ESTRANGED
By Bruce Bennett
It’s true we were estranged, but it’s so sad.
I saw him walking just the other day,
and thought that there was something I might say
but didn’t say it. Now I wish I had.
We passed each other silent in the street.
No nod. No nothing. Eyes fixed straight ahead.
And now a few days afterwards he’s dead.
No chance to make it up. If we could meet
again, I’d make a joke. Hey, what’s the deal?
Why not be friends? What was that all about?
We’d have shook hands and hugged. Without a doubt
that would have ended it. I really feel
one word or gesture might have set things straight.
I loved the guy! And now, it is too late.
Copyright © 2016 by Bruce Bennett.
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THE SPORT
By Bruce Bennett
I used to worry you would find a man
who would replace me. I would make a joke,
and you would laugh at it. We often spoke
about your “schemes,” as if you had a plan.
You played along. It was a kind of game.
Who would he be? What would he do? What sort
of guy would make a play for you? The sport
was dangerous. A dread I could not name
would lash me on, and you were all too ready
to follow-or to lead. I should have seen
that there was something more behind your heady
participation; guessed that that might mean
something. Still, I’d persist, without a clue,
and you’d join in, concealing what you knew.
Copyright © 2016 by Bruce Bennett.
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THE PAST
By B. E. Stock
My gutter has become your gold mine
As you say where you are, where I have been —
Afraid of mirrors, pieces of life and ourselves
Crumbling away; hopes laid on a shelf.
Our pictures are not of adorable kids
Or the dog in the old neighborhood
But our bodies, grossly distended,
Or the gaunt face in a clinic to which that led.
Our keepsakes might be a coin with a saying,
A card with a prayer we keep on praying,
A postcard of a retreat house looking
Over mountains, where we discussed the cooking.
So we assemble our portion of the sky,
Clay breaking into colors when we die.
Copyright © 2016 by B. E. Stock.
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Fraternal
By Elise Hempel
How many times did we have to explain
to someone just meeting us, yet again
answering which kind of twins we were;
how many times did we need to make clear
that we were fraternal, saying that word,
stressing the second syllable hard,
making sure they knew we’d come
from separate eggs, repeating that term
we knew by heart, caring only it meant
no matter our dresses, our bangs, we were different
as any two sisters; how often did we
roll our eyes alike and sigh
in almost-matched voices, loudly pronounce
ourselves two at once.
Copyright © 2016 by Elise Hempel.
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The Costumer
By Elise Hempel
One Halloween, I decided to be King Arthur
in tin-foil crown, waving a wooden sword
while witches cackled and fairy-princesses glittered
through the neighborhood. Then came the year
I must have been obsessed with crows. My mother
didn’t squawk but sat down at her machine and whirred
a smooth black hood with eye-holes for my bird-
vision, a black cape she made ragged with pinking shears.
One daughter she’d imagined, dancing out
the door, a ballerina, and one she could
never have guessed, flapping down the street
and cawing at each front step, trudging back
home with a torn cape and blackened mood,
holding a rain-limp construction-paper beak.
Copyright © 2016 by Elise Hempel.
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The Twins
By Elise Hempel
For seven years we lived inside one name
for the sake of brevity, our differences
kept wrapped within a package that was us,
we posed alike for pictures, wore the same
straight bangs and pleated skirts, our presents came
like twins themselves — two matching cats, two necklaces
with matching hearts; we wished with mingled breaths
across the single cake, our souls a sum.
And even now, as both of us turn fifty,
the string long cut away, our two lives split
by six hundred miles; even now, though every birthday
the cards are addressed to me, I’m still trying to separate
myself from that name, still blowing hard to see
some proof of my breath as the candles all go out.
Copyright © 2016 by Elise Hempel.
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Name
By Elise Hempel
When my smaller, unexpected cry arrived
five minutes after yours, they had to give
me half the name they’d meant for you alone,
breaking it quickly like bread. In the random
split you came away as Ann, the straight
line of a single syllable, firm and definite,
leaving me Elise, the tentative iamb
forever pausing, fading, starting again.
Just think if it had been the other way
around, if by a moment’s chance they’d doled
your half to me, and mine to you that day
now fifty years ago, think how I
would have found a certain path, some place to end,
and you’d be here still circling, pen in hand.
Copyright © 2016 by Elise Hempel.
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The Echo
By Elise Hempel
The second cry, six ounces too small, I stayed
behind in the hospital while you went home
to start your life, there in your crib, mine empty
next to you in the cramped two-flat on Keystone.
Two weeks I slept in my glass womb and gazed
out at what I can’t remember of clean
white walls and passing nurses, waiting to be
ready for the world, complete. Ann,
why don’t you ever ask me for advice?
Why is it me always calling you?
For the answer to some small problem, a decision I’ve
almost made, but never quite trusting my voice?
Forever needing yours to lead me to
the right place, where you’ve always already arrived.
Copyright © 2016 by Elise Hempel.
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SOMETHING LIKE A LIFE
By James B. Nicola
If rolling up a boulder, let us ride
down, then, as on a roller coaster. And
why can’t we be a gardener instead
of a stone mason? Wouldn’t that be grand —
albeit equally repetitive,
but bearing fruits, vegetables and flowers?
That, after all, is how all of us live,
passing the years, months, weeks, days, morning hours,
with things and children? So. And we live some-
thing like a life too, Sisyphus and I,
though his an afterlife, as mine to come
when as this parade’s passed over, by and by.
The single, meanwhile, teach; the tone-deaf, sigh
and march along, with tambourine and drum!
Copyright © 2016 by James B. Nicola.
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NIGHT BECOMING
By James B. Nicola
Night changes everything, even becoming
itself. Squeaks turn into an elfin race
until they are sucked back into the case
of an ancient refrigerator, humming.
The stirrings of nocturnal transformations
make Martians’ fingers, they reach down for me
till I blink and descry an untrimmed tree.
Then, from a light breeze’s rising gyrations,
a cyclone is about to raze the house.
So many dead souls come, the back room swells
with bustle: a hinge creaks, an arrant mouse
squeals. But forget the squeal and creak. O, Writer.
Think of L. Frank Baum and H. G Wells.
Full moon tonight. Imagine — an all-nighter.
Copyright © 2016 by James B. Nicola.
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NURSING
By Richard Aston
When down to four white walls and a TV,
I’ll make peace with a neighbor close to me.
Look at, study, and describe the things nearby,
peer out at them, then look within. ‘Though I
remember what my wise old man once said:
dying’s a bigger problem than being dead
and going broke worse much than being there.
Then I’d think about what I have to share,
the products of my able hands and mind
potentially as symbols of the divine.
It’s the case that focused people who work
starting at sunrise and going to dark
can give your burdened body a surprise,
a reflection of you, perhaps, in another’s eyes.
Copyright © 2016 by Richard Aston.
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HARD MAN
By Orla Fay
It’s hard to believe the man is the boy,
the graceful ten-year-old who liked to read,
freckle-faced, green jumper and brown corduroy
trousers, strawberry blonde hair mopping his head.
It’s hard to see him walking the streets now,
where has he been and where is he going?
He could pass for obese, sweat on his brow
sauntering down Canon Row, wandering.
I think he had it tough when he was young,
same old story, dad drank, alcoholic
but whatever went on remained unsung,
the child shares a Love Heart, gesture symbolic.
Yes compassion should refill his cracked soul
that fell to the floor, never since made whole.
Copyright © 2016 by Orla Fay.
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ON THE BOAT
By Orla Fay
(After The Buddha in the Attic by Julie Otsuka)
The New Year roses weep to seas so strange
unfolded on the cold and salted waves
trailing their drifting heads to the water,
where fish come to nibble at current’s change,
here many Ophelias find their graves.
At noon the clouds hover, grimly pewter.
The memory of past greenery dulls,
another land, its soil and sand somewhere
apart, but then the kindled desire, stoked
by crying wind, by the lamenting gulls
as cities burned in the withering fire
and to ever go home is hell revoked.
The exile’s tale is that of the breeze blown
across the mountain where new seeds are sown.
Copyright © 2016 by Orla Fay.
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ORPHEUS
By Michael Todd Steffen
—depicted on an ancient Roman floor mosaic
Light creatures stir. Within its nest a wren
Unfolds. The peacock crouches in alarm.
Even the trees and rocks are woken when
His voice engages with the lyre’s thrum.
Cheetah and tiger snarl to watch him sing
Then with the bovine lie as in a trance.
The poet is inspired, his eyes on something
There, yet not there. It leads him in the dance
Bringing his leg up, swinging wide his hand
With fingers softly curled about the oblong
Plectrum. Below, the serpent in the sand
Buries its head, its length swayed to the song
That’s captivated everything around.
A tender plant crawls from the stony ground.
Copyright © 2016 by Michael Todd Steffen.
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RED WHITE AND BLUE
By Michael Todd Steffen
. . . E blanc, I rouge . . . O bleue . . .
— Rimbaud
Barns, snow, evening sky
Filling with stars. Strawberries, piano fores,
The glittering scales of little plump fish
Twitching on our lines in the shallow lake.
Stop sign, blind of eye, new Levis.
Clay, fuzzy dandelions (in things
Even this tenuous with their least
Grip in the bend of ideas), grass of Kentucky.
Wing of blackbird, cascade, full full moon.
Copyright © 2016 by Michael Todd Steffen.
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ODE ON A GRUEBY VASE
By Joseph Dorazio
for David & Suzanne
What verdant hands plucked this gourd
To furbish in froth and verdigris?
The buds are ready to spring forth,
Ah, contented daffodils that repose
In faience — bliss! A vessel such as this
Let no cucumber dare reproach
Nor gardener contest; ’twas the potter’s wheel
That spun this textured rind, this
Kaolin dream, and gave rise to imitations
Of nature’s art and William Grueby’s green.
Copyright © 2016 by Joseph Dorazio.
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APRILL
By Marcia Karp
Hurrah! Hurrah! Spring is here
Spring is here today
Hurrah! Hurrah! Let’s all clap hands
Spring is here to stay
BLK
The privet early-leafed in sparrow
The buoyancy of bees fresh out of spring’s corral
The monarch will to equal gravity
The blop in thrall to now upon
The woman ready for the newly-gathered man
He does not make his call, or sting, this week
While life spreads wide its favors
Copyright © 2016 by Marcia Karp.
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WHAT’S LEFT OF YOU
By Marcia Karp
The way you have it,
you’ve hobbled the rabbits,
unshod the horses,
pounded to pulp all wood,
and steadied first stars.
Ah if, dear friend, it really is luck
that you command, we wish you might come with us,
on hands, on knees, when it is summer again,
into the lawn of impossible clover.
Copyright © 2016 by Marcia Karp.
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SKIN DEEP
By Dinah Smith
Time, that old rag-and-bone man,
Makes a cruel couturier,
Compelling me to wear
This wrinkled garment that you see.
It isn’t me, my dear.
Imagine, I could, like a snake,
Divest it, as a slough of skin.
Refashioned, I would reappear,
All satin smooth and nude and new,
Just for you, my dear.
Copyright © 2016 by Dinah Smith.
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SLEEPING BEES
By Lee Nash
Do not disturb the sleeping bees that swell
a trunk the shape of an arthritic joint,
cling like poison ivy to malignant
bark. Hold your breath as honey-devils tell
their nightmares not to take them into hell,
past the colonnades of dark trees — they might
wake. Fly up into a gust at a slight
involuntary gesture. Be careful.
Do not disturb the bees in me, soft mound
of fragile wings, furled and breathing softly.
Remember the hysterics, how they harm,
the rising of the angry stings, the sound
of bitter crying on the lawn — mostly
tears of anger. The storm before the calm.
Copyright © 2016 by Lee Nash.
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THE ALGEBRA OF THE SNAIL
By Lee Nash
To explain the Fibonacci series
could take my love forever and a day —
pure mathematics is not my forté.
So I sit down among the white daisies
while he brings a snail from the mixed border,
its muculent frame on my outstretched hand,
a tiny pinecone from the golden sand.
He takes me to a field of sunflowers
and leads me to a staircase winding down,
finds a ripe pineapple to refresh us
and breaks a piece of aloe for its juice.
The shell pressed fast against my ear, a crown
of wisdom gently unravels its thread
as spiral galaxies wheel overhead.
Copyright © 2016 by Lee Nash.
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THE CITY PIGEON
By Heather Dubrow
Flaunts its neon green necklace,
as flashy as the hawkers whose corner it haunts.
Its grey? The shade of slush, not of dusk.
And strident stripings of rust intrude
on whites that should be sent to the laundry.
It sounds like a fire truck with a bad cold.
As for its shambling, you would be crazy
to trust it with the car keys without smelling its breath.
Admire these pigeons? Give me a break.
But pause just a second. Cool it when it coos.
Is this the music of rundown cities,
cracked violins played by those puddles and car fumes?
Or might our orchestras of pigeons proffer
song assuring and unassuming as comfort food?
Copyright © 2016 by Heather Dubrow.
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CAGED
By Jeff Holt
(Year One with Twins)
Stuck in a kitchen sink of obligations,
he’s washing fast, but she keeps dropping more.
The pacifiers, bottle parts, frustrations:
the mounting bills, the wrist that’s always sore.
The day’s routines: the babies must be fed,
and washed, watched over, played with endlessly.
He feels like yelling, but he smiles instead.
He mustn’t scare the girls or let her see.
She told him that she puts the babies first
because somebody must. Who’s she become?
She used to beam, and kiss him with a thirst.
These days, her voice is sharp, her body numb.
And what of him? He stabs himself with blame
then sneaks away to bed to hide in shame.
Copyright © 2016 by Jeff Holt.
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BEACH BUM
By Lee Evans
A carpenter ant
Clings to a green tennis ball
In the foaming surf.
Stirring through the hairs
Of my chest, a big spider
Bivouacs in my shirt.
Did she call the cops
When she saw me on the beach?
The unknown neighbor.
Sand castles crumbling,
I crawled inside a seashell
And shed humankind.
Copyright © 2016 by Lee Evans.
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EXCURSION
By Lee Evans
The wintry desert of the howling beach
Expanded all before me as I strode
Towards the sleepless, shining, churning sea.
My destination was a driftwood stump,
The lower trunk and upper base exposed.
The wind was at my back so I pressed on,
Passing the small islands where the surf
Exploded into geyser shafts of foam;
At last I peered through the bleached latticework
Of roots toward a lighthouse far away.
But when I turned the pain was too intense,
The way back was much farther than I thought.
My footprints disappeared, swept with the tide
That follows me no matter where I walk.
Copyright © 2016 by Lee Evans.
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SIGHTINGS
By Katherine E. Schneider
Gloaming: when the trees are black, when
the horizon glows purple, emerald, blue,
I imagine that you are beckoning at the edge
of the forest — a whisper I want to believe.
I take it home with me, lay my head to pillow —
more likely you will appear in dreams;
leaving your dorm room and locking the door,
or waving from a crawl space high up on the wall.
I felt a resonant presence, a late warmth
that hovered, a teasing comfort after you had died.
It lingered — for years, for longer than I knew you —
in a young man’s soft voice and brush of auburn hair.
If nowhere else, I can still glimpse you there.
Copyright © 2016 by Katherine E. Schneider.
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CLIMBING TREES
By Jac Shortland
Membraiuntus is an ancient myth
based on a strange phenomenon with trees.
A tree responds when children climb and mingle
limbs absorbing sap and energies
and aromatic gels; exultant moods
exuding oily suppleness with ease.
So if, as children we spend time in woods,
we’ll be less likely to get joint disease.
Hence the cockney rhyme “elbows and knees.”
You doubt me now. You’re right, I think you’ll find
there is no Membraiuntus, no beliefs.
A lie? Yes, all of it! The myth is mine.
But let my trickery not mask my plea.
We need to let our children climb a tree.
Copyright © 2016 by Jac Shortland.
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