Flying Island

If God Were a Black Girl by Diane Lewis If God were found to be a Black girl it would certainly explain a lot: how every summer   accurate as the timing of a Swiss watch   comes a storm the mystery of the aurora borealis the joy of seeing the world through the eyes of a child why a saxophone pressed to the lips of Coltrane   would evoke such deep emotion the color orange the Blues the leaping dance of flames how we know the sun is brilliant   though we cannot look at it directly the miracle of the clematis   in a forsaken garden; the morphology of butterflies; the covenant of rainbows About Diane Lewis : “I am the Arts Council of Indianapolis’ 2010 Robert D. Beckmann Emerging Artist Fellow. The Beckmann Fellowship has provided me the opportunity to develop as a writer, with the goal of producing a full-length book of poetry. Most recently I have been able to publish my work in Tall Grass Writer’s Guild Anthology 2013 and 2014, (Ou...

What to say to a refugee by Mary M. Brown        “Home is the place where, when you go there,             they have to take you in.”    —Robert Frost Here is some water, some bread and, oh, some of Grandma’s lentil soup  Here is the bed you will sleep in, and this one for your son. If you need more blankets, there are some right There is a fresh bar of soap and a light you can turn on— see?—if the night becomes too long Here is where we will gather when we are all awake, have eggs and toast and talk about the future—yours and ours— Here is the place we have all come together, the place we will learn together anew to call home Bio: Mary M. Brown lives and writes in Anderson, Indiana, a Hoosier not by birth but by long residence and disposition. She taught literature and creative writing at Indiana Wesleyan for ...

Iris by Rosemary Freedman Three days after the burial a call came through that I had a visitor in the lobby. Despite his grief this man had, as promised, taken the trowel that his wife had wrapped her small hands around and dug out some of her favorite Iris. I sit on the steps of my porch and I do not see the Iris only, tall as a small child— instead I imagine my patient—long before I met her—and before she lost use of her arm. She has collapsed to the ground— and surrendered to the dirt—to plant these purple bearded giants. I imagine she was happy then, as she had gotten them for free from a neighbor who was moving. We so often create stories of other people’s lives, because certainty is comforting. I am certain of this, when I see the blooms open, she comes back to life and we visit—if only for a short time. From Rosemary Freedman; ”I am educated with a BA in Creative Writing and Literature from IU and also have a BS in Nursing, as well as Mas...

Resurrection of the Spirit by Norbert Krapf It’s in the juke shacks where the old music plays I live my deepest life. Give me a blues shuffle and the arthritis crippling these hands goes away. Give me the sound of a blues harp suckin’ in and blowin’ out the beat and my eyes start to see at midnight as if it were noon. Give me a tough mama shakin’ her history and the spirit resurrects. Bio: Norbert Krapf, former Indiana Poet Laureate, is a Jasper, Indiana, native who lives in downtown Indianapolis. His most recent books are Catholic Boy Blues (2014) and Shrinking the Monster: Healing the Wounds of Our Abuse, a prose memoir forthcoming in fall, 2016. He held a Creative Renewal Fellowship from the Arts Council Indianapolis (2011-12) and received a Glick Indiana Author Award (2014).

Holding On By Enid Cokinos Jubilant guests lowered the bride to the floor. Her expression was unmistakable: Thank God that’s over! My husband Todd reached out and took my hand as we climbed the broad steps of the historic Cret Building, Indianapolis’s Central Library. With its exterior of Indiana limestone and Vermont marble, along with Greek columns and m assive wrought-iron gates at the main entrance, it is easy to see why our friends’ daughter, Abby, had chosen this impressive national landmark for her wedding. This was Todd’s first Jewish wedding and my second—the first was my brother and sister-in-law’s wedding in September 1983. As Todd and I entered the library, I couldn’t help but remember that day 31 years before: Little did I know that I would marry less than two years later, nor could I have known that my first marriage would end in divorce. On this September day, with the elegant cream and gold program in hand, we took our seats in the Reading Room to enj...

Taxed by Lylanne Musselman I sit outside Starbucks under a blue bright sky, writing poems, enjoying music, warm afternoon air. Featured singer Willie Nelson croons “Blue Eyes Crying in the Rain.” May draws to a close my brief break from teaching classes, again composition all summer – all semesters. An adjunct who works more full time than any tenured professor just to pay my debt for being a creative soul, for teaching students eager to be me by degrees. I’m not unhappy, I’m not complaining – I’m just tired of being broke! My friend, Glenn, teases he saw my wine at the market, Broke Ass, knowing my predicament: another summer, the third, strapped because of taxes. It is taxing to live and work in America, doing what we love, Willie and I, two of many, singing, living, crying the IRS blues. Bio: Lylanne Musselman is an award winning poet, playwright, and artist. Her work has appeared in Pank, Flying Island, The Tipton Poetry Journa...

Beginnings by Dave Malone The two grand quilting ladies leave their mark on the street— one a cigarette butt, pink with yesterday’s lips, the other a crimson handbag catching the light just so— when forty years back, she rode the Panama Limited to Chicago fresh from a divorce that never took, her elbows back on Ozark table a winter later. The smoker knows the story as much as her own— her husband a ghost running through flowerbeds she weeds out at the senior center where indoors she pokers with grace—far less lonely than any suicide king she plays. Dave Malone’s bio: “ I received my graduate degree in English from Indiana State in 1994 and later lived in the New Albany area. I no longer reside in Indiana, but I consider myself part Hoosier. My great (7th) grandmother, Mary Coughman Bridgewater, was a doctor of medicine in the early 1800s and lived at the small village of Pigeon Roost with her family. Though she lost children at the conflict ...

By Tom Weller Heaviest Sportsmen. The heaviest sportsman of all time was the wrestler William J. Cobb of Macon, Georgia, who in 1962 was billed as the 802-lb. “Happy Humphrey” Guinness Book of World Records, 1978 A gasp ripples through the crowd, a sound like a breath being passed from person to person to person, when Happy Humphrey enters the ring. This sound is money.   Happy removes the flat cap from his head, raises both arms above his head, waves the cap like a stranded man trying to signal a passing plane. As the ring announcer takes up his microphone, Happy lumbers, a slow circle inside the ring, arms raised, cap still waving. Happy makes sure every eye in the arena sees just how big he is, stretches himself up to his full height like a man trying to scare off a bear.   Arms like sacks of hams, belly like a tractor tire, thighs like wine barrels, big is Happy’s job. Big is good for business. Bigger is better.   Bigger, bigger Happy thinks as he stroll...

On Your Leaving by Edward Alley The sun-filled clouds glow red, shadowing power lines. Barren trees denote the season. One tree, disfigured with carvings and disease, its life threatened, persists. A train roars through my head. A light slants through darkness, as your life flits past our observation car. Time and times clatter with the rhythm of ties binding steel and earth. A conductor whistles, punches tickets, helps passengers find their way. A church with hesitant spire trembles in the wind. A burned out semi dominates an auto graveyard, its bass horn mute. As the sun sets, the train shudders to a stop, brakes sigh, the end of the line. snow falls covers  tracks From Edward Alley: “'On Your Leaving' was written in tribute to my best friend of 20 years, who died in August 2014. I wrote the poem on a train trip to Tucson, Arizona, as I observed what flashed by in the window.   I am a retired United Methodist minister who spent the past 35 years of m...