. . . better loving

from 1937 ad by climax molybdenum co.

. . . better loving

                                                                                    . . . through improved tensile

                                                                                    strength, ductility, and

                                                                                    corrosion resistance.

                                                                                    Modern Metallurgy

                                                                                    November 1964

by Ellen Wade Beals

Beer scum slag of milled ore

on the floor of Urad Valley

where men crave sunshine

in dank, tight spaces.  Shift

over, these smudged grubs make

up for loss, gulping air, light,

beer, the behind-the-ear

musk of any girl just pretty enough.

Leadville, town with a heart of molybdenum,

made the introductions.  They met at the bakery;

she was powdered with flour. They ate

cookies among the moneyed aspen,

air thin as an old woman’s handkerchief.

* * *

Despite the upheaval of lung slugs

and the clank of bed rail and puke dish,

he recalls going down, under Red Mountain.

Sometimes he wouldn’t wash

and her smell would be with him,

on his beard. Now he’s bald and ashen

from 20 years of mines, Pall Malls, and reefer.

The crescent scar, where his chin met a drill bit,

smiles down and she wonders whether

she imagined him nod. Amid the shuffle

of soles on linoleum, his cough tries again

to find itself, weak as mountain air.

* * *

Something crinkles in the couch

cushion. She retrieves the pack of smokes,

hidden after his diagnosis, the gold

cellophane to mark her place in A Pocket Full

of Rye. Her gnarled feet on the cocktail table,

stocking seam pulled, they stare at her

like two old comedians.

Amid a wheeze of expiration, she wonders

had Agatha Christie ever loved,

rock for pillow, moss blanket,

the moon his miner’s light.

* * *

Pneumatic breathing from another room

provides the score as you

complete the family health history,

checking diseases that apply: cancer, emphysema,

naiveté. Now imagine mining:

First pick with all your weight behind you.

Wedge the crack. Place caps strategically.

Blow. Squeezed in your hand is pyrite, fool’s gold,

good luck charm since sixth grade,

a nugget big as a turkey heart,

you hope to feel the pulse of stone.

~ first published in Halogen (2000)

the word of the day is "myopia"

artwork: ralph murre

the word of the day is “myopia”

But now it’s time to call the children home.

     -- Kurt Brown

by Marty McConnell

With death at the edges of everything

the fruit flies seem unkillable, endless,

while Melissa’s back to chemo

a fourth time, another of Missy’s

students shot in Englewood, and now

the news, Kurt slipped off

in his sleep. The flies

rise up from the sink in a loose

fist, are everywhere, then settle

on the dishes from last night’s

impromptu holidayless costume

party. In San Francisco the lack

of clear seasons can make it easier

to forget about death. Brutal

as the Chicago winters are, the cold

reduces the murder toll which makes

the clear June sky a trouble sign. I wore

a red tutu, symbolizing nothing, Denise

a white hoop skirt covered with plastic

guns, Tatyana was a bee, which are

an endangered breed in our country

and all it meant was Sunday and potluck

and I didn’t know Kurt was dying, maybe he

didn’t know it either and I don’t know

Missy’s kid’s name but Dave was Madonna

and Jerre the leader of the band

and Sonya rocked an impossible

feathered headpiece and Stevie Nicks

sleeves. We’d spent the afternoon

talking about the role of art in saving

our own lives and then it was time for dinner

and ridiculousness, which is to say

living, noise from the neighbor’s balcony

almost as loud as ours, Sunday

and nobody dying as far as we can see.

~ first published in Tandem

Looking for Picasso on eBay

artwork: pablo picasso

Looking for Picasso on eBay

by Michael Gessner

My wife loves art and it is her birthday.

Because of this, I am looking for Picasso

on eBay.  Among the thousands

of lithographs signed & numbered

in pencil, I find "Paloma sur fond rouge,"

& bid the balance of my bank account.

Now I am in electronic Picassoland,

among the mixed media, how prolific

he was, and varied, and how unlike

the literary artist, bound to one voice,

denied their periods during a life,

confined so often to a single genre. 

But this does not matter to my wife.

She will frame this tortured thing

I have ordered, praising Picasso,

his artistic gluttony, his infant self,

how he left his true believers, the women,

a man after his own heart.

~ previously published in Transversales (BlazeVOX)

DEAR YANNIS

digital photoart: ralph murre

DEAR YANNIS

     to Yannis Ritsos’ poem “Absence”

by Stella Pierides

In our hands, you said, we hold

the shadow of our hands. I know

the cold absence of the marbles,

olives sprouting from the cracks.

The coffee grinder turns

slowly, gently. The moon

still kind, bathes our wrinkled

hearts in light. In silver. In sorrow.

Old souls sitting by the river

listening to the boat engine

starting, coughing, spitting,

dying. Starting again.

~ previously published at poetsonline.org

Metaphors

artwork: unknown chinese ceramist

Metaphors

by Anneliese Finke

I’m beginning to think that they’ve all

been used before.  The fireworks of the

neurons that fire in your brain, the hands

that flutter like wings and crack like bark,

even the stars that shine in your eyes.

Everything new is ridiculous.  Should I say,

your hands are flapping like carp

drowning when someone reaches down

to pull them into the air?  That the fine lines

on them are like tin foil that, once used,

can never be smoothed out again?  Maybe

these metaphors work, somehow, maybe

they’re just nonsense, your eyes are like

the power indicator on my tv antenna.

Controlled by a little plastic dial?

Bright and surrounded by darkness?

Keeping me awake at night?

It all falls apart.  There’s nothing else to say

but this: There is a man.  He looks sad.

I saw him, lying in his white bed.

When I saw his eyes, I thought,

he must know something awful.

But after all, I am no closer to it,

I will never be any closer to him,

than this.

~ first published in Ruminate

THREE OLD LADIES LUNCHING

artwork: ralph murre

THREE OLD LADIES LUNCHING

by Michael L. Newell

their voices float

among potted plants

forks pry open

cold clams artichokes and families

each bite hangs

in the air

a dilemma

coffee is served

and thin blue hair

fills

        with rising steam

~ first published in Poetry/LA (1984)

Love

photoart: ralph murre

Love

by Margaret Rozga

the surprise of where

and when

 

A brief flash

sometimes

If you’re lucky, a near galaxy

of a summer evening

Then after first frost

darkness before dinner

cabbage, pork, and potatoes

To remember

pick up a book, strike a match

~ previously appeared in the

“Poetry Jumps Off the Shelf” project

DREAMING OF THE RED 1964 . . .

artwork: ralph murre

DREAMING OF THE RED 1964 FORD MUSTANG

CONVERTIBLE DEALER  PROMO MODEL GIVEN

TO ME ON MY 16th BIRTHDAY BY MY MOTHER

by CX Dillhunt

How morning can be transalpine

How the vestiges of summer are falling

How the window can be empty and still

How the curtain isn't moving

How the bed curtails movement 

How fear can be found

How finding is fearful

How a teaspoon of salt falls

How fall is around the corner

How morning rounds out the room

How the room transforms the sleeper

How the transvestite can still be sleeping

How this poem turns the corner into fall

Now drives on through the morning window.

~ first published in Wisconsin People & Ideas

Soul Pane

photo: ralph murre

Soul Pane

by Jim Landwehr

The window to his soul

is small, soot covered

and very hard to open.

Its counterweights broke long ago;

he meant to fix them but

it was easier to leave the window shut.

Any time someone opens it

they see the real him

so he slams it on their fingers.

The drapes are drawn

most of the time

shut to the sunlight of others.

His soul resents the isolation

and wishes a pane would break

or the drapes would catch fire.

The window to his soul

is tightly shut

and he intends to keep it that way.

~ first published in Verse Wisconsin