Do you notice anything? Her comment, laid down like a mark. Often I’m the kid caught napping in a class. But not today. She came home with his haircut, not the soft shoulder flow we found agreeable before. Suddenly, it’s swept-back sides, almost a crest on top. Not even a tight bounce as she walks. Did I forget some part of her? Should I not assume an always tender look? This hair could stare down the police. Always, always I support her choice of cut and clothes with brief remarks. But appreciation as an … Continue reading Now She Resembles James Dean by Eric Forsbergh→
What is the color of irony? This may be a silly notion, but we have given color designations to various kinds of writing. Yellow Journalism (today’s Clickbait) was a term given to (mostly) eye-catching newspaper headlines and sensationally exaggerated stories. Purple Prose describes overly ornate or elaborate writing which draws attention to itself by excessive use of adjectives, adverbs, and contorted metaphors to the detriment of the message. Blue Prose is writing of a decidedly vulgar nature relying on overly sexual suggestion. But there are some positive colors as well! They may not be as … Continue reading Our Age of Irony by Fred Wilbur→
If you can fit the beauty in your mouth what makes you brave, to spit it out or to let the giver of gifts see you make it yours forever? I’m not afraid of disappearing, but Emily shows me all the time that when I make an offer she will accept it until one of us has empty hands extended & the other counts lips as a promise to the bloom. Darren Demaree’s poems have appeared, or are scheduled to appear, in numerous magazines/journals, including Hotel Amerika, Diode, North American Review, New Letters, Diagram, and … Continue reading Emily as She Ate the Flower by Darren Demaree→
he texts me a photograph of the bear scat he found under the chokecherry bush which is bent to the ground stripped on one side of all its red berries but a black bear in our civilized back yard does it mean drought in the foothills does it mean boredom and the need for adventure does it mean the smell of those little red berries can travel for miles or does it mean apocalypse who can say perhaps it means we aren’t alone here perhaps it means we need to clear the vines from the … Continue reading My Husband Texting by Maureen Clark→
When the ceramic tile shattered, I was ashamed I hadn’t cared better for this piece of art created by a friend, one part of a quadriptych. All I saw was the void beneath two nail holes in my bathroom wall, beauty of the other three tiles lessened by more than a mere fourth. When I swept the floor and gathered shards on a plastic plate, I was reminded that all vanity is temporary. We consist of borrowed parts, atoms born in distant stars that comprised a billion things before becoming us. Who was I to … Continue reading Becoming by Bill Glose→
All is quiet; the winds have subsided; The storm’s dissonance is behind us. Sideways rain and sleet that tore through the night Have jeweled branches with icy shards Of pearls that refract the pale sunlight Demurely peeking through lightening clouds. Nuthatches dance up and down trunks of trees; A lone blue jay streaks down lighting on a bush. A thin white icy wafer-like crust coats The grass, the steps, and roadway, too, All unbroken by footprint or tire tracks. On this joyful morning as we celebrate This elusive moment of momentary peace, We pause, knowing … Continue reading Respite by Joseph Kleponis→
I stretched out my legs before me, ready to bury my dead bodies, when my boss invited me to his office and made me an immoral offer. He pleaded with me with a blackface and with eyes tinier than the mustard seed, that he would appreciate my help were I prepared to offer it to him. He would be grateful if I killed myself; so calm and gentle like lilac was he when he laid down a body-worn camera on the table and asked me to drive it wherever I went. I carried it with … Continue reading Self Driving to Eternity by Chibuike Ukah→
Poem, come in, sit down. How are you getting along? Are people reading your ordinary troubles? Let’s talk about that. (I hear my fatherly voice: pledged to do no harm.) Let’s first talk about your literal surface. The reader can’t know a poem at first glance, by appearances, I assure you. Don’t worry about snap judgements. You look comfortable on the page today. Is that safe to say? You might be a narrative, let’s say, or a description, a reminiscence, an emotional plea, a philosophical dialectic perhaps, or a political screed. Want to talk about … Continue reading Questions to Ask a Poem by Fred Wilbur→
In the ER, we try to save them all, yet, each death of a stranger is a small death inside me, an accumulation of failed effort that cripples imagination, cripples empathy, presses the dream closed. Still, each departure can be a small reprieve from holding back the flood of sick and injured souls, a momentary opportunity to draw breath deeply. Running along beside a stretcher down a corridor trying to pump a man’s chest. His eyes already glazing over, he won’t revive. I feel nothing. Evolved into a numb creature, I see only shadows, … Continue reading A Plum on a Tree by Roselyn Elliott→
In the empty lot across the street they graze on ground scrape and grind — diesel sculptors of land and sound that rumble words shatter lines I try to write take up residence between my shoulder blades and teeth. Then it’s quitting time and quiet unfurls through air. Into this gap this negativity of sound — an echo, insistent: how the backhoe’s motor idled, revved, and whined how metal screamed when it hit rock how workers’ voices floated like dandelion seeds windblown this stillness opens silence then words asking to be heard. Cindy Buchanan … Continue reading Still Life with Bulldozer and Backhoe by Cindy Buchanan→
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