October 2015 | back-issues, poetry
To Jack Kerouac
I: Winter
darkness descending:
clouds don’t understand sunlight;
keep your freezer stocked.
II: Spring
budding flowers urge:
pushing leafy envelopes;
mail someone your love.
III: Baseball
freshly mown diamonds:
mechanics sculpted sharply;
fulcrums equal hits.
IV: Summer
heat cascades fiercely:
men revering bikinis;
watch but don’t disturb.
V: Autumn
crispness ascending:
clouds reproached about sunshine;
harvest that last glow.
by Christopher Stolle
Christopher Stolle’s poetry has appeared in more than 100 magazines in several countries, including Labyrinth (Indiana University Honors Program), The Plaza (Japan), El-Shaddai (Singapore), Poetechniciens (England), Ultimate Ceasefire (Australia), the Tipton Poetry Journal, Flying Island, and Recursive Angel, and in three anthologies (In Our Own Words: A Generation Defining Itself [volumes 1 and 4; 1997 and 2002] and Reckless Writing [2012]). Poet’s Market entries noted him as a contributor to various magazines (1997–2000), and he has also published two nonfiction books with Coaches Choice: 101 Leadership Lessons From Baseball’s Greatest Managers (2013) and 101 Leadership Lessons From Basketball’s Greatest Coaches (2015). He works as a book editor and lives in Richmond, Indiana—the cradle of recorded jazz.
October 2015 | back-issues, poetry
Cigarette butts and the ash of Salem Lights in never-emptied
glass ashtrays. Crumpled take-out paper bags from Wendy’s piled
next to the couch. Mold growing on the pink rubber mat
in the bathtub. Cardigans, size M, in heather, taupe, and buttery yellow
with mother-of-pearl buttons heaped on the dresser. A letter
dated 1967 from a newly married friend tucked away in a drawer.
Paper and plastic bags packed with unopened groceries
picked up just because they were on sale
down at the Stop n’ Shop: crackers, grape juice,
garbage bags, detergent. Childhood photographs fallen
from albums. Recipe books splattered with pasta sauce
and bacon grease. A green Singer sewing machine bearing
a tangled spool of navy thread. Rotting food
on dishes in the sink. Cobwebs.
Still-soaked storage containers from the flood of last year’s
hurricane. A Polaroid camera in its canvas case. An engraving
machine with tiles reading “Shuneka Harrison,” my sister’s best
childhood friend, in the font tray. Spiders’ egg sacs dangling
from ceiling corners. Family videos on microfilm. Receipts
for child support for a boy named Donnie we’ve never
heard of before. The smell of cat urine. Four eyebrow curlers.
Boxes of shoes that have never been worn. Shoes that have the soles
worn through. Ziplocked packages of meat long expired
in the basement freezer. Every cancelled check ever written
for mortgage, taxes, cable T. V., and the lawnmower man. A child’s
red plastic barrette. One thousand nine Harlequin romance novels
in dusty paper shopping bags. The skeleton
of a small animal. A rusty projector.
Flies that avoid the sticky-tape traps that have been set
for them. Rolled-up half-used tubes of Denture Grip. Hundreds
of dollars in loose change. A white leather jewelry box containing
the baby teeth we left for the Tooth Fairy in exchange
for a quarter. Empty prescription pill bottles for high
blood pressure. A tube of MAC coral lipstick.
A stray ketchup packet that has exploded onto the wall. Piles
of department store clothes, most with tags. The exoskeletons
of insects. Mesh laundry bags filled with nude-colored
Maidenform bras. A Newport High School yearbook stuffed
with autographed picture cards. Bags of polyester shirts
that my father wore before he died. Rusted curling irons
and a burnt-out blowdryer.
Sweaters that smell like Bath and Body Works’ vanilla-sugar
lotion. Depends Undergarments. Handwritten recipes in elegant
script. A manila envelope containing our elementary school
report cards. A silver hoop earring without its mate.
When the dumpsters are full and the floors are bare,
it no longer feels like home.
by Christine Taylor
Christine Taylor resides in her hometown Plainfield, New Jersey, and is an English teacher and part-time librarian at a local independent school and the mother of several poorly behaved cats (and a couple dogs). Her previously published work appears in PeaceCorpsWriters and Modern Haiku.
October 2015 | back-issues, poetry
Archaeopteryx, the early bird, lies petrified
as generic admixture, in stone under glass in
a splay decidedly crude, its rude wings
akimbo and talons curled –
denied the contemporary luxury to choose
in which frozen indignity to remain.
by Alleliah Nuguid
Alleliah Nuguid is from Fremont, California. She received a BA in creative writing from Northwestern University and is currently pursuing an MFA in poetry from Boston University. Her poems can be found in Permafrost, The New York Times Learning Blog, and the anthology Poets 11, among other places.
October 2015 | back-issues, poetry
My clockwork sparrow is caged in bars of fear.
Its song is lonely, but it’s so clear.
My wooden rose was planted in a pot of glass.
It grows root bound, as time begins to pass.
A bronze sun blazes free to be who it wants to be
A moon trapped in its orbit, fails to see what the sun can see
She smiles so brightly, but so alone
As stars fall, only we believe what is known
It’s hard to fly, but it’s hard to fall
So we glide until we lose it all
We forget the sun and clouds on our crown
We forget the freedom of tumbling down
We simply wait to live
While we have nothing to give
We slowly wither away
With nothing good to say
Let the clockwork dolls fill with life
Let them escape this world of strife
Let them shake off the rust and age
Let the rose grow and the sparrow out of the cage.
by Stormy Headley
Stormy Headley is a young and fresh writer working toward her bachelor’s degree in creative writing at SNHU. She thrives in her poetry, short stories, and novellas, and carries her own style in her work. She’s excited to share her creative worlds with those who are willing to read.
October 2015 | back-issues, poetry
Someone once told me that
if you dream your teeth
are falling out,
it means you’re dying.
It happened in a breast cancer
support group. Nancy said she
dreamed her teeth came out
in four great clumps,
and two weeks later,
she was dead.
Grandpa only dreamed
his false ones fell out,
but when he woke,
he couldn’t find them.
He walked around the
house for a week
looking like a mummy,
sipping from straws.
The sign in Dr. Wong’s waiting room said,
You don’t need to floss all of your teeth—
only the ones you want to keep.
That was fifty years ago, and I still have
them. But when I broke my lower incisor
on a crust of rustic bread
in a trattoria near Campo de’ Fiori,
I swear to God
the Angel of Death sped
by in his Vespa, whining
down Via della Corda.
by Abby Caplin
Abby Caplin’s poems have appeared or are forthcoming in Adanna, Forge, The Healing Muse, Night Train, OxMag, The Permanente Journal, Poetica, Tikkun, Willow Review, and several anthologies. She is a physician and practices Mind-Body medicine in San Francisco.
