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Showing posts from September, 2016

What to say to a refugee, a poem by Mary M. Brown

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 many years. Her work appears on the Poetry Foundation and the American Life in Poetry websites and has b

Iris, a poem by Rosemary Freedman

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, a poem by Norbert Krapf

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, Creative Nonfiction by Enid Cokinos

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 enjoy t

Taxed, a poem by Lylanne Musselman

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