Flying Island

  October                               We are each other’s harvest; we are each other’s business; we are each other’s magnitude and bond. –Gwendolyn Brooks   Weary green makes way for every shade of fire:     limbs of maple, beech, and oak, shrouded all summer, now sway in a bright wind.   The dance of death , they say, but no one is grieving:     not the harvest moon, not sunshine on frostbit grass, not dreamers eager for the dark.   Let’s find atoms that we share, here in the raucous     foliage of you, me : essential as water or air, the bountiful mess of us. Laurel Smith lives in Vincennes, Indiana, and happily participates in projects to promote literacy, the arts, social justice, and public health. Her poems have appeared in various journals, including Natural Bridge , New Millennium Writings, English Journ...

                               Congratulations to this year's Flying Island Journal Best of the Net nominees! Also a special thank you to our editors and readers for all their work for the journal. Winning entries will be announced near the end of January, 2022. For more information on Best of the Net, visit: http://bestofthenetanthology.com/ POETRY "During the night" poem by Laurel Smith https://www.flyingislandjournal.org/.../during-night-poem... "Rainwater Hair" poem by Steve Brammell https://www.flyingislandjournal.org/.../rainwater-hair... "My Shame is the Bowl of Duck's Blood Soup" poem by Natalie Solmer https://www.flyingislandjournal.org/.../my-shame-is-bowl... "Racket" poem by Amy Ash https://www.flyingislandjournal.org/.../racket-poem-by... "The Dolls of 2020" poem by Jenny Kalahar https://www.flyingislandjournal.org/.../the-dolls-of-2020... "P...

    During the night                         Another fall, hip fracture: a new surgeon aligning bone and metal, charting a course for your 96-year-old frame on a vague sea, more dream than distance with markers     aimed to carry you    home, only you’re no longer  sure what home means: not the farm where you rode a pony and fed chickens,     not the house where you raised children and lost your mate, not the well-appointed rooms of your single life.   Wait: some forward motion, some backward drift, youthful hands supporting your back, calm as a mother with her small child,  something said softly then a door closed.  Journey and     dream confused, tangled like this too thin sheet wishing itself a sail, homeward bound. Laurel Smith lives in Vincennes, Indiana, and happily participates in projects to prom...

Loaded        Back then he showed me how to assemble the farm tool I did not want to touch: a small gauge rifle. My hesitation surprised him: his mother and sister shot well, their loyalty to homegrown food justice enough for dealing death to fat groundhogs or teenage racoons.   I could see the logic of knowing what every farm kid knew, but I didn’t like any of it, not aiming at a can on a bloodless fence post, not pulling the trigger.   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.

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...

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...

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. ”

He travels with half his mother’s ashes across the sea, to the other place she lived away from him, her East-West selves grounded in a storied geography: Here is the river I knew as a girl— That’s the town where I met him— her voice a swirl of distant sounds he knows he will forget. He thinks “ dust to dust” a poor cliché, the grains he now carries more like seeds to be planted: which one would open in July with a bloom the size of her fist, which would grow straight then bend as if to lift a child who looks like him? —by Laurel Smith Bio: Laurel Smith lives in Vincennes, Indiana, and happily participates in projects to promote literacy and the arts. Her 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 Pla ce, Visiting Frost , and Mapping the Muse ....

Falling, a field guide by Laurel Smith For how long will you continue to listen to those dark shouters, caution and prudence? Fall in! Fall in! —Mary Oliver Fall like the hands off a clock, knowing your new name for the hours will alter the caliber of darkness and light. Fall like a star, so fast so far you imagine the sky as song, words and tune so true you can already sing it by heart. Fall like a stone into water, ripples and shadows, minnows and yellow leaves: better than a wish, this stone with nothing more to desire. 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.