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Showing posts from January, 2017

A reasonable thing, a poem by Treh Dickerson

A reasonable thing by Treh Dickerson the backyard is at ease I stand on the deck and smoke night clouds are white layered on dark blue, I tap the lid of the toy bin looking for rainwater to smash my cigar in I snuff it in the bonfire, drag its good length through ash until it unravels, bends sideways, I waste a thumbs weight of tobacco I hear crickets and the sharp echo of dogs set each other off Treh Dickerson: “After having completed my education and the acquiring of a second-rate degree in English I continue to write poetry, inspired mostly by anything that has to do with dutch mysticism in the 19th century around the cities and villages that comprised New England at that time, and black comedians (Chris Rock, Richard Pryor, etc). These poems are crass, reserved, usually follow a form and aim at the spiritual high of romantics. When they miss, they become honest, and when they hit they become sound-driven.                        “I

For Luigi, a poem by Jennifer Shoup

For Luigi by Jennifer Shoup I clatter down the steep stairs from street level, pass Francis at the desk, wearing his hat that is NOT straw, round the corner into the studio to find John, spot lit by sun falling through the skylight. There is happiness here. In the way the music compels me to move- catch the accents, stretch the counts. In the epaulment and shading, the push and pull between earth and air, the elegance of the lifted and open heart. To dance, you said, put your hand on your heart and listen to the sound of your soul. The power of that sound scares me- leaves me open and exposed, lays me bare. But when I listen and dance, what is hectic inside calms, the noise and static recede. And I am joy and light and music. Never stop moving, you said. How could I? Moving is beauty and strength, a lifeline, the only way to survive. How could I, When you never did, and there is such happiness here? Jennifer Shoup: “I am a dancer and an

Generalissimo, a haibun by Ed Alley

Generalissimo by Ed Alley Generalissimo has arrived. At six feet four, he says more, he towers over all. He tromps the boards with a thump, stumps people with each breath he takes, he exhales a new reality. He sweeps into the Living Room, dressed in black, a huge hat on his golden head, swollen from secret overuse, his head breaks the band of his feather festooned hat, so big he has to remove it (the hat), when he enters the little white house. Gold fringed epaulets on each shoulder, stars of gold. Braided gold lines the closure of his coat. Over his heart, LOU embroidered on his name patch (Lord of the Universe too big for the space aloud). Gold everywhere, his teeth, seat, scepter, and cape. Size 14 boots adorn his pedal extremities, spurs jangle with every trounce. Minions deliver a desk the size of a continent into the office he appropriates. 75 golden telephones line the desk, each labeled “Urgent.” Cronies crow, take a seat near His Frumpyness, hands outstretched to receive

Winter Meditation, a poem by Mary Redman

Winter Meditation by Mary Redman Cross-legged on a cool rubber mat, I sit intent on clearing thoughts, pull breath in, begin to count ... Outside a flock of starlings scarcely colors the brown-gray morning. Their wings beat, hold them hovering over three spiky shrubs, denuded beyond the window. Unfazed by the cold metal shepherd’s crook and glass tube, four land on a feeder, half-filled with seed. A dozen more vie for a spot, their cries more shrieks than trills. I release my breath. Responding, they fly, and I pass through with them beguiled toward the flat sky. About Mary Redman: She is a retired high school English teacher who takes classes at the Indiana Writers Center. She works part time supervising student teachers for two universities. She volunteers at the Indianapolis Museum of Art and elsewhere in the community.

The Camels' Tale of the Epiphany, a prose poem by Michael Brockley

Editor's Note: Epiphany is Jan. 6 The Camels' Tale of the Epiphany by Michael Brockley In our dreams, we still race across deserts, stopping for water in Bedouin camps where ragamuffins scurry between our legs like impudent dogs. For months, we carried the instruments of astronomy. Telescopes, calipers, Balthazar's abacus. A shifting load of papyrus scrolls and gifts. During the trek, our riders cursed when clouds concealed the daystar. Sang a new algebra whenever the sky exulted with light. Caspar exhorted us with oaths. Melchior with his whip. In Bethlehem, our caravan dozed in the shadows cast by the glow around the infant. The bulls braced their humps against the stable walls. The cows rested near their calves. Our youngest calves nuzzed. Their hooves and knees unaccustomed to labor. Livestock lowed around the manger. The weary mother longed for the privacy to nurse her child. In the courtyard, men gathered to argue the hour of departure; their voices so shr