Category: 01. May

Courtyard four hundred miles inland by Joe Ahearn

Courtyard four hundred miles inland Hunger. Thunder. High chalk cliffs. Not-blonde neighing in the rain, head down, arms crossed over her breasts… These grays do not stride as we stride, but linger as mist in the clefts of green hills. & plums reign at…

How I View the Coming Years by Joe Ahearn

God those sentences fields full of them Sentence last remains laid bone-to-bone Fields fractured by sentence tombstones Tooth sentence fractures skewed and chipped Names dates of weary argonauts

Refrigerator Poem by Joe Ahearn

Is it enough just to say what I like, that I ate three cold plums, that I grieve for the day? This morning I grieve because grief is my queen. Let us make a bad song of that lingering taste.

so i am not ray carver by ron androla

maybe you require my face, features, presence, audible voice, & the light in my eyes to appreciate & picture me fishing with my son at gravel pit lake. my line is wrapped in absurd chaos thru leafy branches, & half my yellow pole is…

A Sunday in the Early Fall by Dale Boyer

You walk the streets among the gathering debris, the detritus of summer underfoot. It crackles brittlely with every step. The neighbors in the house next door are readying for fall: the blue steps leading down into their drained white swimming pool. Their daughter Emily…

Monologue Inside a Bar by Dale Boyer

I’m too much in my head. Tonight, for instance, I was standing talking to a man: good looking, waspy-thin, a baseball player type with blond hair, wire rims. Told me that he was going off to Yale divinity, and that intrigued me — that…

The Man in Walgreen’s by Dale Boyer

Standing there as gorgeous as a man can be, the man I’d seen so many mornings on the train dressed up in business suits and starched white shirts now wearing crumpled tennis shorts, a sweaty Harvard t-shirt, stopping off to buy a few last-minute…

conquistador by jim dolan

now, my street runs   northsouth  curves west then back east again becomes Sylvan, the old forest road to the trinity bottoms, then, across and into town there’s a place where 5 mile creek appears above ground awhile then hides again on it’s way…

man, stick, black lab by jim dolan

holding a long stick the man steps through leaves like piles of hardened flame the black lab leaps gleefully his pink flag tongue hangs from his red mouth  white teeth gleam   he knows the stick will arc through the sky  he’ll run joyous…

The Revenants by jim dolan

(from the Fr. revenir-to return; those who have returned, the spirits of the dead, returning to the site of their deaths) he was just back     from africa, where he’d caught the spirochete, or a virus, syph–who knows?  maybe he just cracked in…

Sushi on McKinney with Yvette by Meghan Ehrlich

This is what I remember, before you left: The fibrous tearing crunch through seaweed into rich salty salmon, the calm click of slides changing (the sea; gliding fish; anemones like reaching hands), our sensual conspiracy of smiles, your extravagant thinness and elegance of line,…

This Day by Meghan Ehrlich

This is a day to wear. Grackles whistle and click in the leaves, damp plaid flannel shirts salute, flap from balconies, fragrant green horse-apples molder underfoot. I lay out my laundry, too, like an offering, like a sponge.  I will keep this sun in…

Bucolic Memory by Kenneth Elliott

You made your lovers’ songs thin with malice Those summer days we danced waist to waist In grass high as our navels and milky with summer Blowing locust flaps and Sirocco reed sounds. I would not sit down. I wanted to leave the crawling…

Frogs by Kenneth Elliott

I took her to the marsh edge at night’s threshold. The frogs cricked and moaned and I was flustered and apologetic. “I wanted to take you someplace quiet.” She adjusted her shirt, cocked her head, and smiled. Crickets sawed their legs off, and some…

Bellyful by Tracey D. Mahon Elliott

A woman should have, okay, must have, several things– a small square bar of soap that smells like honey, something silky and lovely to sleep in on a special occasion or a not special occasion and preferably purple with velvet trim, and a place…

Five After Wonderland by Alan Gann

rabbit dens, though alluring and fun always reminded her — of him but blue bonnets in an open field no longer seemed enough    so… I Alice chased a gray schnauzer down an ocherous brick path discussed Goethe/Freudian allusion in the early Mamet plays…

Sitting on a Manhattan Stoop Wondering at a Million Strangers by Alan Gann

Are those gang colors? Does that heart beat beneath a pointed white hood? Why must they jabber like that?  How to hold another’s eyes in mine without fear, reveal the shared desires? Struggling to walk streets free from a history of pain and twisted…

TOSAITHEOIR by Seamus M. Murphy

My buck-toothed & aching father would laugh at things he didn’t understand.  Aaron had a star & crescent moon beneath his eye & he’d lie down at the barber shop. Red used his hand for a razor strop, & long leather hanging down gave…

NECTARINE by Seamus M. Murphy

She spent the rosefish hour being new, & lay across my mouth & whistled to stars that fluttered across the gingertops. She was conjured by the fragrance of heat   & sliced peaches.  It was in late July when the cicadas mutter in the…

SWEET TOOTH by Seamus M. Murphy

In November darkness, the closed stars shine like yes in a crowded room.  We assign some type of feeling to events like these. We want, & tremble like your mother’s knees after hours spent behind some foolish contemplation.  We love the things we wish…