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 without regret, their splendor, as usual, on time.   Laurel Smith lives in Vincennes, Indiana, and happily participates in projects to promote literacy and the arts. Her poems have appeared in Natural Bridge , New Millennium Writings , Tipton Poetry Journal, Flying Island , English Journal, JAMA: Journal of the AMA; also in the following anthologies: Mapping the Muse , And Know This Place, Visiting Frost

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 Indiana folk-poet Jame

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 an Ivy-Tech cr