Drive • Miranda R. Roehler
We don't quit
we are champions
not used to urgency.
Snow is begging to fall
the Spartans are threatening
tenacious attitudes.
Motion.
Great acceleration
countless good decisions
working in harmony.
we are champions
not used to urgency.
Snow is begging to fall
the Spartans are threatening
tenacious attitudes.
Motion.
Great acceleration
countless good decisions
working in harmony.
Two Poems • Charles Springer
Win Win
Last time I felt for keys in a stranger's pocket,
I won a new car. It was a De Soto. Big as a house.
I let the stranger live in it until I got the title.
By then the new De Sotos had come out.
With two now to my name, I let the stranger keep
the one I'd won since he'd already tuned the engine
and the radio to All Sinatra All the Time.
My prize De Soto was now a year older but then
so were we. Don't you love when things work out?
Don't you love the feel of genuine, red leather?
[+]
Different Directions
I promised my neighbor, Neil Jr.,
that's right, the one on the left
with the Wild Yonder Blue Toyota,
I would cut his grass for him while
he was away on Pluto. I know,
I know, that's a lotta cutting,
not to mention the gas and blade filing,
but damn it, a deal's a deal
and a trip to Pluto's no walk in the park.
When no one was around pretending
to be twiddling their thumbs
I asked Neil Jr. why not just close
your eyes and go out on the ice
and jump up and down from one
to four in the morning like everyone else
who could never afford Pluto fare.
At least when you'd come back inside,
there'd be waffles waiting with steam
rising to melt the frost off your lashes
and juice from a real orange. The kind
you're always going on about,
how it keeps you "in the pink".
Neil Jr. said he'd think it over,
just because I asked, but I knew
he'd been tired of all that grass growing
in so many different directions
for what's it been, decades, ice ages,
so I just gave him a little hug, you know,
the kind you give a hometown hero
who's been to hell and back and damn
if he didn't hug me back with both arms.
Last time I felt for keys in a stranger's pocket,
I won a new car. It was a De Soto. Big as a house.
I let the stranger live in it until I got the title.
By then the new De Sotos had come out.
With two now to my name, I let the stranger keep
the one I'd won since he'd already tuned the engine
and the radio to All Sinatra All the Time.
My prize De Soto was now a year older but then
so were we. Don't you love when things work out?
Don't you love the feel of genuine, red leather?
[+]
Different Directions
I promised my neighbor, Neil Jr.,
that's right, the one on the left
with the Wild Yonder Blue Toyota,
I would cut his grass for him while
he was away on Pluto. I know,
I know, that's a lotta cutting,
not to mention the gas and blade filing,
but damn it, a deal's a deal
and a trip to Pluto's no walk in the park.
When no one was around pretending
to be twiddling their thumbs
I asked Neil Jr. why not just close
your eyes and go out on the ice
and jump up and down from one
to four in the morning like everyone else
who could never afford Pluto fare.
At least when you'd come back inside,
there'd be waffles waiting with steam
rising to melt the frost off your lashes
and juice from a real orange. The kind
you're always going on about,
how it keeps you "in the pink".
Neil Jr. said he'd think it over,
just because I asked, but I knew
he'd been tired of all that grass growing
in so many different directions
for what's it been, decades, ice ages,
so I just gave him a little hug, you know,
the kind you give a hometown hero
who's been to hell and back and damn
if he didn't hug me back with both arms.
Why the Buddha Laughs • Michael Mark
The diamond in his Lotus
sparkles.
His big belly bounces.
He thinks $1,200
is hilarious.
sparkles.
His big belly bounces.
He thinks $1,200
is hilarious.
Two Poems • Howie Good
Dying Sunflower
The 7-foot-tall yellow flower,
it’s going to disappear,
wearing a stoical expression
& refusing all offers of help.
It sounds complicated but it’s simple,
a totally useless operation,
painful, tedious, & lonely,
the exact opposite of fucking up
over & over again.
[+]
Rocket to Pluto
Something happened, maybe,
a man firing blindly into a crowd,
or a young black woman
from up North found hanged
in a jail cell after breakfast,
that sort of thing, a rocket to Pluto,
something I didn’t actually see,
even though I have a window
in my office and it’s midday,
and clear, like the color of tears.
The 7-foot-tall yellow flower,
it’s going to disappear,
wearing a stoical expression
& refusing all offers of help.
It sounds complicated but it’s simple,
a totally useless operation,
painful, tedious, & lonely,
the exact opposite of fucking up
over & over again.
[+]
Rocket to Pluto
Something happened, maybe,
a man firing blindly into a crowd,
or a young black woman
from up North found hanged
in a jail cell after breakfast,
that sort of thing, a rocket to Pluto,
something I didn’t actually see,
even though I have a window
in my office and it’s midday,
and clear, like the color of tears.
Two Poems • Kristin LaTour
Honky Tonk
Saturday night, when the oven
is off and the cakes are covered,
I chameleon myself:
pull on my worn-out boots
and smear red lipstick
on my lips that will form
the lyrics I know by heart,
bare a little more skin
than my mother suggests,
go to sway in a dark room full
of people I could love.
I can't play like her, can't
sing like her, can't throw
my head back and laugh
at life like her. I tap my toes
and clap the beat, my smile
like a Cheshire cat's.
I give my glance to the boys
who look like they could
love me, or dance to the slow
songs, maybe even have
a Cadillac parked out back.
When I work at the bakery,
in my calico and cotton,
I turn the radio up loud
whenever Mr. Perkins
comes on. The pies get filled
with hip-shaking, the bread rises
in quarter beats, cookies
spread like the buttery voice
of Mr. Cash down my back.
People say I make the sweetest
stuff this side of the Mississippi,
but nothing is sweeter than a boy
who wants to dance to a 3/4 song
a waltzy melody on a hot summer
night, with that red dress touching
my legs, and my cheek next to his.
[+]
Wait
When we meet after a day away
and our eyes are strained from staring
at white screens, it is as if--
no, not as if, but when
we meet in the kitchen and smile
and reach for each other, I am soaring.
Maybe not soaring, but meeting
with arms wrapped around each other’s waists
and your cheek on my hair, after hours apart.
Was it hours? But at home
when we are tired of all the noise
of the world and want the quiet of our bed.
Not really tired, but our bed
is there again while we went away,
and it’s too early for what we want it to be.
Alright, not too early, but we just want to be
where we can hold each other
and soar for a time, maybe hours.
Saturday night, when the oven
is off and the cakes are covered,
I chameleon myself:
pull on my worn-out boots
and smear red lipstick
on my lips that will form
the lyrics I know by heart,
bare a little more skin
than my mother suggests,
go to sway in a dark room full
of people I could love.
I can't play like her, can't
sing like her, can't throw
my head back and laugh
at life like her. I tap my toes
and clap the beat, my smile
like a Cheshire cat's.
I give my glance to the boys
who look like they could
love me, or dance to the slow
songs, maybe even have
a Cadillac parked out back.
When I work at the bakery,
in my calico and cotton,
I turn the radio up loud
whenever Mr. Perkins
comes on. The pies get filled
with hip-shaking, the bread rises
in quarter beats, cookies
spread like the buttery voice
of Mr. Cash down my back.
People say I make the sweetest
stuff this side of the Mississippi,
but nothing is sweeter than a boy
who wants to dance to a 3/4 song
a waltzy melody on a hot summer
night, with that red dress touching
my legs, and my cheek next to his.
[+]
Wait
When we meet after a day away
and our eyes are strained from staring
at white screens, it is as if--
no, not as if, but when
we meet in the kitchen and smile
and reach for each other, I am soaring.
Maybe not soaring, but meeting
with arms wrapped around each other’s waists
and your cheek on my hair, after hours apart.
Was it hours? But at home
when we are tired of all the noise
of the world and want the quiet of our bed.
Not really tired, but our bed
is there again while we went away,
and it’s too early for what we want it to be.
Alright, not too early, but we just want to be
where we can hold each other
and soar for a time, maybe hours.
Two Poems • James G. Piatt
Nostalgia
Past midnight in a shadowy bar, in a
gritty city called Nowhere; a young man
in torn levis and a 24-hour beard is
playing a sorrowful song on a rusted
harmonica while a old man with a past
in a black fedora is singing a 60’s folk
song with a whiskey painted voice.
Something inside the soul of the lonely
man sitting at the bar stirs. The feeling
goes deeper than the poignant jazz
music playing harmoniously in the
darkness… beyond the whispering
clarinet, and swaying silhouettes sitting
at oaken tables hanging onto a last
chance. It is something larger than
magic, more obscure:
The feeling causes memories to echo
with the rhythmic beat of the saxophone
now playing in the corner of the tavern,
the low heartbreaking voice of the thin
chanteuse in the mini black dress
swaying next to the microphone, and the
gravel voice of the man lost in his past
playing the electric guitar in a rusty G
major, to the rear.
Feelings flood into the man’s mind like
ocean waves bursting onto jagged
rocks, tears tumble down his cheeks as
visions of the past curve around his
being leaving a nostalgic feeling in his
bones that he cannot deny.
He looks down the bar and sees her…
long red hair a beautiful poignant face
reflecting lost dreams. Her welcoming
glance and coy smile paints crimson
feelings into his body, He starts to
move, but something inside stops him
as he remembers another time, another
place, another beautiful woman…
a long, long time ago.
[+]
The Living Room
It is called the living room I believe it is used for guests, those
rare times when guests visit: It holds various sizes and shapes of
chairs, too many chairs…a collection from those who have passed on.
Most of the time, it is just an obscure room we pass through traveling
from the kitchen to the library, or from the library to the upstairs
bedrooms. At Christmas time, however, it is dressed up in scarlet,
green, blue and yellow ribbons, and a peculiar slanted fir tree with
gaudy ornaments and lights: Colorful packages laced with gold ribbons
sit proudly in a vague manner under the sweet smelling tree, odd
wrapped packages of unknown contents lie conspicuously about the room.
It also contains, at Christmas time, new nostalgic memories in the
making, a cacophony of voices bounding off the walls, aromas of
turkey, sugared yams, and pumpkin pie, and the laughter of family and
those rare guests. It is funny how a room can change its character and
barren minutes can morph into fertile hours, simply by placing people
and things into it, like colored packages, aromas, love, and laughter.
Past midnight in a shadowy bar, in a
gritty city called Nowhere; a young man
in torn levis and a 24-hour beard is
playing a sorrowful song on a rusted
harmonica while a old man with a past
in a black fedora is singing a 60’s folk
song with a whiskey painted voice.
Something inside the soul of the lonely
man sitting at the bar stirs. The feeling
goes deeper than the poignant jazz
music playing harmoniously in the
darkness… beyond the whispering
clarinet, and swaying silhouettes sitting
at oaken tables hanging onto a last
chance. It is something larger than
magic, more obscure:
The feeling causes memories to echo
with the rhythmic beat of the saxophone
now playing in the corner of the tavern,
the low heartbreaking voice of the thin
chanteuse in the mini black dress
swaying next to the microphone, and the
gravel voice of the man lost in his past
playing the electric guitar in a rusty G
major, to the rear.
Feelings flood into the man’s mind like
ocean waves bursting onto jagged
rocks, tears tumble down his cheeks as
visions of the past curve around his
being leaving a nostalgic feeling in his
bones that he cannot deny.
He looks down the bar and sees her…
long red hair a beautiful poignant face
reflecting lost dreams. Her welcoming
glance and coy smile paints crimson
feelings into his body, He starts to
move, but something inside stops him
as he remembers another time, another
place, another beautiful woman…
a long, long time ago.
[+]
The Living Room
It is called the living room I believe it is used for guests, those
rare times when guests visit: It holds various sizes and shapes of
chairs, too many chairs…a collection from those who have passed on.
Most of the time, it is just an obscure room we pass through traveling
from the kitchen to the library, or from the library to the upstairs
bedrooms. At Christmas time, however, it is dressed up in scarlet,
green, blue and yellow ribbons, and a peculiar slanted fir tree with
gaudy ornaments and lights: Colorful packages laced with gold ribbons
sit proudly in a vague manner under the sweet smelling tree, odd
wrapped packages of unknown contents lie conspicuously about the room.
It also contains, at Christmas time, new nostalgic memories in the
making, a cacophony of voices bounding off the walls, aromas of
turkey, sugared yams, and pumpkin pie, and the laughter of family and
those rare guests. It is funny how a room can change its character and
barren minutes can morph into fertile hours, simply by placing people
and things into it, like colored packages, aromas, love, and laughter.
Two Poems • Clyde Kessler
My Own Time Warp
I went home before I was born
to hear the old bootleggers run their brew
past my great grandmother, who stared
like an empty cellar’s key or like a splayed lock
with the metal re-welded and hooked for an eye.
They didn’t dare, and I didn’t, even if I became a leaf
that slipped across smoke, a century late, and invisible.
I heard their wagon creaking on a bridge against the sky.
It was a roughed-up road with nobody sober, rolling away.
An owl was whinnying off like a wildcat tethered to a ghost.
Frogs scooped their mating noise from March-melt snow
and moonlight snuck down through the alder leaf-buds.
Everybody was leaning against willows way too stoned
to remember me, since I was a future they hanged clouds on.
And they were just a steep mountain’s pioneer’s grand-babies.
They were folks already aged away with no words.
[+]
New Year's Eve At the Shark Bar
We dance at The Shark Bar tonight
where one face melts many old men
who killed a mako, or a hammerhead,
and thus woke our legends into whiskey.
A Korean voice croons with a drum
that we rolled off a bootlegger’s boat
for the New Year. The shark sign fell
into the inlet, but we still sing dark fins
knifing the waves. And somebody might
knife you with our songs, if you’re sober.
And I might follow you to the roof
if you think counting meteors makes a wish
from a fire. I’ll trust a shark tooth necklace,
serrated and sharp with its ancient force.
We dance if you dance. We drink all night.
The sun doesn’t catch another shark’s eyes.
I went home before I was born
to hear the old bootleggers run their brew
past my great grandmother, who stared
like an empty cellar’s key or like a splayed lock
with the metal re-welded and hooked for an eye.
They didn’t dare, and I didn’t, even if I became a leaf
that slipped across smoke, a century late, and invisible.
I heard their wagon creaking on a bridge against the sky.
It was a roughed-up road with nobody sober, rolling away.
An owl was whinnying off like a wildcat tethered to a ghost.
Frogs scooped their mating noise from March-melt snow
and moonlight snuck down through the alder leaf-buds.
Everybody was leaning against willows way too stoned
to remember me, since I was a future they hanged clouds on.
And they were just a steep mountain’s pioneer’s grand-babies.
They were folks already aged away with no words.
[+]
New Year's Eve At the Shark Bar
We dance at The Shark Bar tonight
where one face melts many old men
who killed a mako, or a hammerhead,
and thus woke our legends into whiskey.
A Korean voice croons with a drum
that we rolled off a bootlegger’s boat
for the New Year. The shark sign fell
into the inlet, but we still sing dark fins
knifing the waves. And somebody might
knife you with our songs, if you’re sober.
And I might follow you to the roof
if you think counting meteors makes a wish
from a fire. I’ll trust a shark tooth necklace,
serrated and sharp with its ancient force.
We dance if you dance. We drink all night.
The sun doesn’t catch another shark’s eyes.
Love is A Heat from Hell Not Meant for the Summer • Forrest Evans
I haven’t seen the sun rise
since I walked away.
Missing you is the closest
thing to the sunshine I miss.
The heart is a lonely hunter
and also a round of steel wool.
My God, no one told me love
is the passionate fire from hell.
She put her love on me
and all the music made sense;
all the Donny Hathaway and
Bill Withers made sense— my God.
Baby, missing you is the closest
I’ve gotten to a full day.
It’s night all damn day long
and the lonely are always out.
I can’t live alone or without a spouse.
The demons won’t leave me
alone and they don’t come from
the past anymore—
Missing you is closest I’ll
get to the warmth of full day,
a sunshine, a sunny day in Savannah,
or Sothern Comfort and sunset with you.
Missing you is the safest way
to be sorry and vulnerable,
comfortable and lonely.
The safest way to survive and love you.
since I walked away.
Missing you is the closest
thing to the sunshine I miss.
The heart is a lonely hunter
and also a round of steel wool.
My God, no one told me love
is the passionate fire from hell.
She put her love on me
and all the music made sense;
all the Donny Hathaway and
Bill Withers made sense— my God.
Baby, missing you is the closest
I’ve gotten to a full day.
It’s night all damn day long
and the lonely are always out.
I can’t live alone or without a spouse.
The demons won’t leave me
alone and they don’t come from
the past anymore—
Missing you is closest I’ll
get to the warmth of full day,
a sunshine, a sunny day in Savannah,
or Sothern Comfort and sunset with you.
Missing you is the safest way
to be sorry and vulnerable,
comfortable and lonely.
The safest way to survive and love you.
Boatload of Pain • Gerard Sarnat
summer vacation
marina job Mr. Shaver
the high
school shop teacher
got me out of pity
even though
my spring semester
wooden ox cart
was a fucking
disaster,
screwing
around, mostly
hammered,
this bad boy
let down Dad
who really should’ve
known
our kinda Jew
can’t use
tools
which
privileges
were revoked
by my wife
thirty years ago
after several
wangdang
doodle
expensive compressor
misadventures
Glimpses of Innocence • Ken W Simpson
The translucent glow
rearranges and changes
then fades
behind the evanescent
twilit sky.
Mementos from the past
old photos
silent and discrete
sit inside
albums and frames,
Daydreamers
swam or lay
on towels
beneath gaudy
beach umbrellas.
Lovers strolled
down Heartfelt Lane
vulnerable
to the blessings
of posterity.
rearranges and changes
then fades
behind the evanescent
twilit sky.
Mementos from the past
old photos
silent and discrete
sit inside
albums and frames,
Daydreamers
swam or lay
on towels
beneath gaudy
beach umbrellas.
Lovers strolled
down Heartfelt Lane
vulnerable
to the blessings
of posterity.
Paradise • Tango Barraza
There is
some small paradise
Hidden
beneath out drinks
And on top
of our souls
That edge
where they meet
In which everything is beyond wonderful.
some small paradise
Hidden
beneath out drinks
And on top
of our souls
That edge
where they meet
In which everything is beyond wonderful.
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