Flying Island

Morning Mountain Prayer         by Norbert Krapf Morning mountain air calls me to sit outside and let it caress  my knees and calves. Just after I settle in a chair the sun rises above a small divide in the mountain and warm light slants onto this yellow paper across which the black ink of a German pen walks leaving word tracks that knew all along that in the end  near the bottom of this page they would become the thanksgiving prayer I send to the universe. Norbert Krapf , former Indiana Poet Laureate, is the author of thirteen collections, the most recent being "Indiana Hill Country Poems" from Dos Madres Press, which will also bring out "Southwest by Midwest," which includes this poem.

Too early daffodils                                                                       by Laurel Smith Dark morning, fierce wind, then stern winter gives way to a generous sun, cold air fresh, melted puddles in the fields.   It’s the same day but a changed season, a shift marked by small             green shoots next to the house: eager daffodils with no intention to temper their exuberance, to mimic our             cautious anticipation of spring. It will freeze again, maybe snow as golden blooms open—open withou...

Railway Car      by Patrick Kalahar The empty railway car abandoned on a siding complains of neglect, but rusting steel rails hunkering in their bed of stone are driven to silence by stakes of iron. The tall grasses bend eastward toward the sun in obeisance or mockery, their thin, delicate blades licking like tongues against wheel and car rasping tales of death— or perhaps it is only the wind The railway car denies death. It holds within every journey it has taken, the silent thoughts and voices of every passenger are inscribed, eternal in air demanding— it is not only the wind Patrick Kalahar is a used & rare bookseller who lives and works with his poet/novelist wife Jenny in an old schoolhouse in Elwood, Indiana. He performs readings of and dresses as Edgar Allan Poe, participates in local poetry groups, and was interviewed and appeared in a Public Broadcasting television documentary about the Ind...

Hey, Moon!       by Doris Lynch Before I was born, my parents rolled your clay in the translucent ether but like a sea urchin you spurted away from them. During girlhood I cut you into pristine wedges, rags to catch menstrual blood but you changed into a stream and cascaded away. Later, while lovemaking, I propped you on a pillow but my hipbones slashed your lunar flesh and you jerked away. When I gave birth, you duplicated yourself and became breasts spurting milk, but when I looked up, both you and baby had disappeared. Now I search the night sky for sign of you but find only small relics, cold to the touch, barely bright enough for eyes. Doris Lynch has recent work in Frogpond , Modern Haiku , Tipton Poetry Journal and in the anthology Cowboys & Cocktails: Poetry from the True Grit Saloon .  The Indiana Arts Commission awarded her three individual artist's grants, and she has worked as a librarian and...

Unexpected Letter                                                                                  by Laurel Smith In a dream you swear you never dreamed, your moth er is writing a letter left-handed on plain paper in a cursive you must work to decipher—so unlike the perfect hand in the letters she wrote you.   Now an urgent message has shaken her ability to hold a pen, or she has suffered a stroke and expects you to see   the chaos, to translate her pain, or you missed the point of every letter she sent: her calm, cheerful text punctuating the years while this letter is the one she intended all the time.   So you focus on each loop that tries to be a vowel, each chunk of ink that wants to be a word since she will not s...

Rain    by Jared Carter The tractor-trailer’s eighteenth wheel,           in cornering The broken exit curb, congeals           and makes a thing Of mud out of the brindled cur           that stood beside Him all this time. The moment blurs.           He throws the sign-- Will Work for Food --into the ditch           that runs nearby, And reaches through the rain to bitch           against the sky. Jared Carter 's most recent book of poems, The Land Itself , is from Monongahela Books in West Virginia.  He lives in Indiana.

On Learning in New Mexico that Seamus Heaney Died              by Norbert Krapf A poet who dug in the earth with his father to plant potatoes and bring them later to light has died. His poems too dig down into bog and peat and past and present and bring up the smell of many layers of lives lived in a place and a language that rose up in him and always stayed connected to his native place. His words live on like roots of history going down and coming back up conducting the water pooled below the surface he walked in a steady rhythm like a creature whose legs and lungs are strong from having worked and written what he discovered he knew because the pen in his hand never stopped digging. This son could handle a pen the way his father did a spade, with an elemental art that revealed its quality by how deep he dug in ways that never stopped being new no matter how old they were Norbert Krapf , a former Indiana Poet Laurea...

Winter in Connecticut         by Robert Halleck On a cold, clear, autumn day in Connecticut Bob's guardian angel told him he was going to spend the winter in Florida with the Schwartzes. Bob was delighted, filling his head with visions of being alone in a Connecticut winter: happy hour at the Greyhound Pub, nights watching TV sports, more indoor tennis, lounging in old clothes. Flashing his best cherubic smile, the angel mentioned that on the day of his departure a very nice lady will be moving next door. She has dark hair, smoky green eyes, and will be coming to Bob's house to borrow a hammer. Robert Halleck has been writing poetry since 1958. He was briefly stationed at Fort Benjamin Harrison as a U.S. Army lieutenant during the Vietnam War. Poetry is more than a hobby for him, but it does not crowd out other activities such as golf, autocross racing, and care giving through Stephen Ministries. His recent work has appeared in The San  Di...

                              The Team of Disappointing Men                                                    by Michael Brockley At the misfits’ lunch table at your professional development conference, you introduce yourself  to a man who grew up in a dozen American cities and a woman who earned All-State honors as a  field hockey striker in Ohio. Over appetizers your group steers the conversation toward a lament  about disappointing teams.  The Mets ,  says the traveling man.  You offer the woeful Reds. She  cuts her vegan lasagna into bite-sized cubes. Studies the afternoon schedule, choosing between  this year’s empowerment lecture and a PowerPoint on malingering.  You never called the women you met at a restaurant named for...