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Showing posts from July, 2016

The Ladder, a poem by Terry Ofner

The Ladder by Terry Ofner I stand the ladder in the soft soil of the perennial bed, climb up like a thief of nests, and pull a perfect egg of twigs, leaves, and seeds from the mouth of the plugged downspout. I lean to the left to steady the ladder that lists slightly to the right under my weight. I feel like a child canceling differences between parents somewhere off the emotional balance sheet. I perch up there a minute after pulling the plug and watch the giddy water laugh down the aluminum passage to the side yard. It musters there with other waters, planning invasions of low places in the neighborhood. I leave the ladder in the bed—a creaky apparatus, no substitute for wings—but for certain jobs it does just fine. Irises at its feet speak in purple tongues, toasting each other for their part in releasing the long-stopped waters of spring. Bio: Terry Ofner grew up in Iowa not far from the Mississippi River. He ho

I am an eyelash in the wind, a poem by Jay S Zimmerman

I am an eyelash in the wind by Jay S Zimmerman I am an eyelash in the wind Brushed from your face Teardrops in silence Homeless and yearning Brushed from your face Crying in an empty heart Homeless and yearning Longing for loving Crying in an empty heart Teardrops in silence lover’s lonesome wishes I am an eyelash in the wind Bio:   Jay S. Zimmerman came to poetry from his life as a visual artist, composing poems to go with his art, finding as much joy in painting with words as with other visual tools. He has recently been published in Three Line Poetry, I am not a silent poet, and Flying Island. He was born in the concrete caverns of New York, amid the trolley bells and sounds of subways, travelled south to Miami Beach and thrived in the warm sands and salt air dancing to the musical rhythms of klesmer, cha cha and bossa nova, finally venturing to the dark soil, flat farmlands and rolling hills of the Midwest where his roots have grown and been no

Fog Walking, a poem by Mary Redman

Fog Walking by Mary Redman I look at the lake. Haze blots horizon, a dock juts into nothing, supported by air like a bread loaf in a surrealist painting.  My boots kick up streams—I slosh through wetness, dew and dissolving surface clouds on grass. This muffled existence can’t last long. Day winks through in spots forcing clarity, while dreamlike dalliance keeps me sleeping as I stroll. Bio: Mary Redman is a retired high school English teacher who takes classes at the Indiana Writers Center. She works part time supervising student teachers for two universities. She volunteers at the Indianapolis Museum of Art and elsewhere in the community.

why i advise against plastic surgery, a poem by Tracy Mishkin

Editor's note: Today is World Plastic Surgery Day why I advise against plastic surgery by Tracy Mishkin Hey, purse snatchers! I’m Princess Scarface of the Amazons. No bluff no buff no polish. Come on, muggers! I’ll bare my teeth and hiss offer you a sharp kiss. Bio: Tracy Mishkin is a call center veteran with a PhD and an MFA student in Creative Writing at Butler University. Her chapbook, I Almost Didn't Make It to McDonald's, was published by Finishing Line Press in 2014. Her second chapbook, The Night I Quit Flossing, is forthcoming from Five Oaks Press. She has been nominated for a Pushcart Prize.

Pavlov's Dogs Make an Appearance in an Instance of Operant Conditioning, a poem by Rebecca Longenecker

Pavlov’s Dogs Make an Appearance in an Instance of Operant Conditioning by Rebecca Longenecker In a dream I am walking east on 38th Street, alone, no cars on the road, no one on the sidewalk, no one walking or drinking indiscreetly, no one asking for money at BP, but there are dogs sleeping in the median. I step off the sidewalk, cross two lanes to them: all golden coated and well-groomed. They look soft, I think, and kneel down, to touch. Next to me in bed, you are deeply asleep, unnaturally peaceful. I search your face for signs of your waking self. There is one long crease dividing your forehead into North and South, marking the middle, and I struggle through the sheets to touch its smooth, sleep form. Your skin looks soft, I think and reach for you. I stretch out my hand, and just at the moment of contact, the mutt wakes up, barks and bares its teeth. I bolt upright, out of sleep. Your eyes open on me, and quickly I withdraw my hand.  Bio