gifted
with this peace
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Gary Aker loves poetry. He writes poetry. Sometimes his poetry gets published. He also writes what he
likes to call sudden memoir, and let‘s
not forget his two unpublished crime novels. Lately, he aspires to be a better dancer, photographer and blues harmonica
player. Life is getting very young at 56.
Gary also has a story in our Fiction section.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Jason Ryberg
Loaded
Dice and Poison Candy
Hardly
even know it‘s there
most
of the time...
after
all, we are a (somewhat)
fundamentally
oblivious species;
whether
posited, serenely,
in
proper lotus position
in
the middle of some shimmeringly pristine
mountaintop
scenario or deeply steeped
in
some sweaty, chaotic configuration of love,
or
(just as likely), broke down on the side
of
the highway, 335 let‘s say,
just
south of Topeka, Kansas
(with
five pallets of National Enquirers,
bearing
the tear-streaked face of Britney Spears,
that
has GOT to get through);
a
weathered cargo ship
run
aground under a brutal, relentless sun,
a
hundred and one in the shade
and
a beer can rolling along all of a sudden
like
a tumbleweed in an old cowboy movie,
and
now a dog barking off in the distance
(as
if on cue).
So,
we are allowed, now and then,
an
absolution, of sorts,
from
our inherent obligation
to
fundamental attentiveness
to
most of the obvious
and
at least some of the finer points
of
the subtext and footnotes
to
the post, post-modernist novel of Life.
But,
still It hovers and circles,
always
lurking just out of the corner of the eye,
waiting
for the perfect opportunity to strike,
doling
out fate and fortune,
good,
bad and indifferent, alike;
the
nucleus of the all-encompassing,
all-permeating
physics of context,
the
fluid matrical mechanics
of
how things really are;
the
constantly shifting locus
of
the very “shit” that happens to us,
again
and again and again
in
sloppy viscous loops...
The
moment ultimately coming to a point
like
the point of a big red arrow
On
the Metaphysical Highway
Rest
Stop Map Of Life,
like
the finger of God pointing,
just
a little too accusingly,
at
you (and you and you)
as
if to say
YOU
ARE HERE
(and
here you are)!
Hell,
everything
else
is
extenuating circumstances
and
low-grade
accommodation,
loaded
dice and poisoned candy.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Jason Ryberg is the author of five books of poetry with a sixth one on the
way in 2009 from Spartan Press. He lives in Kansas City, Missouri.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Julene Tripp Weaver
Out
the Window
Still
water puddles
a slick-lick of sky
reflects blue sameness
Sunshine
gleams across a roof
treetops bare
this warm day early spring
A
gull floats effortless on wings
a serene glide
captured perfect in rooftop pools
Asymmetrical
puzzle pieces of water
wait, as we all do,
for life‘s final evaporation
In
the Sound a ferry crosses
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Julene Tripp Weaver has her BA in creative writing from City University of New York. She has a Masters in Applied Behavioral
Science from the Leadership Institute of Seattle, and works in HIV/AIDS Services. Finishing Line Press published her chapbook
Case Walking: An AIDS Case Manager Wails Her Blues. Garrison Keillor featured a
poem from her book on The Writer's Almanac. Her poems are published in many journals including Main Street Rag, The Healing Muse, Knock, Arabesques Review, Nerve Cowboy, Arnazella, Crab Creek Review, Pilgrimage
and Letters to the World Poems from the Wom-Po LISTSERV.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Matt Merritt
A
Name For It
Beside
the pantechnicons, we talk with the technicians.
It’s
the same old story of love found and lost, misunderstandings,
betrayals
of trust. A death, or at least a serious illness. And of course,
that
embrace. We had a name for it, didn’t we? The favourite device
of
the soap opera director, where a camera frames the face of one lover
hamming
it up over the other’s shoulder, and tells you the story
for
months to come. You exchange hellos with that actress I like.
The
blonde one. When you ask me if she could play you in the film
of
our life, I want to say yes but tell you that though she looks right
there’s
something wrong with her voice. We watch her character
say
her farewells, both of us wishing her a happy ending, and walk home
talking
the way we do these days, too much, too fast, too well-rehearsed
and
wholly at odds with the script. We ought to have a name for it.
š
Live
At The Hope & Anchor
Spud
is warming to his usual audience. The little fella.
The
one who once asked if you were a film star.
“Whatever
doesn’t kill you makes you stronger.”
They
drink it in, and nod, and drink
and
he says it again louder, and slower.
Repetition
is truth. And we’re all psychiatrists,
sitting
on couches, back seats, bar stools, but really,
it
doesn’t, you know? It leaves tiny flaws, hidden scars,
a
mosaic of hairline cracks that will only open up
years
from now when something hits you hard enough.
God!
Spare us from saloon-bar philosophers!
Walk
with me now, outside, to where the moon remains
amazed
by everything, and the old painted sign
is
rattling in the wind. Two things worth having.
Somewhere
to be going. Something to catch
and
hold you, and keep you from drifting for ever.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Matt Merritt is a poet and journalist based in Leicester, England. He has been published in a wide variety of magazines
and anthologies in the UK, USA, Canada and Australia. His debut collection, Troy Town,
was published by Arrowhead Press in March 2008, and a pamphlet, Making The Most of
the Light, by HappenStance in 2005.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
J.R. Campbell
Elijah-John
the Baptist
Elijah,
when he ran from Jezebel,
Having
lost composure after he had slain
Four
hundred-fifty advocates of Baal,
Dejected
by his flight across the plain,
Asked
God to take him from this evil world,
For
Ahab’s queen had proved herself the bane
Of
the holy prophets sent there by the Lord.
Elijah
had been zealous, but his fear
Prompted
this ironic exchange of words:
God
asked, “Elijah, what’re you doing here?”
Then
said, “Now go outside while I pass by.”
A
mighty wind, an earthquake and a fire ―
But
then a whisper as the Lord came nigh
Put
‘Lijah on the path that Enoch walked:
The
only two men who didn’t have to die.
Ahab
and Queen Jezebel had stalked
The
men Jehovah sent with His commands,
But
because the Tishbite never balked,
The
end of her would come by eunuchs’ hands:
Face-first
to the cobblestones and hooves
To
be dolloped out across the land
By
a pack of dogs. Watching from the rooves,
The
hoi polloi took in the hellish scene
As
the great adultress proved that it behooves
Everyone
to understand God means
What
He says. Don’t subtract or add a thing
To
Scripture, not even to please a king or queen,
For
we have seen what happens to the kings
By
example after example in the text.
It
was time for the chariot to bring
Elijah
home to Heaven and for the next
Prophet
of the Lord to take his place.
Elisha
now would doubly move to vex
The
enemies of Jehovah and His love.
Elijah
would return as John the Baptist,
Awaiting
Him who merited the dove
While
living on wild honey and some locusts.
Baptizer
of the Savior of Mankind,
He
came back yet again, transfigured with Moses.
Elijah-John
the Baptist, yes, would find
And
testify of the Savior of Mankind.
Froth
is Made of Boulders
Sticks
and froth shoot forward in the river.
Boulders
sway and tumble on the bottom.
Even
the fish cannot resist; they stop
Inside
the calms to let their colors bleed.
Even
the bed and bank are soft to the river’s
Rub
and cut. Nothing the river touches
Holds
itself in place. Sticks are bright
From
river fish. Froth is made of boulders.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
J.R. “Bob” Campbell
is a native of Amherst,
Texas, and graduate of West Texas
A&M University who has been a reporter,
editor and photographer at nine newspapers in Texas and Colorado.
He has had poems and stories in Ascent Aspirations, Autumn Leaves, The Cortland Review,
Paradigm Review, Poems Niederngasse, Machinery Press, Poetry Life and Times, Ancient Heart, TPQ Online, Prism Quarterly, Decanto
and other magazines.
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