Category: 72. August

Noah’s Cottage by Marie-Andree Auclair

I soft-paddle the canoe on the new lake where the lawn used to grow. I see the river flow grey and patient then the cottage moving away our cottage adrift with our family memories attached to its walls, tucked on shelves nestled in the…

Resilience by Marie-Andree Auclair

My grandfather’s fierce hands he wiggles fingers tendons and veins glide across the back of his hands return to their place. I press a vein by his wrist trace path to knuckle empty blue vein of blood which finds its way back after I…

Steadfast by Marie-Andree Auclair

She tells of bones that walk us, unseen, obvious, skull under scalp shin bone, fibula, femur so many bones shape, articulate us. She stares in mirror — candle glow — spies her face tells of twin caverns quiet ponds eye pebbles afloat, tenderly examines…

American Dream by Mela Blust

i can’t hold you with this american dream the knuckles are scraped the thighs are bruised and i’m afraid of everything that moves i can’t look into a mirror anymore without repeating what it already knows it doesn’t want me/ i am not home…

Flammable by Mela Blust

everything was hot to the touch but i didn’t know that i was flammable. no one had ever told me.I barely remember a grown man throwing a match into the tinder of my thighs when i was just a girl. so i went through…

The Retired Dog Catcher Loses His Wife by Dennis Camire

And like those old strays he dogged, wanders Streets and alleys–though no one, he grieves, Is postering his sad, furry face on telephone poles Or offering up to two-hundred bucks If his heart’s own beloved pug is returned, Unharmed, to Jane on 2 Cemetery…

Sunrise by Vincent Canizaro

under the gulf stars a lone seagull cries her fear divides the morning light

Are Magpies Gods or Spy Cameras? by Martin Christmas

Sitting on a ledge of the steel and glass office block across the street on level six, a magpie, sitting at one end. Suddenly this magpie runs, hops, along the ledge six levels high, looking, watching the world below, or is it? Every so…

Two Different Dogs by Martin Christmas

Two Different Dogs Out on a morning street trek, coming towards me, an elderly woman pushing a stroller with a small grey child in it. Up close I see I need a Spec Saver check up, a little grey Yorkshire terrier. We chat– the…

Night, House by DAH

Houses, made of shadows of hallways dragging footsteps, night’s brooding matter Windows, dark sketches against glass The sky comes down hard inside my head like a disturbing face of black eyes cold as any winter pane smeared as any ink blotter Reaching floor to…

Blood Moon by Robert Ferrier

Tonight I explode light with long lens. Focus between limbs. Balance moon atop a shadowy chimney. I feel small, insignificant in a universe of diamonds. I sling my dreams, trusting stars to illumine hearts light years away. Lunar cycles bookend lives: beginnings relationships endings….

Weather-Sensitive by Steven Fortune

This heavy humid June rain betrays Mother Nature’s tweak of masochism curiosity in a failed censorship of quaint elemental menstrual melancholy The kind of weather Teddy Hughes would suffer to befriend My muse enables star manifesting in a room immune to skies though it…

Harbor by Ray Greenblatt

It’s fashionable these days to live by the water so we put all our worth into a condo. It’s a delight to see the harbor blue on sunny days green now and then we imagine but mostly a silty brown. We lie on lounges…

The Border of Your Heart by Patricia Hamilton

is patrolled by a tiny figure goose-stepping back and forth, bayonet poised to jab at anyone deemed undesirable, dispensable: anyone not exactly like you. The unscalable black fence around your mind is wrought from rigid iron topped with spikes designed to keep out any…

This Sweater by Patricia L. Hamilton

You think I shouldn’t wear it? Even if it’s my favorite? Well, maybe so. But its pink is the delicate hue of plum blossoms fluttering in the breeze after an endless season of sullen gray clouds and humorless rain, its intricate pattern the wisdom…

Graves by Bob Hoeppner

Most graves are already dead but they don’t act like it, their erect stones poised to impregnate the eye with names and dates until every pathetic fallacy scrubs the data beyond the rubbings like to a genie’s lamp, meant to invoke the person from…

Mid-Life by D. R. James

That dusk was too deft: it wicked sad nostalgia out of treetops, scrawled and flicked far-flung secrets across a chimerical sphere, treaded afresh its upheld ceiling of concrete gauze. Ah, those were the leaps of an unwilled mind wild atop its uncoiled spine of…

Sisyphus Loses Track by D. R. James

His round trips triggered the technology of counting: clouds, moons, planets, galaxies, his rank breaths dusting the eternal groove. But erasure of future, easing of scars inflicted playing strung puppeteer to the gods, echo sweet gestures tendered like rain. Compass missing, mirror of death…

Wait for It by D. R. James

The forecast hovers between soggy and gratitude, verges on awe, balances muted light against lopsided gladness. Meanwhile (though Cosmos clatters its remote stones, and Existence casts its Theater of the Unheard from among the docile), the man’s morning’s pouring itself into day—and he stares…

Amygdala by Brandi Kary

Things fail us. My sister’s grey matter, the the letter “O” drawn in sand, the needle of a compass, remorse, the orbits of moon– Yet, we know the magic of the brain, setting each hemisphere on fire, each fold, each wrinkle, the geographies of…

Thursday Ritual by Gary Lark

Brad backs the pickup across the yard in line with the top step and lays down 2-by-12s to bridge the gap. His father watches from the window. This is a Thursday ritual, going to town. His father gets the door open and navigates his…

Light by Mary Ann Meade

There, in the field, the light rising from the husks. Fool’s gold her father whispers, the cat squinting up from the grass, and she, a frail child, holding on to the husks. Never mind her cough, the dust. Never mind the words of her…

Sugar Apple by Rajnish Mishra

Sugar apple green, yellow sometimes. Which shade of green? Dark or light, artificial or small-painted-clay-toy green? Which shade of yellow? Sunlight seen through a thin webbed peepal leaf with most of its green gone, and just the veins and a film of leaf. The…

The Whims of Sleep by Elizabeth Morse

Sleep no longer loves me. The phone buzzes once, dialing lights That streak across the ceiling. I sit up in bed, Reading ice-cube promises in a crystal glass. Star and moon cookies with white frosting And tiny silver dots recline in a plate. I…

The Old Men by Benjamin Nash

The blue heron in the dark pond, tall pines, reminds me of the old men, walking carefully, wearing the beat up cowboy hat, a good one for Sundays, getting up at light to watch the beef prices, going to bed when the sun goes…

South by Nathanael O’Reilly

Lift the luggage down from the garage shelf pack for another journey fold jeans, shirts and shorts roll socks, belts and undies gather toiletries, running gear sunglasses, boots and books for the trip south into the hot, dry hills where tequila, cerveza tacos, fajitas,…

Breathing by John Ogren

Waiting at a stoplight, I noticed a plastic shopping bag caught in the upper branches of a tall, leafless tree across the freeway. The palest gray, it first made me think of an egg. I might have seen it before— a jelly fish hovering…

Nothing is true in Dallas by John Ogren

Nothing is true in Dallas. Streets run askew at its heart and constantly prank the compass mind— erratic radii off a bucking colt of a river, lately bridled and channeled. Drive out and patterns regress to norms of latitude and longitude but even here…

Vagrants by John Ogren

Birders in Texas pay attention to hurricanes because the gigantic pinwheels blow birds everywhere. When birds are blown off course during migration, some right their compasses and complete their routes. Others make do in borrowed habitats. Due to strange surroundings and exhaustion these vagrants…

Haibun by Martin A. Ramos

On Sunday there was an emergency call about a woman who was in a desperate way down by the river. We heard the report and went down to the river where she was shouting and screaming that the current had taken her daughter… No…

Remain by Ann Randlette

Granny rides on the backseat near me as my brother drives the two lane roads, crosses the bridge over the Nisqually River. He pulls onto the verge and despite the warning signs, ‘Restricted, Military Personnel only’ follows the dirt lane to the dead end…

Trees by Errol Rubenstein

In their naked and undisguised irregularity, trees Are shocking to me, Trunk hunkered in the ground, Roots spread like eels, scrutinizing the soil, A woodpecker’s knothole Making a home for some tiny starling, titmouse or chickadee– Cavity-nesters in the heartwood. A small rodent, a…

When Those in Power by Errol Rubenstein

When Those in Power Huddle in hallway corners To discuss false claims and accusations levelled against you; When the metal jaws clamp down And your flag of freedom hangs limp in the dead breeze And your means to sustenance is endangered And your gainful…

Downfall by Ann Christine Tabaka

Disbelief shall be our loss, wading through deception. Want and desire play their hand against fact and fate. Like so much sour milk, our longings spill out. Transformation resists, a stalemate results. Incredulous masses stand their ground, disregarding what lies directly in their path….

Alteration by Agnes Vojta

The dress fit her perfectly for years; it wore comfortably, and she liked the way she looked in it – until one day, it suddenly felt too short, too tight, the seams fraying. She tried to adjust it, pulled and tugged, but it didn’t…

How to Walk on Slickrock by Agnes Vojta

Trust your brain and feet to read, instinctively, the interplay of gravity and friction. Do not second-guess whether you will be able to walk down the steep slope. Commit to your step without hesitation. Put your full weight on your feet, walk erect, with…

Train to Uncertainty by Agnes Vojta

While you are living your questions and listen for the elusive answers that may never come, the universe pulls the rug out from under you and slams the door shut. You are left in a rubble of regrets. You should have jumped on the…

Small Things by Johann van der Walt

it’s the small things that count the most small gears that fit neatly into one another these parts kick start the biggest of machines it’s talking without mouths that I remember the longing sigh we give late at night when everybody is asleep and…

Meditation: University Green by Cullen Whisenhunt

The leather magnolia petals fall hard as if to crack the sidewalk, then lie bowl-still beside waxy leaves already yellowed by spring downshifting into summer. They twitch and skitter like the bottlebrush tail of a nearby red squirrel, lifted by the slightest breeze to…

Visions of Durant, OK by Cullen Whisenhunt

who loned it through the streets in Idaho seeking visionary indian angels who were visionary indian angels —Allen Ginsberg, “Howl” I saw him today, Allen. Saw him as I blew down Enterprise Boulevard like an eastern wind. Saw him framed above the road in…