Current Issue

Contributors to the Summer 2018 Edition

C. B. Anderson
Therese Arceneaux
Jane Blanchard
Margaret Brinton
John Brugaletta
John Byrne
Selma Calnan
Jared M. Campbell
Ed Conti
Michael Corrigan
David Crocco
Gary Davis
Victoria Mary Fach
E. P. Fisher
Daniel Galef
Henry Harlan
Derek Healy
Frank Hubeny
James Hudson
Page Hudson
Phil Huffy
Jenni Wyn Hyatt
Margo Irwin
Bev Kaufman
David Kiphen
Ross Lehman
Dorrith Leipziger
Robert P. Lewis
Dwight Lyman
Paul Malamud
Jake Murel
James Nicola
C. Ellis Osterbrock
Ron Searls
Wendell Smith
Bradley Strahan
Annabel Thomas
Evelyn Torrant
Joseph Whitten
Lionel Willis
Alessio Zanelli
…………………………………………………………..

SAMPLE POEMS FROM SUMMER 2018 ISSUE

 STILL LIFE, by Robert P. Lewis

The mandevilla sits motionless, it seems,
its plush pink blossoms trumpeting the silence
of a torpid summer day, as sunlight’s gleam
off drops on waxen leaves makes sly pretense
of active life.  Above, wisps of cirrus
replicate this stasis in far-off skies,
a specious permanence beguiling us
with fiction of unchanging paradise.
Yet nothing on this porch remains at rest:
the plant’s tendrils inch hourly around
trellis and post; leaves ceaselessly ingest
light below the verge of sight and sound;
while spirit tastes itself as matter’s fruit,
searching earthen ferment for its deepest root.

……………………………………………………………

PARADE IN A SMALL TOWN MEMORIAL DAY 2018, by Annabel Thomas

First, veterans of WW Two
With unsteady legs and rheumy-eyes,
Shouldering rifles, steps in sync,
Khaki shirts and pants and ties.

Followed by, in uniform,
Members of a high school band,
Beating drums and tooting horns,
Directed by the leader’s hand.

Followed by a flat-bed truck
Filled with Cub Scouts, neatly dressed
In blue and gold with matching caps,
A merit badge on every chest.

Next come horses prancing by,
Their riders, in red, white and blue,
Are teen-aged girls with cowboy hats
And western belts and boots, brand new.

Followed by a red fire-truck
Moving at a laid-back pace.
The driver’s clothed as Uncle Sam
With whiskers pasted on his face.

Next a car conveying vets
Too old to walk, with flowers for
The graves of men they fought beside
Whose lives
Were wiped
Away
By war;

Finally, marching in the rear:
An excited crowd of little boys
Waving flags on slender sticks,
Hopping, skipping, making noise.

“Someday WE will go to war,”

They shout, their voices brash and shrill
Followed closely by their moms
Praying that they never will.

……………………………………………………………

ALCHEMIST, by David Kiphen

This better version
Would not be 
This worthwhile
Something seen
In me
Would not exist,
Nor have ever been,
Sweet Alchemist.
Patiently
You viewed
The base:
The ferric race
With which I ran –
You saw a trace
Of something there,
And there began;
Nor ever once
Did you desist
Until was found,
My Alchemist,
A man.

……………………………………………………………

SUMMER CONCERTS, by C. B. Anderson

The katydids and stridulant cicadas

Regale us with their aestival sonatas.

At night, surrounded by the song of crickets,

We listen just as though we’d paid for tickets.

……………………………………………………………

THE SORCERER TWARDOWSKI* TO HIS SPIDER, by Daniel Galef

Now night is risen.  One by one, the stars
Like blossoms open.  The tide is at its ebb.
Black seas draw back their cloaks to bare black bars
Of blacker sand.  The diamond hides its gleam.
“Tis time, Pajaku –wake within your web
Between the moon’s two ivory horns strung taut.
Descend upon the sleeping earth like Dream;
Drop down, through leagues of night, on silver thread
Spun from the tails of comets you have caught
To steal, from perched atop each sleeper’s head
Their restless words: each vow, each secret fear,
Their songs, their choices, words of woe and cheer,
Then whisper, little spider, in my ear,
For words are dear among the voiceless dead.

* Pan Twardowski was a magician of Polish legend who sold his soul to the Devil, but, while being carried off to Hell was dropped on the Moon, where he remains to this day with his apprentice, whom he turned into a spider that brings him news and gossip from the world.

……………………………………………………………

TODAY:  A BOOK OF HOURS TO HOLD, by Joseph W. Whitten

Pale daylight creeps the sky, gray-washed and cold,
and though I rise alone to solitude,
today’s a Book of Hours that I hold.
Unopened pages filigreed with gold,
embossed with summer flowers multi-hued.
So disregarding skies gray-washed and cold
and life alone, I bid the day unfold,
refusing loneliness that might preclude
my Book of Hours’ joy.  Let me behold
the recollected past that will extol
those lovely times we spent, and I’ll exclude
the days we woke to skies gray-washed and cold!
Our life—two loves’ biography that’s told—
now Death has severed us; sweet times reviewed
here in this Book of Hours that I hold.
The skies dripped gloom and muffled thunder rolled –
but I refused to let sad thoughts intrude.
So daylight chased the sky, gray-washed and cold,
and smiled upon this Book of Hours that I hold.

……………………………………………………………

 

Advertisements