Flying Island

Praise Song for the Basement    though some folks might call it a cellar,  granite and quartzite, glacial rocks of ages  unfathomable, cement spread roughly between,  propping the 1910 farmhouse above.    My dad sought refuge here,  huddled for warmth next to the radio  the AC Church didn't allow upstairs,  Grand Ol' Opry and "The Wabash Cannonball"  carrying him away from fears of the father.    Warmth came also with chainsaw and ax  in the timber, scoop tractoring the load  to the basement’s east side, propping the chute door  to a yawn, feeding the ravenous furnace all winter,  a steel beast six feet deep,  pipes to the metal-grated vents upstairs.    We lay our work gloves on top to dry,  and once from the nest a startled snake shot out  into the space above my head,  finding nothing but air acrobatically doubled back.    Dad got up on a chair and flipped over...

Leaving Home In this house the air still smells like your old almond lotion, Mom. Upstairs you used to let me wear your wedding veil for ceremonies with my bear. Aunt Dee said I looked like you but in the mirror my face was mine alone. In August of last year you drove me in the minivan to college. On the sly I packed your tweezers and your perfume in my duffel bag. When classes ended I wished you’d bring me ginger ale and chicken soup in bed. Tucked up onto the couch my pinky toes feel callused just like yours. Your shower walls have mildew on them – I knew that would make you cry. Mom, I cannot hear you. I do not know you with those tired eyes. I baked a chocolate cake last week that tasted nothing like your recipe. I don’t think you’re boring, Mom – tell me what you’re working on –  I never read a truer story than your one about that long-haired girl. Why did you make me change my skirt before the sophomore dance? Mom, when you sent me to my room that night I should’ve gone. The ...

Miss You. Would Like To Daisy Together Again. After Gabrielle Calvocoressi Do not even care if you come up the steps drunk. I know the jeep still waits somewhere. Still think  about how my sister named it daisy;  how hanging all over the row bar and sides:  my sister, my cousins, myself.  Do you remember that? Driving. Miss you. Miss the jostle of tree trunk breaks. Go ahead.  Light up a cig. We don’t have to tell your lungs this time. Miss you. Still hear the stories in my ears.  Be better if you told them. Your knack for details –  want that. Again. Remember pink lady slippers and red Indian paint brushes. The red army lichen. You named them for me. Wish we could ride those dirt roads and forest trails.  Miss Miane. Miss you. Misplaced the words  of the jeep song – forgive me? Miss  the scourge of the swamp. It’s shoulder. How you could turn a piece of stump into lore. Envy that. Somewhere on a radio playing with the queen of heart...

Emptiness Bound To Bloom “Emptiness is bound to bloom, like hundreds of grasses blossoming.” - Eihei Dōgen, “Sky Flowers” This morning I drew a card that told me to leave a little space when I eat a meal and all day I thought about leaving little spaces. In my stomach. In my heart. In my day. I left a little space in my to-do list, space for a pause that let the bamboo print on the shower curtain remind me how my mother loved the clumps growing in the yard, how it sheltered my dreams and stories, and how itchy it was to touch the papery sheaths of the culms. Bamboo survived closer to ground zero  at Hiroshima than any other living thing. Within days of the blast new green sprouted. I thought of the ground zero of my son’s death. How I move in a little space around it. How I try to be bamboo. -Zann Carter Zann Carter writes poetry and short fiction in Terre Haute, Indiana, and then works with fiber arts to get out of her head and back into the body. She co-hosted a mo...

Dear Flying Island Readers: Welcome to the 8.29 Edition of the Flying Island Journal! In this edition we publish poems by Nancy Botkin , Harold Shaefer , and  Verna Austen . Inspired to send us your fiction, poetry, or creative nonfiction? For more info on how to submit, see the tab above. Thank you for reading, Flying Island Editors and Readers All images are sourced from the Canva library from various artists. 

Last Stop This summer I can’t look at a bathtub drain without thinking of death— water circling the small dark holes. I can’t listen to a shopping cart with one faulty wheel. I’ve had enough of hospital beds with their machines  and monitors and HD TV screens flashing nature’s scenes—lavender fields, majestic mountains, waving wheat—meant to soothe. The clouds are building castles like nothing’s wrong. White water cascades over jagged rocks hatching the plan it’s always hatched.  Every cave is an anthem, a waiting room, an open mouth with no name. - Nancy Botkin Nancy Botkin's poems have appeared in previous issues of Flying Island Journal as well as in Poetry East , The Indianapolis Review , december , The Laurel Review , and elsewhere. Steel Toe Books selected The Honeycomb as their 2022 chapbook prize winner. Her full-length collection, The Next Infinity , was published by Broadstone Books in 2019.

Poetry Club What I want in a poetry club, Bactine and bandages for everyone.  I want fist fights to erupt, nouns thrown hard as a punch, upper-cut adjectives to stagger metaphors, chairs tossed at lack of rhyme, cat calls at over reliance on simile, raspberries to blat loud over unpronounceable words, sneers, with middle fingers attached at awkward turns of phrase, verbal abuse for lines that leap into your lap like bad dogs with muddy paws, stanzas that float like bees and sting like butterflies. Kicked shins over the improper use of  the semi-colon; members are to stack poetic sounding words  on their shoulders like Pringles,  dare someone to knock them off. Nobody leaves without a bruised ego, or a proud new shiner, the stamina to go a rondelet. This won’t be a tea party but a knockdown drag out  bard room brawl. - Harold Shaefer Harold J. Schaefer , (pen name, H. John Schaefer) writes poems, fiction and essays. He earned a BA in Fine Arts and English from In...

How To Clean Out Your Brother’s Car After He Dies Take a deep breath. Find his keys from the pocket of his leather jacket, your tote bag, and go to his parking spot. Open the door and sit inside. Feel the seat fabric against the back of your legs and smell the vanilla air freshener hanging from the rear view mirror. See the halls cough drops he always kept in the cup holder and put them in your pocket. You will never use them, but keep them on your nightstand in a little heart shaped cup. Open the glove box and put everything inside your tote bag. Notice the CD's he kept here. Put them all in the tote bag. You will listen to the Frank Sinatra one that night. Start the car to push the button of the CD player to see if there is still one inside. The Doors. Of course. Turn the car off and find the empty case in your tote, place the CD inside, and snap it closed. Put it back in your tote. Notice his winter gloves tucked above the visor, take them. The leather scent reminds you of him....