July 2013 | back-issues, poetry
the coffee shop overfilling and ringing
with mirth and memorable conversation,
floating and finding ownership in the
crooks and crannies of the enclosed room.
no longer smoke but steam.
spent words between friends and strangers alike.
the aloneness cuts through and slices
the moments like a dark dagger cutting
through the thick fog offered up by the
grand imagination of nature. the hunger for
life is measured by one’s own cravings and
constitution to offer themselves up to the
magical moments we have with each other.
by Steven Jacobson
Steven Jacobson was born and raised in the Mid-west graduating from UW-LaCrosse, WI with a double major in Physics and Mathematics. His poetry has been submitted to Access Press, an online newspaper, featuring selected poetry. He has attended (8) classes from the Loft Literary Center, promoting all levels of creative writing.
July 2013 | back-issues, poetry
there’s a guy in the restaurant booth just behind me and he’s trying
to score. he’s telling the girl sitting in the booth with him all about his
trouble at home, about how he’s going to finally confront his girlfriend
and just ask her what the hell is wrong, because she’s been acting
really weird lately, and he needs to know if maybe she’s pregnant
which he seriously doubts because they hardly ever sleep together
anymore, if she’s had a nervous breakdown and needs
professional help, or if she just doesn’t care about him
anymore. the girl in the restaurant booth just behind me hums
sympathetically, says this situation must really be hard for the guy
says he’s been a really good guy to stay with a woman
so obviously troubled for as long as he had. I hear her ask
the waitress for another drink, make it two, and I
am suddenly so happy that the man sitting in
the booth with me is my husband, because
it would be so easy, so horrible
to be a part of that couple sitting just behind me.
by Holly Day
Holly Day is a housewife and mother of two living in Minneapolis, Minnesota who teaches needlepoint classes for the Minneapolis school district and writing classes at The Loft Literary Center. Her poetry has recently appeared in The Worcester Review, Broken Pencil, and Slipstream, and she is the recipient of the 2011 Sam Ragan Poetry Prize from Barton College. Her most recent published books are “Walking Twin Cities” and “Notenlesen für Dummies Das Pocketbuch.”
July 2013 | back-issues, poetry
Field And Stream
Wisps of acrid smoke shimmer in
the shy rays of the rising sun.
Crows like motes in a bleary eye
circle, hypnotized by the smell of burnt
flesh and glint of twisted metal.
A broad stream runs through the field
and in its icy depths a slender figure
struggles, her rose-tinted gills fluttering
weakly, born down as she is by the
unforgiving weight of modern arms.
The Aggregate Man
She likes to introduce him as a man
of many parts – her little joke –
occasionally she goes on to demonstrate,
enumerate the provenance of his
various bits and pieces,
Here’s something we picked up in Cairo
not quite a perfect fit
but one can’t have everything
and, oh yes, this doodad cost a pretty penny
but we just had to have it.
Because his movements tend to be rather
jerky, not quite suited to cocktail-party
mingling, she prefers him
to stand in the corner once the show
is over, out of harm’s way.
So there he stands now, motionless,
his mismatched eyes
shifting almost imperceptibly, tracking
the random motion of bodies
and admiring their component parts.
Baltimore native Jeffrey Park lives in Munich, Germany, where he works at a private secondary school and teaches business English to adults. His poems have appeared in Requiem, Deep Tissue, Danse Macabre, Crack the Spine, Right Hand Pointing and elsewhere, and his digital chapbook, Inorganic, was recently published online by White Knuckle Press. Links to all of his published work can be found at www.scribbles-and-dribbles.com.
July 2013 | back-issues, poetry
Low in the ghostly zone behind the dam
beneath the bleached cliff and black water line
left by the river’s sudden abeyance
I wait as a wetter season arrives,
the thaw’s flow. The cracked floor absorbs
faster than the rain falls, shines the seams
but does not heal. High above tall houses sit
on the former shore. I am not alone.
The curious and researchers scavenge
the small structures, invasive and native,
that suffocated wildly, slowly, here
while power company customers
marveled at the mystery and the scale.
Park Rangers on two week assignments
with per diem field their theories, where the pressure
relieved, how a river could all at once retreat.
Other manmade lakes have disappeared, say
the experts calmly, say internet entries,
rare, yes, but explicable, and now locals
speak with authority on aquifers and sediment.
My functionary’s possessiveness
lured me here, like to a past regime’s auction.
Before it was submerged this rural land
had to be cleared— that was my office.
Evictions, expirations, foreclosures,
by legal means the place was carried off.
I remember the map grid colors shift
red to blue, like with any project,
the deadlines met in fretful succession.
Accomplishing the place, I used to walk
the dirt path behind the school’s woods
where the tired river was kept and tell it
how it would sweep away the school, the woods
the foul line’s white lye from the baseball field,
up a last run of the sledding hill, put
a hand on each of the pillaring hills.
An interrogator offering the world
to a captive with yet no plans to turn.
I had not thought that care was taken
to excavate the concrete foundations
and expected the grid of the old town
to lay itself out to my memory
but it is gone. Below the arisen lake
currents of sifting sands, like drifted snow,
plied under the remains of the houses.
I must stand still feet above the streets.
Expected, too, descendents of the civic clubs
who fought us to hold some sort of event,
bragging on our failure, lamenting the waste,
naming those founders I had to hear
so much about. But if anyone beside me
remembers the place, the red-fronted armory,
deploring voices, they are silent now
and perhaps as perplexed as I am, turned
trying to triangulate the past by hill shape.
But now real rain, tiny meniscus bursts
as puddle joins with puddle, making pool.
The path winding down from a parking lot
turns back to bottom mud fastest of all.
The Ranger post and its generator
will be left behind, a useless landmark
to those being told to walk quickly, now
in the suddenly stormed over sundown.
As I step over a hasty escarpment,
that ancient river, your silver push,
the tall houses, their brown lawns, are dim
but soon, electricity and flowers.
Whatever weakness briefly gave, it holds
now where at the foot of the dam a rising bank
highlights and enfolds the grades, and rolls
at me, like a man made a promise. Take it
now like a shallow bay returning, recover
the floor, the height of the cliff wall, hurry
above my head, by river and rain, come
like the tide. Make me run for my life.
by Keith Seher
Keith Seher works out of the Cleveland area, and has been writing since he was 13. I belongs to a number of poetry groups, including the Butchershop, and private workshop which has been meeting for more than 45 years.
July 2013 | back-issues, poetry
Rehab Rosetta Stone
Re-
(prefix)
i call myself a name in the mirror
again
again
word on loan
radiant ray’s repo man
keeps bringing me back here
to the bathroom sink
washing my mouth out
to sing a diatonic drop
of golden sun
never reaching mi,
a name i call myself in the mirror
again
again
Build
(verb)
when we walked before day-break
men in the garden grew a skeleton
that looked like a hut,
brick-layer skin made
from adobe mud cast from ground’s dust
baked by builder-chefs, culinary sun.
we were enslaved to construct
pyramids over lunch
out of grains and fruit.
men cooking the hut
ate, too (as proof, i once watched
one eat a whole lemon bar)
went home after heat-waves
preheated afternoons.
we went to rooms like refrigerators.
i wondered why they went home
when they were done building
never considering
that i lacked the strength
to build a hut,
or eat a whole lemon bar.
Make
– after Edward Elric
(verb)
gods buy humans
at the grocery store:
one kilogram phosphorous
two kilograms lime
three grams silicon
five grams iron
four liters ammonia
eight grams fluorine
twenty kilograms carbon
trace amount bromine
thirty-five liters water
one quarter kilogram salt,
eighty grams sulfur
pinch of cobalt
roll into a ball.
make oceans boil.
cook for one hundred years,
bury in the soil
Rebuild/Remake
(transitive verb)
i have learned these verbs
still i only see bones
in the sentences
when these doctors speak
words like scriptures
they think themselves gods
when they whisper
I will remake you
you will rebuild you.
Douglas Luman’s work has found forthcoming publication through other journal outlets as well, including (forthcoming) the Toad Suck Review, uCity Review and Epigraph Magazine.
