Flying Island

The Milk Saucer by T.D. Richards    The old woman cries out in her sleep to the old man who has gone,  leaving his ears in the drawer. She opens her eyes, and the cat with a broken heart is pressed against her mottled skin stroking her thin wrist with breath. She recalls tiger lilies in the green depression glass vase he won at carnival--tossing pennies into the milk saucer. Bio: “I have lived in Indiana most of my life. I have had three careers that have lead me to value the importance of observation, hence my love of poetry now.”

Livestock by Jared Carter At journey’s end, forced to debark           and follow ramps That funnel them down through the dark,           into a damp, Benighted place, where sharpened knives           await – they go, In single file, their route devised           so none can know In minutes they will all be dead.           They only mind That what keeps prodding them ahead           is from behind. Bio: Jared Carter's most recent book is Darkened Rooms of Summer: New and Selected Poems (University of Nebraska Press). He lives in Indianapolis.

Oda a la Bugambilia by Karel Van Horn Compañera flor, eterna amiga, te amo—eres bella, democrática y fuerte. Pequeña selva de colores inolvidables, habitas macetas, paredes y solares. Acompañas fielmente a la gente humilde, en las ventanas de sus chozas, en botes de café. Festival de luces, cobija viviente, engalanas las bardas de los pueblos olvidados. Flor del desierto, ¡cómo te aguantas! Creces con más ganas bajo el sol abrazador. Eterna amiga mía, no dejes que te cambien, te amo—eres bella, democrática y fuerte. Ode to the Bougainvillea by Karel Van Horn Kindred flower, eternal friend, I adore you, for you’re beautiful, communal and enduring.     Tiny jungle of unforgettable hues, you live in clay pots, on village walls, in vacant lots. Faithful neighbor to the humble and the poor, you’re in windows of their shanties, in old tin coffee cans. Festival of lights...

Dillinger by Jared Carter Out of the Biograph, its chill           still lingering, Out of that darkness, and the thrill           such dreams can bring – Into the neon night, her hand           slipping away, And all around you now they stand,           as if to say This is the way it always ends           when bankers rule – The world reduced to dividends,           the blood in pools. Bio: Jared Carter's most recent book is Darkened Rooms of Summer: New and Selected Poems (University of Nebraska Press). He lives in Indianapolis.

Stillborn Love Song by Norbert Krapf I love you when the dusk thickens, evening falls in every direction, and the dove coos ever more forlorn. I love you when October air turns crisp and smoke rises like the breath of angels from the chimneys. I love you, stillborn sister, when everything turns so quiet the only sound I can hear is the settling of snowflakes on branches above my head. I love you most when All Souls Day returns and the veil between your world and mine lifts and your spirit breath drifts back down to earth and touches these lips waiting for your kiss. Bio: Norbert Krapf, a Jasper, Indiana, native, was Indiana Poet Laureate 2008-10, received a Glick Indiana Author Award 2014 (Regional), and held a Creative Renewal Fellowship from the Arts Council of Indianapolis 2011-12 to combine poetry and the blues. His latest of 11 poetry collections is Catholic Boy Blues: A Poet's Journal of Healing (ACTA Publicatio...

Anna’s Lament           And all at once a strange idea came to her: what if he had           ceased to love her?  Leo Tolstoy,  Anna Karenina To swim under iron and count, each day, the ways I am alone. No matter his touch, or not, no matter silence to my words. My nature, coreopsis, coreopsis in a world of stone. Too soon depleted, I choke on dried petals, drink morphine. Who knows such wounds, ignominy and a lost son? Wooden ties taunt, “What for?” and promise something new. I drop the red bag, drown my sullied body in an iron sea.             —by Wendy Vergoz Bio:  Wendy Vergoz is an assistant professor of English at Marian University. Her poems have appeared in  The Christian Century and Anglican Theological Review , and her poem "Unfinished, A Found Poem," written after 9/11, was read on the first ann...

At the End of the Day by Barry Harris At the end of the day innovative, outcome-focused, out-of-the-box 21st century stakeholders stop ignoring the elephant in the room and just put the moose on the table. They know who they are: spot-on team players who step back and look at the big picture. The good, the bad, the ugly avoid a cross-functional disconnect to leverage a six sigma project that speaks to our vision which will then   transform the organization. Long story short, they will move the needle, aim high, pick the low-hanging fruit, take this sucker into the sky and land it on the Hudson! Bio: Barry Harris is editor of the Tipton Poetry Journal and has published one poetry collection, Something At The Center . Barry lives in Brownsburg, Indiana and is retired from Eli Lilly and Company. A graduate of Ball State University with a major in English, Barry was founding editor of Tipton Poetry Journal, which has been published in print and online ve...

Girl After Jamaica Kincaid By  Charnell Peters Always wait until the grease gets hot and test it with a pinch of flour; put your hand down close to the pan and don’t be scared of getting popped; it doesn’t matter what the label says, I mix these cleaners all the time and it works on everything; please do not mix those cleaners ; don’t scratch your cornrows, because they have to last; if you ruin them, you better do something with that head or no boys are going to like you; use a folded rubber band to hook your jeans when you’re too fat to button them; save all your clothes because you might be skinny someday; don’t have high hopes for being skinny one day; your ankles are so ashy you could start a fire; put some lotion on and the thick kind too; you better eat all that on your plate; you better wash the bathtub when you get out; you better keep out of his way; help me fold these clothes and fold them right too; don’t just ball them up and call it good; sweep up the kitchen fl...

                                         Sex Pistols—We Are All Punks!      by George Fish No, God won’t save the Queen    Though David Cameron might try to    before he gets his proper comeuppance from an outraged public that finally wakes up to the fact that it got hoodwinked    even of its own willful blindness and volition    But Johnny Rotten sang it well and properly, “We’re your future!”    whether you like it or not    In the ‘60s we shouted, “We are all Vietnamese!”    In the ‘80s and ‘90s we were all punks    In 2015 we are outcasts, low-wage robots who work our asses off and can’t make a living Yes, we are Michael Brown, Eric Garner, Arthur Wilson and Tamir Rice    and also Bernie Sanders, John Brown...