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Showing posts from September, 2019

Up in Flames, a poem by Mary Redman

Up in Flames by Mary Redman In a rusted barrel behind a frumpish house, raged a growing pyre fed with scraps from a cardboard box. Its tender was no white-garbed virgin stirring ritual flames, but a young wife in a cotton housedress. Brown hair fastened at the base of her neck escaped and lashed her face with strands while she worked against the wind, her mouth a grim line. There was time— the babies napped, and the older children were off to play.    Impassively she incinerated pages— was nearly finished, had heaped a final load into the backyard drum.   Then, caught off-guard by smoke- reddened eyes and heat that pinked her cheeks, she watched a gust lift one lit page, sail it aloft, and set the field ablaze.  When the firetrucks and her neighbors arrived, she said nothing of her blunder. An empty box lay in stubbly grass, while embers of dreams she’d released floated like fireflies through the white oaks hung

Small Book of Heart Songs on the Shelf, a poem by Norbert Krapf

Small Book of Heart Songs on the Shelf by Norbert Krapf  There was a small handsome hardcover book on the shelf near the bed in which I slept that I could not resist reading at night, a collection of poems by Native high school students. I don’t remember the title, but it could have easily been Heart Songs , so pure, natural, and sincere were the beautiful musings of these young thinkers expressing and sharing their vision of the world they were exploring, navigating, coming to terms with. Nothing concocted, not a word puffed up, no images strained to impress. The rhythms were like the beat of a heart and the pulse of blood that flowed from the center of each young life I was touching and becoming one with. I can still feel the texture of the cover of that little book and how happy my hands were to hold it, how much I loved opening those pages and being inspired each night as I savored a few po

Sweet corn tanka, a poem by Laurel Smith

Sweet corn tanka by Laurel Smith 1. On Sunday the sweet corn was perfect: each bite a confirmation of every summer memory laced with butter, salt, warm gold. 2. By Thursday, in spite of cool storage, these last three ears were failures: no fireworks, poor texture and taste, bland regret between our teeth. 3. Cultivars for “sweet” number over a hundred: have we known them all? Zea may s—star of the farmers’ market, perennial favorite. From Laurel Smith: “I live in Vincennes, Indiana, and happily participate in projects to promote literacy and the arts. My poetry has appeared in various periodicals, including Natural Bridge, New Millennium Writings, Tipton Poetry Review, Flying Island, English Journal, JAMA: Journal of the AMA; also in the following anthologies: And Know This Place, Visiting Frost , and Mapping the Muse. ”

Trauermantel, a poem by Michael E. Strosahl

Trauermantel by Michael E. Strosahl Little girl, little girl, wants to dance, wants to twirl Flit and fly, skip and flutter, hushed by Vater, stilled by Mutter But Oma would not mind, Oma would not care, Resting in the box upon the table Should she dare? To twirl her dance dress under the black, to flit her wings under her mourning cloak And wouldn’t her Oma smile? Michael E. Strosahl is originally from Moline, Illinois. After moving to Indiana, he joined several poetry groups and traveled the state meeting many members of the Poetry Society of Indiana, also serving on its board for several years. Maik (as he is known) has appeared in the print version of Flying Island , along with appearances in the Tipton Poetry Journal, Bards Against Hunger projects, on buses, in museums and online at indianavoicejournal, poetrysuperhighway, projectagentorange and adaysencounter. He has recently relocated to Jefferson City, Missouri.

Living Week to Week, a poem by Phillip Smith

Living Week to Week by Phillip Smith Relief is what I seek ooo from this dread destiny ooo of living week to week. Make payments every week, ooo if only partially. Relief is what I seek. Creditors want to speak. Why does it have to be, ooo this living week to week? Spending I cannot tweak. No one can hear my plea. Relief is what I seek. The situation bleak; ooo my stark reality. I’m living week to week. My pay is at its peak. To get what’s due to me, ooo relief is what I seek ooo from living week to week. From Phillip Smith: “ My stories have been published by Jake Magazine, Inscape Magazine, Literally Stories, Chicago Literati, Comic Carnival Zine, Scarlet Leaf Review, and Dime Show Review. My poem “23 Years Sober” appeared in Measure: A Review of Formal Poetry. My stage adaptation of Stephen King’s novella “Rage” was produced in the spring of 1993. During my senior year at the University of Evansville, I was award