Flying Island

Drawn to Night by Lylanne Musselman I’m thinking of Hopper and how I love his painting Nighthawks, how I love the contrast of light and dark, and how I’ve always been drawn to realism, of how I enjoy diners, and sometimes take pleasure in eating alone, and how no matter what time I must rise the next day—I am always a night owl. Lylanne Musselman is an award-winning poet, playwright, and artist, living in Indiana. Her work has appeared in Pank, Flying Island, Tipton Poetry Journal, The New Verse News, and The Ekphrastic Review, among others, and many anthologies. Musselman is the author of five chapbooks, including the recent Red Mare 16 (Red Mare Press, 2018), a co-author of the volume of poetry, Company of Women New and Selected Poems , (Chatter House Press, 2013) and author of the new full-length poetry collection, It’s Not Love, Unfortunately (Chatter House Press, 2018).

Shikata ga Nai (Let It Be) by Hiromi Yoshida Stoic acceptance                     --not passive acquiescence                     --not dumb cattle herded into packed boxcars                     --not subservient Japs (as                                           though truncation diminishes self-esteem)— swallowing the bitter spittle of outrage re. E.O. 9066 like green tea without the usual ceremony. Heavy steps,                          overstuffed duffel bags— all that two arms can carry (all that the heart can carry) Shikata ga nai . Swallow, lunge forward gravel crunch [toxic gaman ] tubular chrysanthemum stems drop                    overripe heads with the weight of                                 apology [ mōshi wake nai ] for being Japanese Americans at the wrong time (as                             though there were a right time for these porous hybrid                              

Every Night My Sparrow Flies by Doris Lynch On cloudy nights I don wings and follow her—it feels like dancing our bodies so close, sometimes they brush. At each turn we swerve apart then curve together again. To urge allegiance I place her head at my elbow, her beak becomes the tiny bow of a miniature boat as it prows our world. Doris Lynch has recent work in Tipton Poetry Review, Frogpond, Haibun Today, and in the Flying Island. In 2017, she won the Genjuan International Haibun contest.

Hummingbird II by Celia Latz Astonished by an omen When I thought Hummingbirds were precious , Avian unicorns, one flew into my open door But I did not know the pettiness Of the hummingbird Until after hanging a feeder Filled with nectar I saw greed and violence In their little lives. Attacking – With plenty for all – One pushed another to the ground Pinning it with her tiny stiletto. Celia Latz is a native Hoosier who has lived and worked in Venice , Italy, 35 years producing and marketing hand painted textiles and fashion. "I currently live in the historic German Village in Columbus, Ohio. After years of working in the visual arts, I realize my true passion is writing with an emphasis on the energy exerted to overcome barriers and repel negativity- energy that often goes unnoticed. The Hummingbird poems are a part of my collection of poems and short stories titled Ordinary Miracles ."

A Generation of Bird Watchers by Becky Laurenzana The distant dove cries The cardinal the color of blood rests on a worn fence Fluttering wings like eyelashes Opening to this complicated world Through a torn screen Damage left from a raging storm from tumultuous seasons past Yet the beauty is beyond the screen It is in the generation of bird watchers Each spring we perch In distant cities In distant countrysides In different spaces of time When I come to this window the pitter-patter of my heart connects A little boy staring at his grandpa’s bird books A grandpa holding his granddaughters hand walking through quiet pastures Only the bird’s song connects The man packing combat fatigues listening to the chirp amidst the scream of city sirens The suburban woman staring through the screen Eye-lids fluttering in harmony with bird wings Yet the beauty is beyond the screen It is in the generation of bird watchers From Becky Laurenzana: I

Heading South by Jeffrey Owen Pearson As the plane skirts the coast heading south to Ft. Lauderdale, I fool myself into seeing a marlin leap from the ocean and, for a moment, look me in the eye as if something holy. Because all things are holy. From this height I see the blurring of sea and land. Of a place where people struggle for footholds. I know who loses this game. Because we all always lose in the end. When my feet hit the tarmac I already feel foreign. Like a soldier who retreats from death or will be swallowed. I have come to claim the dead. Whose atoms will soon mingle into the fire of a last sunset. How odd the familiarity of gray streets moaning in the rising mist after a rain shower. The tangle of unusual trees and boulevard names. The unfriendly neighborhood facades with no one I know. Easy in, easy out, they say. Except the way grief sticks everywhere. Like gum stuck on the pavement, cooking in the

Editor's Note: Today, March 1, is Read Across America Day. The Reading Owl Kingdom by Norbert Krapf Once there was an owl who after cataract surgery instead of going on the prowl would read books in his tree. This reading owl would sit on high and read and devour book after book and believe you me this is no lie – they called his corner The Book Nook. Other critters who didn’t sleep at night would crawl, scamper, or fly on over to see a reading owl so very bright he would read books cover to cover. Pretty soon all the denizens of those woods came to be known for the legendary wisdom that brought others into their neighborhood to witness the wise old reading owl’s kingdom. Norbert Krapf, former Indiana Poet Laureate, has recently published his 12th poetry collection, The Return of Sunshine, about his Colombian-German-American grandson. He is completing a collection of poems for children and a prose memoir about his writing