Tag Archives: Poetry

Lover’s Quarrel; At the Intersection by Stephen Hitchcock


 

Lover’s Quarrel   1 Because you cling like cigarette smoke, thin and acrid, in the brim of my hat, as if you know God lives on the addiction of our breath. 2 When the shadows finish wallpapering the bedroom, and the crows flock east with the traffic, is when. 3 How can I watch, in peace, the city bathe behind the sheer plastic shower curtain of the rain? My eyes towel off a nakedness not ours. 4 Because it’s late, and we know it will all expire, and I’ve programmed the wind, an oscillating fan, … Continue reading Lover’s Quarrel; At the Intersection by Stephen Hitchcock

Voices by Janice Bowen


 

Voices   I would be sitting there idly twirling the strawberry perched on top of the plump red pincushion while she was hunched over the singer filigreed foot pedal making rhythmical clicking sounds as sky blue fabric folded in creamy waves under the needle mother’s voice soft and dreamy answering someone only she could hear a revelation to me that anyone else could have a surging inner-life when I had always assumed each stitch every sigh was meant for me alone Janice Bowen says, “When poetry found me, I was lollygagging — leading an easy … Continue reading Voices by Janice Bowen

Katie on Fire; Just a Drip by Dan Bieker


 

Katie on Fire   Sunset and silence, chocolate bars and coffee— Katie fingers rifle shells after dinner, stacked in rows and flicked the way a child does dominoes. These mountains have a way of messing with one’s marbles, loose, scattered…sometimes spilled. She had banked on babies, and her husband holding still; got busted fence instead, scattered cattle, a cold bed. Tomorrow— ten inches of new snow twenty degrees, and another dog to bury. Peach blossoms in April— she can only dream pounding the floorboards raw pacing off caffeine. Fresh butter beans, strawberries ripe and dirt … Continue reading Katie on Fire; Just a Drip by Dan Bieker

Woman at the Post Office by Kristen Staby Rembold


 

Woman at the Post Office   An old woman’s trouble in deciding is holding up the line. Another crowd, another time, a loudmouth might complain, but here in mid-morning, the retired, mothers, students, all stand quiet. Her jaw slowly slackening, insistence draining from her face. Finally, she lifts her finger —a pronouncement, or merely a flicker?— and the clerk says, that’ll be seven-fifty. We witnesses stop holding our breath. She reaches into her bag, that reflex intact, and no wonder, considering how a woman’s life is comprised of procurement. The clerk hands back her change. … Continue reading Woman at the Post Office by Kristen Staby Rembold

Optional Yoga at Sunrise by Daniel Becker


 

Optional Yoga at Sunrise   We’re told to drop into each breath then release the air like wind in the trees. Outside, a windmill slices light. The murmuring pines are all piñons. The desert flows into the mountains. The air is dry as sand. We’re told to look but not to focus, but I can close both eyes and follow a ripple of wind across a lagoon where it reaches a beach outlined by palms, barely ruffling their fronds. My yoga wants to be the balmy kind, the early morning dozing kind. With practice and … Continue reading Optional Yoga at Sunrise by Daniel Becker

Letter to the Body by Roselyn Elliott


 

Letter to the Body   If only you were the pure self, we would not have to bargain or pray, offer up good deeds for relief of pain, or apologies for spasms and expectorations. The cells could absorb and discharge at leisure. Whatever waste washes ashore in the brain or in the heart, would, without shame, increase the one being. No struggle to justify, no explaining we’re really much better than our hunched back, our protuberances, just the material presence, occupying space, insular and detaching, floating away for a day on the sea’s silver face, … Continue reading Letter to the Body by Roselyn Elliott

Two Poems by Charlotte Matthews


 

Self Check-out   Of course I have my doubts, but when no one’s looking I pretend I’m someone else: the tightrope walker, The Great Farini, crossing Niagara Falls with a man on my back. Or the veiled beekeeper squeezing the bellows of my smoker to calm the hive. I wish I could reverse time to meet the doctor who, so eager to rid my mother of scarlet fever, told her to cut her rocking horse’s mane, told her it would grow back. I’d explain how a lie rearranges the world, and in a very dangerous … Continue reading Two Poems by Charlotte Matthews

Teresa Lewis; Choosing the Nude by Lisa Ryan


 

Teresa Lewis   They are raising amnesty signs along the courthouse road portraits with her missing lateral incisor filled in perhaps to make her look more like themselves perhaps taking back the tooth-for-a-tooth. In their silence I recall her singing “I need a miracle” and her voice is not empty more like a bowl with overflowing reminders of how long it’s been since I sang for anything. I will be eating artichokes when her veins drink that final cocktail devouring the heart while the maple leaves shout with their loudest colored voices, falling quietly on … Continue reading Teresa Lewis; Choosing the Nude by Lisa Ryan

Sunday School; The Passion of Bursars by Michael Chitwood


 

Sunday School   Here’s what I’m thinking: Why does a duck need an ark? What’s a flood to a duck? The teacher says I ask too many questions. I raise my hand again, thinking if we didn’t have teachers would we ever have to raise our hands? I won’t eat tomatoes. The slices in a white bowl are like pieces of someone, Saint Somebody of the Better Boys. I might go out and play David and Goliath this afternoon. Sometimes I wonder what it would be like to be the giant. Everybody wants to be … Continue reading Sunday School; The Passion of Bursars by Michael Chitwood

Three Poems by Sharron Singleton


 

Rehearsal   The best thing about the house I grew up in was that it sat at the edge of a small weedy lake where my mother and I would row to a raft through a thick tangle of water lilies, their white cups floating above green saucers. She would tie a rope around my chest, hold it taut and walk the edge of the raft as I flailed in the water learning to swim. Now I walk the tight perimeter of loss, love’s ligaments stretching between us as she prepares to swim out of … Continue reading Three Poems by Sharron Singleton