Unconditional Love

digitalized photo: ralph murre

Unconditional Love
by Sharmagne Leland-St. John

I was thinking of your mother today
the first woman you ever loved
the one all others must measure up to
the first sound you ever heard
the beating of her heart
as she nourished you
and dreamt of you
before your birth
cradled there
in the warmth
of her body
which now
has turned
to silver
ashes
in your
hand

~ previously appeared on Quill & Parchment

WHEN PENIS WALKED . . .

artwork: ralph murre

WHEN PENIS WALKED THE EARTH

by Charles Ries

I never thought of it as evolving. At least not like this.

Never thought about when it first raised it’s proud little head.

But a 425-million year old fossil found in Herefordshire, England

changed all that. The oldest record of an animal that was unarguably

male made me stop and take stock. A tiny crustacean, only

two-tenths of an inch long -  with an unmistakable penis.

They christened it Colymbosathon Ecplecticos which means

“swimmer with a large penis.”

Scientists say it had copulatory organs one-third the length of

its body. Wow. Makes a guy sit back and think about all the

evolutionary outcomes. The cars we’d drive or the clothes we’d

wear.

Monkeys became men.

Fish learned to fly.

Penises roamed prehistoric earth.

I guess some things never change.

~ first published in the Milwaukee Journal-Sentinel

THE JOB

THE JOB

by Shoshauna Shy

So that coworkers would not joke

that Val was a total loser,

she took vacation every year

the way they were supposed to

even though she preferred to stay

booking reservations

for the exclusive historic lodge

in the Sangre de Cristo mountains

with its children riding horseback,

waitstaff performing cabaret,

plates boasting crepe suzettes.

The pine-shrouded stone chateau

was a primo destination

for the international jet set

who lavished appreciation

when she saved them a favorite suite

a season in advance.

Since Valerie lived two towns away

in a studio apartment

disowned by her parents

soon as she turned 18,

holiday dinners were at the lodge

amongst the owners’ children –

Christmas, New Years, Easter Day

each savored by her Nikon.

When she did manage to vamoose

one week every August,

she checked email and Facebook posts

in every internet café.

In Sacramento she found out

her boss dumped his latest mistress;

in New Orleans the bellhop

got fired for cocaine.

A maid’s diamond find in the whirlpool

was the highlight of Ann Arbor,

and the gardener’s proposal to the chef

her memory of L.A.

The cab ride home from the airport

was the best part of the journey,

and by dawn Val was in the dining hall

with Cook Cody’s basted eggs.

If it weren’t for the blackened postmarks

on the cards sent to the office,

nobody would believe that “Velcro”

had actually gone away.

~ first published in MO: Writings from the River (Montana State University in Great Falls)

Listen

cover art: emmett johns

Listen

by Charles Rossiter

I'm the voice of the old ways
that can take you back to the days
of grandparents when things were
one telephone and one tv set
per household, wringer washers,
78rpm, ice boxes, victrolas
and people who owned cars
were on top of the world.

I'm the voice of the unpaved road
dusty, pock-marked and ribbed
by spring rain, I can take you places
the long straight interstate
never imagined where the air is clear
and the woods are deep,
places that make you want to
throw your head back
look up at the stars
and breathe.

I'm the voice of the front porch
where you can sit sipping iced tea
and talk to the neighbors
and your children, about nothing
but the day behind you
and the night ahead
as the world slips by.

I'm the voice of your own music
that doesn't need an agent
or a stage or even a microphone.
I'm the song inside you that talks about
where you've been and how you feel.
I'm the high note you can't quite reach
but sing out anyway, loud and long.

I'm the voice of the hearty handshake
the arm around the shoulder
the straight-forward look in the eye
that says hello friend, we're here together
you and me, let's enjoy it
while we can.


~ previously published in Back Beat (Cross + Roads Press)

TEEING OFF

TEEING OFF
by Cathryn Cofell

She tells me to pick up golf, as if telling me to pick up milk

on the way home or a song where she left off.  She says

the competitor in me will thrill when the club connects to the ball

like a bone to the socket and the rocket takes off, soars into blue

like a great blue heron and lands exactly where it should land,

for one second only me and that ball and I have kicked its ass.

I remind her of the last time in my car, how I almost

killed us juggling the stick, phone, latte and a need

to speak often with my hands, question why she

believes I could manage that multitude of in-sync

movements. Those tiny balls. Standing still. Silence.  

She appeals to my heart, the brisk walks and the heft of a bag

that never feels heavy on a good day, the immaculate beauty

of the green, how on a clear Sunday with the sun cresting

and the last dew steaming she can almost see god.

I tell her that’s what churches or children are for,

and cost about the same, and that simply banging

my head against a wall would burn 150 calories

an hour which I already do on a frequent basis. 

She cajoles the career woman in me, insists golf will make me a champ

in the game of schmooze, adds there is no other sport worthy of my

intelligence, my fashion sense, my utter determination to accomplish

the manliest of deeds.

She knows I would wrestle mud eels if a man suggested

it wasn’t my place, but I am over 40, should be beyond that. 

I say honey, I am a poet first (well, 3^rd or 4^th after the son

and husband and 60 hour job and the chores).  Maybe

if there were a short course, or if I could write and dust

at the same time.  Better yet, she should pick up poetry,

fill her holes with words.

This is where it always ends.  Poetry scares the hell out of people,

even more than golf.  This is where it always begins, friends wanting

each other to be each other, to become someone we’re not because

isn’t that what women do, fill our lives with purpose after purpose

with no passion, smile and nod, say yes when we really mean no?

~ first published in Main Street Rag

ZEUS IN SUNSHINE

ZEUS IN SUNSHINE

by John Flynn

This day Old Sol  hides. The        

count stands three and one.               

You stare in, take the sign,

stretch, and let fly.

Your leather target  explodes

in dust and thunder.

A minor deity erupts and pumps.

“Strike two,” he scalds.

You get it back.

Thumb the herringbone seam,

roll it in the palms of your hands.    

All the senses feast.

Sweat it, stain it, dry it with dirt.

Rub it smooth.

Make it stick.

Late inning overcast absconds. 

You are Zeus in sunshine.

The orb of the earth is    

in your hand. You conjure up

players and saints. Gehrig, Dimaggio,                                                                                                                                                            

Whitey Ford, Emily Dickinson,

Christ, what a poem!

Down to one pitch. Throw harder

than you’ve ever thrown before.

Make it smoke.

Your leather target explodes

in dust and thunder.

He didn’t even see it

leave your hand,

but heard the thunder.  

~ first published in the Minneapolis Observer Quarterly                

Bait Shop

artwork: lucha (marie skrobot)

Bait Shop

by Jude Genereaux

You know that smell the minute

you walk in

know you’ve been there

reached back and arrived again

The old bait shop, milk & bread store

at the four corners by the water.

Could be up there at Walloon Lake where

Old Hem hung out on his way 

north to the Big Two Hearted or the

one in Baileys on the harbor

- any hundred others on the Brule, the U.P.

Up North Wisconsin, Michigan

smells the same

and you’re 10 again

waiting for Dad to take you out in that old row boat

one with the slats in the bottom, sloshing water

a can of worms in your hand

waiting at Uncle Hank’s dock

morning mist steaming off Horsehead Lake.

The cheap wooden screen door Bang!

slams behind you

bakery wrapped in cellophane,

bags of chips & donuts beckon.

“Indian” souvenirs - birch bark canoes & 

sweetgrass baskets, an ice chest full of soda pop, all

For Sale, next to post cards of black bear & trout

and the over-riding scent of old wood, damp

musty closed-for-the-winter stored stuff & mildew

overpowers all else

as you walk back through the door

to summers gone and memories

of when you were ten.

~ first published in the Wisconsin Poets’ Calendar

"back to LAX"

artwork: norman j. olson

“back to LAX”

by Norman J. Olson

my eyes roll across the dusty floor
through spilled coffee
and
out the door…
like a cockroach among the ladybugs,
I have to leave… I have to
become another metal mole on the 405…

I see swirls of lights that
William Blake could not have imagined
in his wildest dreams
of heaven and hell… yellow sparks
in the night and cars
everywhere but no
people… no legs or lips…
no hair or hips…

just electrons firing photons
through
red plastic and tricks of memory…

imagine Francois Boucher standing by
the freeway
with his wig blown sideways… with his big
palette
and tiny brushes painted with
road dust… imagine a horrible teal
green seeping through
the craquelure of
this oily vision

vast shards of unbroken
plate glass are mirrors and
I guess Joni Mitchell was right that
smoky
clouds
are angel hair
but where
in this tangle of
cartwheeling street lights and
spasms
have the angels
gone?

~ first published in Ascent Aspirations

Praise More . . .

artwork: robin chapman

Praise More Than Can Be Told

by Robin Chapman

And what’s left out, unseen, unnamed—
the shifting soil and rock, the fungal mesh
that knits the roots to living cloth; the tamed
path and homestead cellar stairs, its bush
of lilacs blooming in the undergrowth;
the hummingbird who comes to the red shirt
you wear, chokecherries, the chickadee who goes
ahead in the greening wood, the whirr
of a tractor’s plough far off; wild straw-
berries ripening in the poison ivy patch; high clouds;
the wind like a river pouring down the draw,
aspen's shaking grey-green leaves; turned clods
underfoot as you gain the ridge; skylined friends
as you descend again into the mystery of woods.

~ originally appeared in Poemeleon

CHICAGO

artwork: william marr

CHICAGO

by William Marr

1

dozing off

in the virgin forest

beneath the feet

of Picasso’s strange animal

when suddenly a long yell

TIM --- BER ---

awakens me

I raise my head

and in the sunlight that leaks through

I see the skyscrapers

      all slanting towards me

2

winter day

even steel trembles

so do teeth

red lights burn in turns

at each icy corner

the eyes don’t

warm

on two feet

with two hands

pulling down a hat

and tightening the scalp

you greet the wind

~ first published in Autumn Window ( Arbor Hill Press)

Night Train

artwork: ralph murre

Night Train

by Wilda Morris

As a child I fell asleep

to the whistle of the night train

moaning like a woman in pain,

the wheels on the track

more rackety than an old walker

pushed across a wooden floor.

Tonight I’m at the old home place,

one ear tuned and waiting.

Let me be small again

in this house warm with love

and the scent of apple dumplings.

Let me lean against Mother

as she sings or deals out cards

for a game of rummy.

Let her tuck me in,

read me a goodnight story,

her kiss warm on my left cheek.

Let me be a child again one short hour

before I take the night pills to Mother,

tuck her beneath the quilt,

touching my lips

to her wrinkled forehead,

before the night train passes.

~ previously published in Cradle Songs: An Anthology of Poems on Motherhood (Quill and Parchment Press)

Pornographic Literature

artwork: ralph murre

Pornographic Literature

by John Lehman

Appleton, Wisconsin―I drive here

to read from a new collection of

poems. Inside the store a poster

and pyramid of books make me feel

good until it’s ten minutes after seven

and nobody has come. I sign copies

as if a public cared, feign interest in

the contents of a nearby shelf and

twenty minutes later grab my poster

and quietly disappear.

On the long ride home I stop at an

adult bookstore in a metal shack

along a frontage road. Here the

patrons take literature seriously,

groping video boxes and plastic

bags of nude bodies copulating

on covers of magazines. Who

ever caressed a book of poetry

with such urgency or quivered

from thoughts of what might wait

inside? A pudgy, post-pubescent

clerk with an eight ball tattooed

on his arm surveys the shadows

as if to say, “Buy something,

people, it ain’t art for art’s sake,

and don’t even think of pilfering

the fucking merchandise.”

You, standing in Barnes & Noble

wondering about this jumble of

abandoned, autographed books,

have you ever stolen a collection

of poetry, slipped it in your belt

so its corners poke the inside of

your legs? No arched back or

joyous spasms here, but a thrill

of rushing toward the night with

this forbidden shape pressed

tight against your groin.

And afterwards, when you’re free

of sex, you can read a poem or

two, they’re at least as good as

something else and, unlike porn- ography, a book of poems can

be placed upon your coffee table

so if friends you want to impress

ask, “Do you get off on poetry?”

you can reply, “Yes, I put my arms about it, yes and draw it down

to me, yes, I say yes, I will yes.”

 ~ previously published in Dogs Dream of Running (Salmon Run Press)

A Brief Excerpt

photoart: ralph murre

A Brief Excerpt

by Jackie Langetieg

What must it have been like

swimming beneath her heart in that dark, silken sea?

Wind has frozen the lake into a black mirror. Its endlessness reminds me of a birth night: traveling through space lit by pinpoints of stellar ice.  (She comes at night when I'm asleep, entering the room on the whim of a breeze, waits for that one second during everyone’s night--a pause between breathing out and the beginning of breathing in. She leans down and whispers a single astonishing note like the cry of a forest flute on the breeze. Whenever I hear that memory song, a shutter snaps; perhaps I glance behind me on a too quiet street or wake in the dark and know that what woke me was more than just a sound.  It stops me; I see into her eyes, wait a second and go on.)

~ an excerpt from White Shoulders ( Cross + Roads Press ) 

Suspended

photoart: ralph murre

Suspended

by David Scheler

From the wooden observation tower

the green solace of summer

drifts over the watershed ––

lush valleys and hills

roll through fields

then disappear in mist

of the horizon.

The hawk holds the sky

under his wing

on twilight breeze;

he neither descends

nor rises on wind,

tethered like a kite

on invisible string.

These silent moments drift away

as Venus descends.

But the hawk

lingers on the waft

as sunset folds into the night.

~ previously published in The Aurorean

Miriam's Song

Miriam’s Song

by Ronnie Hess

 In 19^th century Austria-Hungary it was not uncommon for Jews to have several first names – an official name, such as Mari (or Mary), and a Hebrew one, such as Miriam.

The census man asks an impertinent question:

not just how many children but how many pregnancies.

As if this is his business. She decides to tell him the truth.

He writes the numbers in each small box, six and ten,

while she moves in and out of the room’s shadows.

The first one came soon after they were married,

when she was in her teens, a dull ache in her back,

the blood running down her thighs

the morning she plucked and gutted the chicken.

The village women told her she was young yet,

had good hips, was made for bearing,

and within a year there was Regina,

their little queen, the fair-haired girl.

May it please the Emperor, she had laughed.

Still, there were the others, in the middle,

after the two boys. It was her own fault –

she had carried in the wood,

lifted the laundry tub, visited her mother

after the hailstorm, bumping up and down in the cart.

Each time it happened, Benjamin had brought her

an apple, cornflowers, pinecones,

asked for her forgiveness.

Miriam, beloved. the name God meant for her.

Mary, Queen of Hungary, what bureaucracy had required.

She had held the presents to her nose.

He had touched her cheek.

Each time, she had wrapped her legs around his.

Still, she gave them names she never mentioned,

Dora, Sonia, Erszebeth, Rifke, imagined their faces,

the shape of their hands, their dispositions.

They would be old enough now to bring in extra money,

haggle with the butcher, fetch groceries up the dank staircase,

sit at her feet, listen to her singing in the day’s released heat.

~ previously published in Whole Cloth (Little Eagle Press)

GARDEN OF ROCKS

artwork: ralph murre

GARDEN OF ROCKS

by Luis Cuauhtemoc Berriozabal

I sit in a garden of rocks.
I watch the woman of
the house burying a dead bird.

She begins to sing like the dead
bird. Her hair flaps in the
wind. Her head bobs up and down.

I see her lay flowers over
the grave. The day is sad
in this garden of rocks. I sit.

I’m restless like the wind. I want
to go and salute the
dead bird. But I lay down instead.

I sleep and have a lazy dream,
where a fragile bird dies.
I do not see how it happens.

I see only the gentle bird
down in my lazy dream.
I caress its soft, injured head.

I am awakened by the scent
of the flowers. The blue sky
and the green trees appear sad.

The woman of the house sings like
the dead bird. Her perfume
extinguishes death’s scent. Inside

she opens up a window and
she sings like the dead bird.
In a garden of rocks, I cry.

~ previously published in Garden of Rocks (Kendra Steiner Editions)

The Last Party

artwork: ralph murre

The Last Party

(For Josie)

by Cristina M. R. Norcross

It all begins to fade

in the land of forget-me-not years.

One moment I am dropping a slice of lemon into my tea –

the next moment

the back of my bed raises

with the click of a magic button.

Crosswords are my saving grace.

All of the clues –

a familiar comfort.

I wonder who keeps filling them in?

She should be more considerate and use a pencil.

There is a woman who comes and points

to pictures on my dresser.

Sometimes I am good at the guessing game –

sometimes not.

She is kind though and brings me a new nightgown

with each visit.

In times of joyful suspension,

the room is filled

with people I have not seen in years.

Gertrude’s fur wrap was always too showy,

but it looks good on her now.

Bill is busy serving cocktails,

while they set up another Canasta game.

It is a party of laughter and noise.

You should come –

before it all disappears.

~ First published on Your Daily Poem