A Case for Ghosts

digital photoart: ralph murre

A Case for Ghosts

by Sara Clancy

Though you think otherwise

I am aware of an intrusion into the day

that feels like any afternoon in reverse

where conversation is complete

recollection plays the radio

and we are all present.

To arrive here you need nothing

like faith. Though I believe in memory

don't you? These dubious apparitions

insist on clarity, if only the relief

of your forehead glimpsed against

the steady shade of my hand.

In the end I will trade the familiar

cold spot with all its calibrations of doubt

for evidence of your dazzling absence

in the instant you cool your coffee,

your inexplicable breath

warm and expired.

~ previously published in Houseboat

Shebang

photo: ralph murre

Shebang

by Bruce Dethlefsen

these people

these place

these time of day

these breeze oh ain’t they sweet

these air to breathe

these sun wet world

these whole big blue green deal

and then these night

these children moon

these stars on strings

these stars

these twang of things

teewang

~ previously published in Unexpected Shiny Things

   Cowfeather Press

Recipe for Autumn

artwork: ralph murre

Recipe for Autumn

by Joan Wiese Johannes

You do not need a recipe.

All you need has gathered

in your freezer, on your doorstep,

and on the bottom shelf of the refrigerator

where the bunch of celery, minus

the thin stalk the cookbook called for,

begs you to let it flavor soup.

You do not need to leave home.

In the freezer there are ham hocks boiled

when the price was low

and corn on the cob bought from the farmer

who crumpled your money

into the pocket of his overalls,

making himself richer, making you richer too.

You do not need the market.

Use the potatoes that appeared at the office

next to the sign, Help Yourself,

tomatoes from the picnic table

where your neighbor puts produce

she wants to share,

the purple beans the poet brought you,

and the stray peppers left on your porch.

You do not need to wait.

Even the catsup to thicken and brighten

your broth has settled in the plastic bowl

where your husband poured it after he

knocked the bottle off the pantry shelf.

You do not need a recipe;

all you need is here.

  ~ first published in Wisconsin Trails

Cezanne Jelly and Paper Kites

artwork: paul cezanne

Cezanne Jelly and Paper Kites

by Albert DeGenova

in our Cezanne season when reason was treason

blue was the color for days and nights

jelly on crackers the Tao of our Zen

the then of amen again and again

undulating shadows red lava light

that Cezanne season when reason was treason

sunshine like thunder begun and undone

purple and yellow crepe paper kites

jelly on crackers the Tao of our Zen

you were the one the one the one

to bless the black cat with child sight

a Cezanne season when reason was treason

I painted poems with naked pen

to remember black coffee mornings and nights

jelly on crackers the Tao of our Zen

and now our cold toes touch almost like then

when we danced in crackling firelight

that was our season when reason was treason

jelly on crackers the Tao of our Zen

~ previously published in The Blueing Hours

   (Virtual Artists Collective)

I'M THE FUTURE EX . . .

photo and scarecrow by ralph murre

By Shoshauna Shy ---

I’M THE FUTURE EX

BILL MEETS IN

SARATOGA SPRINGS

 

at a Citgo station.

I am still married

and neither of us suspects

I will become my husband’s ex,

then Bill’s live-in girlfriend.

Next I’m his almost-fiancee

 

till drunken hijinks

with his best friend

gets me pregnant.

As things go, I miscarry;

Bill forgives me; we get

back together; we break up.

This goes on for years

 

while he travels to Key West

and dates someone else’s wife.

Meanwhile, I give birth

to a couple of his kids;

we get a license;

we have a wedding,

but before I know it

all hell breaks loose

and I’m his ex, Bill’s very own ex.

I figured I was olly olly in free

but as Bill says, guy reaches 40,

he’s bound to have an ex;

maybe even two.

This makes for a handy excuse

when my successor, a pretty

wanna-be-Mrs named Alyssa

prepares to present her case.

Bill can shake his head

 

and damn if that’s not all it takes

for her to know she should get real

or get gone - It won’t get

any better than this.

~ first published in stoneboat

Pan's Lament

artwork: ralph murre

Pan’s Lament
by Rose Mary Boehm

Grandmothers wore sadness wrapped in black.
Pan’s duduk no longer moved their feet in dance.
The young wore rape and shame like the end
of a world where their lives had been broken.
Sons and lovers, husbands and brothers,
their blood running over the heavy stones of betrayal.

When I left my Armenia and my mother
like a thief in the night, the outcast, the coward,
I saw my father’s face ripped away by a Turkish bullet
before I stole away, and all I felt was hot pee
running down my stockings, smelling of fear.
I had reached the bottom of my chasm,
the six-year old could not climb up.

What do I remember? Not my father’s face.
Nor can I recall my mother’s. Pourasdan, my sister,
was full of life, her skirts whirling to Pan’s
enchantment. That was before. The only
one left to receive me, I found an old woman
with dead eyes. Who am I?

I have climbed to the highest peak around
my village. Across the valley a mountain top has chosen
to be dressed in virgin white. Give us back our innocence,
so we can dance again. Pan’s lament
is floating up on the evening mist, haunting
my memories, weaving bereavement, singing my chasm
where I now find a wistful symmetry.
I will not be sad in this world.

~ first published in Poetry Quarterly (2011)

When The Rooster Crows

photo: marilyn fleming

When The Rooster Crows

by Marilyn Fleming

I linger bedside—

the cry of a killdeer

on my tongue

birds rustle

at the water’s edge

his teeth in a jar

daybreak

the milk house dark

—flash of a cat

his last words  

‘there’s nothing left of me

—sell the farm’

fallowed land

from the mouth of a cave

his rattled breath

big brown hands

of cold dry clay—

a smell of twigs

raw earth shivers

threads the seed—claims him

—winter wheat

when the rooster crows

no one will remember

his face—his name

who will feed the cat

the old farmhouse stands alone

–on the river flows

~ first published in the An Ariel Anthology 2014

KATRINA

artwork: william marr

KATRINA

            --New Orleans, August 2005

by William Marr

With such a name

of course she had to be

a wild dancer

A slight swing of her wide skirt

instantly sent all watchers

into a daze

not able to escape

nor to tell

if what engulfed the city

was water from the ruptured levees

or tears from their eyes

On the turbid water's surface

there were bloated bodies

querying the sky

with outstretched arms

~ previously published in Beyond Katrina

   (Arts & Healthcare Press)