Flying Island

Light Follows Me Light follows me everywhere inside this house and outside, comes in through windows, bounces off white walls, lies down on pine floors. When I drink water I swallow light, which passes through me into water. It turns me into a shadow that lies down. It wakes me in the morning as I open my eyes to the east and feel it on my face. I open the door and step into it on a wooden balcony facing mountains that surround me and hear prayers streaming from my mouth for those I love who are my light. May I one day transform into light that shines on others from above and also within when they read my poems. 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.

My Favorite Pen Pal of the Deepest Strokes                              by Distinctly Unique He stuck    his pen in   me                 deep   I bout fell over on his hard ceramic floor He left his impressionable mark  y'all  I  never felt anything like      that         before   Now     mama told me this would happen one day    Mama told me no matter what he  say    don't     get      entranced     cuz  he from a school you  could only imagine exists    And even with Mama's words swirling through my head  ...

Harbinger      by Susanna Childress The child came slick and fast and split her skin in the water where she bobbed and breathed him down, in the tub of true water, the woman saying, That’s it, That’s it . A man caught this baby’s body with his palms, held up the thing they call Son and inside her heart the boar with its tusks speared a star and nobody on this planet spoke its sorrow, its gobs of light pooling in her mouth. Susanna Childress has published two collections of poetry and is now at work on a book of creative nonfiction titled "Extremely Yours." Her work can be found or is forthcoming from The Rumpus , Fourteen Hills , Crazyhorse , Iron Horse Literary Press , Rhino , Relief, and Oakland Review . She grew up in southern Indiana.

                                                 Spring                                                          by Hiromi Yoshida Mud-speckled snow; clouded icicles glint a jagged fringe along SUV bumpers—                                  snow angels are whirred unwinged smudges on spongy ground;                                                             gutters gurgle, sputter last night’s rainwater; remnant Campbell’s Chunky Soup w...

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...