January 2015 | back-issues, poetry
the clear blue sky a hovering Narcissus
sets cerulean shapes undulating the whole estero
winking the sun seducing my eyes sweet waters from the land
pulsing into salt ocean slipping its way onto the land I sit on one bank
looking across wobbling yellow slits tight to this shore reflect cliffs
behind me opposite shade shines down liquid black sandy shore and open
water giving way to dazzling light in action
dark underwater blues deeper browns to fertile marsh
brown pelicans fly low fall in akimbo tripping over feet out taut
large floating group some drop half-folded wings loose skin cups air against
water not piston-swimming white pelicans herding fish this a rhythmic applause
varied, playful stops for silence fellow pelicans take up a new patterned patter
making a community music none feed, listening to each other’s versions—plaintive cry
a gull’s—pierces a long pelican pause leaving rings of room around its sound
more pelicans splash in, their own are clapping back more gulls kee-een into the
next rest pelicans wait and syncopate clap-cuba-tap-africa gulls scree-ee
each species receives the other’s new offering never in my thirty years here
over the minutes, the hour the numbers and sound expand birds
hundreds, a thousand their mass louder penetrating gull chorus shrieking
pelicans slapping raucous cacophony pushing out all silence,
enveloping me unease replaces my relaxed wonder mind
taken from me I turn my body away
a skinned stick rosy hint of sunset dancing on it
bright towers waver from now golden
cliffs on the other side about my time
to leave I notice from the quiet
time has moved on so have
the pelicans and gulls I am
only soft again a fresh-
feathered first-year curlew
in the landscape a
waterborne gull makes
wake swimming toward me
winds and currents push west
toward the sea, the sun at the end of day
massed wavelets bunch higher shift shadows, turn darker
I look back to the east the water is calmer oddly more filled with light farther
from the sun. a distant invisible fountain pouring upward tiny scintillations
here the sun is closer streaming directly at me begins to look night
all around a paralyzing beam’s dark halo the known world so
close and closing only the tkk’ings of a bushbird a bee
bumbling for gold come across on the still air
by Jen Sharda
Jen Sharda lives in the San Francisco Bay Area—its fine community of poets, easy access to nature, and liveliness in the arts nourishes her writing. Her work is forthcoming in Forge, Marin Poetry Center Anthology and Spillway. She attended Squaw Valley Community of Writer’s in 2014 and has attended the Napa Valley Writers’ Conference since 2010, working with Jane Hirshfield, Major Jackson, and twice with Arthur Sze. Jen joined David St. John’s Cloud View Poets classes in 2013. Jay Leeming and Carolyn Miller were early teachers.
January 2015 | back-issues, fiction
It took her years, but she made a memory quilt the size of their home. At first, she used her husband’s worn work clothes. Some time passed and she cut, nipped, and threaded a fine needle through her children’s clothes, too. Her husband took to calling her fanatical; saying she no longer honored his wishes. The children grew and fell away like autumn leaves. Then the cancer stuck for good. She rolled her yellow eyes, lit her Marijuana cigarette, and touched him gently as she’d once done. Her life was coming to a close, she knew. Like flash cards in youth, quicker by the day. Now her children and husband gathered by her bedside; said their last goodbyes. They loved her dearly, but none knew what to do with her old clothes. They only wanted their fair share. But she hadn’t divided them; that they had done on their own.
by Bill Cook
Bill Cook lives in a semi-rural area in Southern California’s High Desert, and has stories published in Juked, elimae, Thieves Jargon, Tin Postcard Review, Right Hand Pointing, The Summerset Review, SmokeLong Quarterly and in Dzanc’s anthology Best of the Web 2009.
January 2015 | back-issues, poetry
Dancing water sloshed
At the edge of gray
Slate, weary and washed
By a thousand coins, as the day
Gaped from the gap above. Broken
Floor-to-sky foundation, tired cracks.
Steady toss-chip-tumble tokens
Dug in deep. The architect’s facts
Ignored wish-fueled erosion, material
Chosen to swallow the glaring sun
Lies brittle and dry, a burial
Of whispered aspiration. One by one,
Tiles seep and shift to press
The tidal drag. Ten thousand cubic feet
Lost to ceramic distress,
Once upon a time wet and neat,
Now caged by empty glass walls
Mocked by ill-timed, temperate rain.
With dreams of glossy waterfalls
Intact in crass inscription, will it train
The eye and ear and heart
On what’s no longer within reach?
The wishing fountain wills itself a part
Of resurrection from the unintended breach
Of contact. At the center, a boat
Or a paper plane in copper, brushed.
Postmodern misdirection left to gloat
Over snap of sealants and lazy work of grouters, rushed.
by Meryl McQueen
Meryl McQueen is an American writer living in Sydney. Born in South Africa, she grew up in Europe and the U.S. Before turning to writing full-time, she was a social worker, counselor, college professor, researcher, and grant writer. She earned her doctorate in linguistics from the University of Technology, Sydney, her master’s in public administration from the University of Illinois at Chicago, and her bachelor of science in education and social policy from Northwestern. Meryl speaks several languages and has lived in seven countries. She loves to play piano, sing, hike in the woods, and cook. Her poetry has been published in Blue Lake Review, Clearfield Review, Crack the Spine, The Critical Pass Review, Dunes Review, Ginosko, Ozone Park Journal, Phoebe, RiverSedge, the Set Free Anthology, The Tower Journal, Town Creek Review, Vanguard in the Belly of the Beast, and Yellow Moon.
January 2015 | back-issues, fiction
We lay in bed and smoked cigarettes. She wasn’t allowed to smoke in her apartment, but figured she’d find a way to cover the smell when the time came to move out. The future never concerned her much. Untouchable, unknowable things never did. Her naked leg rested on my stomach as we talked about the past, about music, about films. We both vowed to re-watch Twin Peaks, this time with each other. I worried that I’d never make it as a writer. We discussed this while listening to something like goth music, something she liked and wanted me to like too.
She said, “Hush. Don’t talk that way. Bukowski didn’t publish his first book until he was fifty-one.”
I said, “But Bukowski wasn’t serious literature. Philip Roth won the National Book Award at twenty-seven.”
She laughed and blew smoke in my face and said, “You can’t break out of prison and into society the same week.”
“What?” I said.
“John Wayne,” she said. “It’s from a John Wayne movie.”
“You don’t seem like the type.”
“I wasn’t born with black eyeliner and lace. Besides, Bukowski is twice the writer you are.”
I shut up and we made love. Later, she apologized about the Bukowski remark.
by Jason Christian
Jason Christian traveled for more than a decade, first with a carnival, and later in search of adventure. He is currently studying creative writing at Oklahoma State University and plans to pursue an MFA after that. He has published in This Land Press, Mask Magazine, Liquid Journal, and has a story forthcoming in Oklahoma Review.
January 2015 | back-issues, poetry
Tulips
for my sister (Hep C Series)
Just as they have aged,
seven days within the vase,
Just as yellow turns
onto itself
to view the summer’s
guttural dreams,
And red has let loose
its fiery skill,
turning heart’s layers
to flames and film,
They now curl up
as most delicate friends,
or fingertips brushing
within a woman’s drawers
against that which lives
clung to skin,
Or the fine
dust layering a crystal
bowl left for weeks,
then months, then years,
within a womb of mahogany.
They all speak
quietly within the room,
of riotous life
and boisterous boom,
of raucous youth and blooming
almost off the stem.
So hard it was
to be contained.
So now, dear sisters,
let me near
to see grace swirl,
then rest
into a withered edge,
How its deepening
bends each head
on stem,
how green thrusts summer
against each bloom,
then dances, childlike
in the air.
I’ll stay, I promise,
as each petal turns
into closed hands
and prays for sleep,
so soft, so real,
Forgets all form
before this.
POEM 2014
There is no escaping—
wine glass
shot glass
poem.
You walk down the hall
to the chair
to the door
to the chair
to the bed
eat some fruit
glass of wine
poem.
Birds are cackling
giddy beaks
rays of late
it is spring
a plane-
like bird
flight unseen
only heard
blue sets its hem
fading silk
along the seam
of the hill.
Legs up now
bent at knee
rocking back
to the heart
and then forth
the one pump
that can keep you
in place.
A ticking like the lost
owl in the pine
every night
every hour
sending blips
desperate search
for a mate.
You cannot be contained
nor released
cocktail glass
Lexapro
tongue now numb
house asleep.
Find a pen
then poem.
by Jean C. Howard
Born and raised in Salt Lake City, Utah, performance poet Jean Howard resided in Chicago from 1979 to 1999. She has since returned to Salt Lake City. Her poetry has appeared or is forthcoming in Off The Coast, Clackamas Literary Review, Harper’s Magazine, Eclectica Magazine, Eclipse, Atlanta Review, Folio, Forge, Fugue, Fulcrum, Crucible, Gargoyle, Gemini Magazine, Green Hills Literary Lantern, Painted Bride Quarterly, decomP, The Tower Journal, Minetta Review, The Burning World, The Distillery, The Oklahoma Review, Pinch, Borderlands: Texas Poetry Review, Penmen Review, Pisgah Review, ken*again, Chronogram, The Cape Rock, Quiddity Literary Journal, Grasslimb, Rattlesnake Review, Concho River Review, Spillway, Spoon River Review, Verdad, Wild Violet, Willard & Maple, Wisconsin Review, Word Riot, and The Chicago Tribune, among seventy other literary publications. Featured on network and public television and radio, she has combined her poetry with theater, art, dance, video, and photography. A participant in the original development of the nationally acclaimed “Poetry Slam” at the Green Mill, she has been awarded two grants for the publication of her book, Dancing In Your Mother’s Skin (Tia Chucha Press), a collaborative work with photographer, Alice Hargrave. She has been organizing the annual National Poetry Video Festival since 1992, with her own award-winning video poems, airing on PBS, cable TV, and festivals around the nation.
