Eyes of deer in the dark
where they have come out
on the moonlit pasture,
venturing out just a little farther
than they and I are used to. Continue reading “Ulf Kirchdorfer: Naturerama”
Category: Poetry
William Blake Brown: Porch Rocker
She sits in her front porch rocker watching
the shadows deepen and the street lamps
flicker on one by one. It is mid-April,
but the breeze caressing the wind chimes
carries a reminder of March, and she fetches
her worn denim jacket from inside. She drops
a chamomile tea bag into a cup and presses
the lever on the electric kettle. In evening
the porch is a sanctuary where her memories
glow as brightly as the street lamps.
“We had some good times, didn’t we?” she says
to the empty rocking chair beside her. At last
the darkness is complete, and she goes in
to find that the kettle has snapped off,
and the water in it is cold. Continue reading “William Blake Brown: Porch Rocker”
Simon Perchik: *
You darken each slice as if it is the flour
that has forgotten where in the oven
you learned to first go mad, alone
the way each moon before breaking open
lets you have one last look
mixed with smoke to make amber
Judy Clarence: The Closing of Katrina Rozelle’s
The bakery is closing
on the day my daughter’s marriage swirls
down the drain like the last crumbs
of wedding cake. Sixteen years ago
we sat, she and I, on a patio in the sun
on College avenue in Oakland, sampling
bite-sized squares of wedding cakes:
Continue reading “Judy Clarence: The Closing of Katrina Rozelle’s”
Yash Seyedbagheri: September
through the golden morning
while the heat hangs above
sun brightens bushes
festooned in flame and gold
though it’s only August
Phillip Periman: At the Lake
summers at the lake we sat and watched
the birds dip over the water and waited
occasionally I allowed myself a thought
what would it be like to walk on water
would I need a special type of footwear
should I take my clothes off without sunblock
nothing ever came of those musings except
the times you put your arm on my shoulder
those were the days when I believed myself
to be loved and all the world hung together
now it is winter and I am alone without you
where you are and on whose shoulder your arm
remains as much a mystery as then when
I wondered how you could love a pup like me
today the lake is bitter cold solid white
I stare straight ahead and imagine a bird
flying across the water in search of food left
next to the ice fisherman’s hut in the center
of the frozen lake where the ice is a foot thick
I realize now how easy it is to walk on water Continue reading “Phillip Periman: At the Lake”
Greg Huteson: Embarrassing Haircut
The oblong mirror mocks my reddish cape,
the gray hair lying neatly butchered on it.
The tidy barber, a pudgy guy, now shapes
each inch, or so it seems from where I sit.
Ulf Kirchdorfer: In Silence
Some people want to make something creepy
out of ventriloquists, as if their occupation
could legitimately be accosted, whereas funeral
directors get a pass, perhaps because the very
same people who speak ill of the honest thrower
Phoebe Marrall: The Gray Spider
Without announcement
or effort at display
or notice of me except
as I make shadow and motion,
a spider hangs below the soap bar.
Holly Day: Trip to the Farm
The butterfly lands on my hand in an attempt
of curious deconstruction. I stand perfectly still as it explores
my wrist, climbs up my arm curiously, seeking
the source of attraction, some hormonal secretion
or new deodorant that smells like butterfly love.
