Early Work

photoart: ralph murre

Early Work

by Max Garland

My father’s milk truck bounces

the county roads, as much a part

of the jangle of future as dawn.

His shirt is white as God to me,

I get to ride along sometimes.

the smell of the cooler

is the rubbery cold where

nothing spoils, where rows

of bottles ride like music

before the choir wakes up,

or the pigeons tear loose

from silos and steeples.

The cords of muscle in his arms,

the pulsing star of cigarette,

the jump on the walking world we get

as we navigate the deep blue

stutter of washboard roads,

help lift the day onto the calendar.

First light arrives, slow as a wage

I don’t yet know the meaning of, though

I feel the glow of usefulness

as I lug the empties back to the truck

where the sun has started

to brighten the fenders and latches,

the chrome of the hubcaps like coins

for the road where dark is spent

and wealth is milk at every door.

~ first published in Prairie Schooner

House Homicide

from a photo by james landwehr

House Homicide
by Jim Landwehr

Born in 1907 to a family of others

A generation away

It was nothin’ special to anyone but they

            Who made the beds

            And slept in them

Wood, brick and mortar are all it was

Hulking like a middle class mansion

It was nothin’ special to anyone but those

            Who swept the floors

            And walked on them

Kitchen warmed by electric stove

One bath to serve all seven

It was nothin’ special to anyone but us

            Who painted the walls

            And lived within them

New tenants brought boxes of neglect and blight

Slumming the mansion to size

It was nothin’ special to anyone, especially them

            Who killed the house

            And moved along

~ first published in Heavy Bear

UNGLUED

artwork: ralph murre

UNGLUED

by Maureen Hand

The sun’s crisp rays crawl through that pane of dust

and dreams and point straight at the glaring glue

stuck on the green and gold wallpapered wall.

I remember when it first unfurled some

years ago, and I thought I could restick

it. With the grace of a gazelle, I climbed

to the top of the ladder. I spread the

glue, caressed the wound, and coaxed, but it would

not adhere, and you announced, “It’s too late,”

as glue oozed out like blood, and you just shook

your head. I should have known when it first pulled

away. I should have known it would be hard

to fix. I should have known some rips tear for

a reason. Now, that glitter of glue smirks

like a scar that is no longer bleeding.

~ first published in FLUTTER POETRY REVIEW

Three from Bay View

digital photoart: ralph murre

by Gary C. Busha

I now realize

what is not said has meaning

and sends an echo.

This early morning

the old man who was a boy

tries to remember.

It is best to go

to the water to write about

what catching fish is.

~ previously published in Bay View Spiders (Wolfsong Publications)

Acceptance

digital photoart: ralph murre

Acceptance

by Cristina M.R. Norcross

Branches were cut,

before I could touch

the new, green leaves –

velvet flesh.

I no longer wish for

a brightly colored streamer

to appear,

while I dance into the night.

The air is thick

with choices.

This is time enough.

Rug fibers softened by living,

The carved, wooden legs

of Aunt Mary’s side table,

and the chipped place setting

from our wedding,

that didn’t quite make it to England.

When I place my finger

on the table by lamplight,

a message in dust appears.

This is the life

you always wanted.

You just don’t know it yet.

~ first published in Verse & Vision (Q Gallery) 

WORDS NOT SAID

artwork: william marr

WORDS NOT SAID

by William Marr

There was something

I wanted to tell the flower

Blooming before my window

she brought me spring

This morning

full of warm gratitude

I finally gathered up courage

and began

You sure are ...

When a pair of scissors

snipped both my words

and her

~previously published in DuPage Arts Life 

Note Posted . . .

artwork: vincent van gogh (from old postcard reproduction)

Note Posted Under the Lost Pet Notices

by Joan Wiese Johannes

You probably don’t remember me, but I am wondering

why you no longer do your laundry on Friday nights.

You are the guy in your thirties who wore nice shirts,

usually plaid, suggesting that you came here from work,

which is good because I like men who work.

Your shirts were wrinkled, so I figured you were single.

And since you didn’t wash your sheets every week,

I surmised that you weren’t getting a lot, which is good

because a girl can’t be too careful these days.

Your underwear impressed me; briefs are unpretentious,

and you replace them before they go gray or the elastic dies.

I also liked the way you rolled your socks into little balls

before tossing them into your bag.  You never missed,

which is good because I like men who athletic.

I didn’t speak to you the first time I saw you because

I was wearing old, green sweatpants.

The next week, not expecting to see you again,

I wore my glasses and my hair was dirty.

Once I introduced you to Bounce when your towel stuck

to your tee shirt but was too shy to introduce myself.

Now I miss our meetings and hope you have just changed

your laundry schedule and haven’t lost your job, moved,

or found someone to iron your shirts.

~ first published in Free Verse

On St. Patrick's Day . . .

photo: sharon auberle

On St. Patrick’s Day, a True Confession

by Marilyn L. Taylor

Oh Lord, how I’d love to be Irish!

The Irish are nothing but hot,

and they’ve gotten incredibly stylish—

but Irish is what I am not.

My name doesn’t translate to Irish,

nor start with a “Mc” or an “O”,

so no matter how Molly Maguire-ish

I’m feeling, it’s hopeless, I know.

But I’m dying to fib just a little

for maybe a day or a week,

and pound the bodhran, play the fiddle,

and break into brogue when I speak;

I’d tipple with Nuala and Dylan,

I’d blather with Eamon and Shaun,

and then (if the spirit is willin’)

go guzzle more Guinness till dawn!

Of course it’s a little bit sneaky;

in fact, I would feel like a dork

neglecting to mention Milwaukee,

pretending that I was from Cork—

But Lord, how I’d love to be Irish,

be one of those glamorous Celts—

now that everything Emerald Isle-ish

Is cooler than anything else!

~ first published in the Irish American Post

The Moroccan Leather Briefcase

artwork: ralph murre

The Moroccan Leather Briefcase

by Jackie Langetieg

What I really wanted that day,

handling the soft Moroccan leather,

was to be a person who went to Morocco

or Egypt, or Kashmir—someplace exotic,

where a man in a white flowing burnoose

with black and silver ropes would see I was lost

and offer to lead me back to my people and

on the way, we stop at a dark café, sip

strong coffee poured from a long-handled carafe

into small brass cups filigreed with whirls

of romantic Arabic, and tell each other our mysteries.

His robes flow over his body. His

lean brown fingers stroke my hand; I quiver

as desire pools in my belly. His neat black beard raises

tiny hairs on my neck; then his lips begin at the crevice

of my scapula skip down to my clavicle, around

my breasts, and slowly trace an untraceable path

to my navel. Clothes frantically tossed

onto a rattan chair, bodies

clasped together . . . what!

Do I want to buy the briefcase?

Yes, yes, yes.

~ first published in Confetti in a Silent City

On Not Knowing

photo: sharon auberle

On Not Knowing

by Jeffrey Johannes

When I was young, I watched

a Chinese monk brush characters

of red lacquer on a door

the color of spoiled plums;

no matter what his message,

I felt the impatience of not knowing

and something changed in my heart.

And here lies the struggle,

the uncertainty in wondering

if there is anything

more certain than losing my hat

when I leaned into sunset

sighting a humpback whale,

the weight of its bones

bearing hard to lee,

stunning in aptitude and joy,

its molecules speaking a language

I did not understand.

~ first published in Nimrod

photo:sharon auberle

DESTINATION

by Cathryn Cofell

In my fantasy: 

Tuesday afternoon,

blinds drawn, covers kicked

to the floor, you and I

slick with sweat and oil,

bodies tight as earth and root.

I write secret words

on the sole of your left foot:

flame and temple and tether,

your hurricane face washed in genius,

your eyes wild on me,

your red, red lips on

the answers I long to hear.

In your fantasy:

morning birds peck

in an empty bath outside,

blinds wide open,

kitchen table, papers raked

to the floor, you and I

tumbling like rusty locks.

Words grind in your head:

flash and peacock and passport,

still fall into lines of pure genius

even as we steam the windows,

even as you bathe my long

pale body with lamplight and seed.

~ poem previously appeared in Sweet Curdle (Marsh River Editions)
   photo, in EVErywoman (Seven Islands Press)

SUKKAT SHALOM

detail from new mexico cemetery statuary, artist unknown

SUKKAT SHALOM

(Shelter of Peace)

by Kathy Miner

Mother to mother,

let us take it as a vow:

I will not raise my child

to murder yours.  Not in the name

of a nation,

not in the name of a god,

not in the name of money,

not for anyone

or any thing at all

will we allow them to be trained

in the ways of killing

their own kind.  These sons

and these daughters, who catch their essence from us

but spin it daily

into a new existence

beyond our imaginings --

let us stand arm in arm

in a unity of womanhood

and shout in one voice We do not give them life

that they might take it away

from one another.  That these beings

who grew beneath our hearts

and forevermore live within them, these babes

whose soft secrets we know and

whose names we chose

from the music of the universe –

let us cry from all the rooftops

that we do not suckle them

for the warmongers,

do not feed and clothe them

that they might put on uniforms

and be taught to forget

one another’s humanity.

That I will not be the cause of your weeping

nor you of mine.  We can do this,

we are mothers, we can make it happen

for once and for all:  by the power of love

let us stop

the making of war.  Here is a length of rope,

there a bit of canvas:  let us pitch a tent of peace

where all of our families

may dwell.

~ first published in the Capital Times

The Big Eve

digital art: ralph murre, architectural detail: paolo soleri

The Big Eve

by Jan Oskar Hansen

Tracer bullets on the night sky Aleppo seen

from a hotel veranda, I hear screams, but

it is the raucous laughter of too much wine

Noon in Sydney and New Year festive

rocket in the sky or perhaps I´m seeing

a war that has not yet been declared or

perhaps I have seen the future the holocaust

of mankind, the last hurrah and the blow

of a whistle calling full time... Whatever it was

I saw spectacular colours like rubbing one's

eyes when tired and seeing mystical rainbows

belonging to an unknown existence.

 ~ previously published in A Poet´s Almanac  (cyberwit)

At the Still Point

photoart: ralph murre

At the Still Point

by Susan T. Moss                 

Fixed gazes stare from the museum’s

glass cases filled with stuffed

and groomed New England wildlife,

a collection to refashion nature’s

nuances in rainbow hues and textures.

A barred owl gnaws a dead mouse,

a mounted cougar crouches in wait,

two beavers chisel birch logs –

all forever feathered and furred.

Outside, stars salute the cool night,

bronze and russet festoon

the season while tarnished plants

spill spice and musk.

Through the dark,

my warm breath spirals in rhythm

with pitched trills of one bird

that refuses sleep.

~ first published in After Hours

impression from a vacation . . .

artwork: ralph murre

impression from a vacation March 2011

by  Norman J. Olson

from jagged ice mountains

to oceans

of people

who live among palm trees…

we followed the spinning Earth

five miles up,

eating

rice and drinking tea…

corporations let us ride their amazing trains and ocean liners

I saw ten dolphins and

a few monkeys

and tried not to think

of the sad eyes

and dusty thighs

of the prostitutes

who smiled shyly and

said “hello” in response to our greeting,

as we walked by, heading for the

train station, a fried egg

and a plate

of noodles…

~ first published in Indian Ocean Voices