Flying Island

The Supplication of Spring by Diane Lewis Let the grass grow; the blades burst into kelly and emerald. Let the crocuses pop; while purple and white dart in all directions. Let the dogwood and the cherry blossoms erupt; behold their eternally flowered canopy. Let the maples cast off their buds. Let the thunderstorms rise out of nowhere; the rain pummeling the ground. Let tulips emerge resilient despite winter frost and foraging animals. See how quickly and efficiently the weeds rebel; the hostas spike up from the ground. Let the clematis sprawl upward in search of something to cling to. Let the wind begin after a good rain necessary to bring forth the season. Let the days be warm and the nights cool; while sparrows feverishly scramble to build. Without the cold, harsh clutches of an angry winter, these triumphs of spring would never be. From the poet: “My name is Diane L. Lewis and I am the Arts Council of Indianapolis’ 2010 Robert D. Beckmann Emerging Arti...

Customer Service Ticket Number 16032017 by Rebecca Longenecker I pulled the dead things out of the flowerbeds The dried up stalks, the brown leaves I got an email that said the book I requested Was still not available at the library The thing about the garden this time of year Is that even cleaned up it is brown It’s a $2.00 fine when you don’t pick your book up Be careful what book you wish for It might cost you a few dollars at the greenhouse For a bulb a stone that promises to be a flower In the age of email and Amazon same-day delivery You would think we could have spring already The order has been in for a while. Bio: Rebecca is a born-and-raised Mennonite: the descendant of farmers, missionaries, conscientious objectors, and an unwavering commitment to non-violence. She is a recent graduate of Eastern Mennonite University, where she studied English Language and Literature and dedicated herself to the craft of writing. She currently li...

Don’t Bake Cookies Unless You’re Going to Share by Rebecca Longenecker The forecast said sunny. 65. I walked to the library in my black sweater. It was cloudy. 50, my phone said. The library was closed. I forgot that I was up early today. Would blame daylight savings But we sprung ahead; it’s yesterday’s 7am And I’m already full of toast Coffee and bitterness About how slowly spring is waking up. Bio: Rebecca is a born-and-raised Mennonite: the descendant of farmers, missionaries, conscientious objectors, and an unwavering commitment to non-violence. She is a recent graduate of Eastern Mennonite University, where she studied English Language and Literature and dedicated herself to the craft of writing. She currently lives in Indianapolis, where she 

Earthquake in Blossom Time by Doris Lynch I fold into my pocket the handkerchief you used shortly before dying and go out to greet the backlit clouds, so frolicsome and adventurous. In the neighbor’s yard redbuds offer their mauve tears. Poking through lawn’s needlepoint, so many green slashes of hope. The earth woke me this morning bucking feelograms from deep within its crust. The window sashes that I wiped clean of cobwebs yesterday rattled in percussive approval. Earthquake, felt so rarely in the Midwest. In bed, I lay shaking-- a fledgling in wind-- awash in both terror and joy--anticipating that the ground will be solid and still beneath me. Bio: Doris Lynch has work recently in the Tipton Poetry Review, the Atlanta Review, Frogpond, Haibun Today, and Contemporary Haibun Online. The Indiana Arts Commission awarded her three individual artist’s grants: two in poetry and one in fiction.

The Ceremony Remains (For Erna Rosenfeld) by Hiromi Yoshida Bike-rush down the wrong South Adams Street dead- end to dead-end—grey October air heavy with mourning and rainstorm threat. “Is it rude to appear late for an occasion such as this?” I wondered as though each moment (I was not there) were yet another blow striking one final nail into her casket. Urgency and denial coexisted so impossibly—propelling me in all the wrong directions as though my heart were a broken compass unable to gauge the simplest way to the site of serene abjection (i.e. the Beth Shalom Gardens). Discarded funeral program pamphlets folded slightly askew with the damp of sad fingers; water for ritual handwash running sparkles; bowl of unknown Jewish ceremony implements folded carefully in dark blue linen; and the colossal casket in the designated oblong hallowed groundspace--clods of soil ritualistically scattered across its hidden surface, ...

Poisoned Soil by Joseph S. Pete In a black-and-white picture, Shadow-effect letters pop off the pristine fence line, Proudly declaring the plant “The Home of Anaconda White Lead” As though lead were as wholesome as oatmeal, As All-American as dogs and suds at a vintage drive-in. For decades, the factory smelted lead, Corroding lead, antimonial lead, Lead for paint, insecticides, who knows what else. Bug-killing chemicals seeped into that patch of soil in East Chicago, City of heavy industry and hopeful immigrants, Lakefront city of coiled steel and ship canals. After the factory inevitably shuttered, Having run its course, Someone somewhere at some point Decided to plop public housing on that salted swath of lead and arsenic. Somebody decided it was okay For kids to play in neurotoxin-ridden dirt. Then one day, Officials in button-down shirts and soft leather shoes Called a public meeting In a school auditorium where a few ...

Singular Plurality by Dan Carpenter When one learns one interests no one not even one’s loved ones one feels at once wonderment at having won at one for once with oneself About Dan Carpenter: “ I'm a freelance writer in Indianapolis who's published poems in Flying Island, Poetry East, Illuminations, Pearl, Xavier Review, Southern Indiana Review, Tipton Poetry Journal and other journals.” 

February Ice Storm by Doris Lynch        Eighty-four years ago, your first-- another century, another world. Horsecarts clattered over cobblestones, fruit & vegetable men yodeled to housewives, urging them to buy winter carrots and cabbages. On Allegheny Avenue flappers wove, their hair newly cropped, sequened dresses shining with sun. Scarfs, capped with fox faces, draped ivory necks. Another February--your birthday-- you lie cocooned in a hospital bed in Crystal River’s Emergency Room across from the twin-headed nuclear plant that buttresses the Gulf of Mexico while a phone call away, Indiana hail hisses and trucks disgorge salt onto Highway 45. There is no safety for any of us: not drivers skidding from tiger-stripe to bike lane, not doctors carefully scanning your MRI, not black lab sprawled, legs akimbo on glazed lawn beneath the lone cardinal seeking shelter in crystalline hedgerow. ...

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.        ...