Elegant and elderly, the woman stood in church,
uttered bilious words about the organist’s
loud music, then stomped off during the Postlude.
We stared at her, then turned to one another,
our mouths half-open, jolted and amazed
to hear such profane language from a woman
we had thought polite, soft-spoken, kind.
Continue reading “Lynn Hoggard: “I Think I Know””
Bee Cave to Honey Grove, Big Lake to Little River,
Sweetwater to Sour Lake, Kingsville to Queen City,
Newgulf to Old Ocean – lots of towns with ties.
You can breakfast in Early, lunch at Noonday,
and hustle west to Sundown for dinner.
Continue reading “Chip Dameron: “Crisscrossing Texas, or 19 Ways of Looking at a Road Map””
You, the divine cow
who we milk somehow
beyond the red slaughter
inside the blue laughter
You, mutable as the seasons,
mutable as the reasons
we give for our incontenence
on all the sliding continents
Continue reading “Chuck Taylor: “Dear Whoever You Are””
Two women in a boat on a summer’s day—patches of light,
blue and white, an umbrella across the knees, the waning
century, before the death machines—sitting upright
against the backdrop of water and ducks.
Eight years before Monet—she is a painter determined.
Her mother diminishes her work as ordinary,
hoping she will heed the calling of her sex.
Continue reading “Brady Peterson: “Summer’s Day””
You know about addiction
when after reading the rare
bird alert you find yourself
in the rain opposite someone’s
house, window rolled down
with beach towel to cover
most of the inside door,
and you start to feel a little
better when the rain lets up
Continue reading “Ulf Kirchdorfer: “Bird Alert””
Iridescent blue-beige, polished with a soft cloth
After rough chiseling with precise tools over time.
The twilight of dying day fixates on the angles
And brings the girl in a swing
To true 3-D pale white flesh,
With flecks of blinding yellow lightning bug flashes,
Despite her porcelain restraints.
Continue reading “Jules Gates: “Girl in a Swing””
I’m like the moon,
a prisoner of your gravity.
Continue reading “Ken Wheatcroft-Pardue: “Global Warming””
In the photo, Willie performs on stage to mark his 80th birthday.
Your eye is drawn not to Willie, but to the decrepit guitar.
How can one of America’s musical icons appear with a guitar
that looks as though it was rescued from the town dump?
Continue reading “Glen Sorestad: “Willie’s Guitar””
And so you find yourself walking with your father
along the waterfront.
So far you’ve only exchanged a few syllables.
And you know everything about your father
but imagine he’s come back
from a decade in a red light district,
too busy with STDs to pay more attention to you.
Continue reading “Anton Yakovlev: “The Submarine””
In a tent of conquered horsehide
sleeps a man in candle candor,
neck as thick as mooring coils,
dreaming wars that morning beckons.
Continue reading “Donald Zirilli: “Judith Cut””