January 2016 | poetry
put to light
what you like
you need let
out of the deep
gnawing in you
go all the way
down then a little
more each time down
and you will eventually
take Holden and Phoebe
Caulfield by the hand
bringing them up
out of the basement
into the great room
where the three of you
play naked bingo
with the truth
laughing like loons
it is rock solid joy
that feeling of being
everywhere connected
to everything always
in your soul able to
come back to this place
when you lose your way
don’t believe it doesn’t
exist this wending to
the moment again and
again maybe glimpses
are all we get and
they will have to be
enough that and a good
memory for all those
times in between when
the descent of time
is made real by our
faltering dance with
eternity
by King Grossman
King Grossman is a poet and novelist, currently working on his fourth novel in a lovely studio at Carmel-by-the-Sea, and has participated in the Texas Writers’ Guild (2005), Aspen Summer Words (2009, 2010, 2015), Christian Writers’ Guild (2007), Algonkian Writer Conference (2010) and CUNY Hunter College Writers’ Conference (2011). His work has appeared or is forthcoming in Crack the Spine, Forge, Qwerty, and Tiger’s Eye. He is a social justice activist regularly participating in nonviolent public actions to address climate change, economic injustice, inhumane immigration policy, etc., and also serves with Christian Peacemaker Teams in the West Bank Palestinian territory. He has been called a poetic-Christian-anarchist-golfer. You will most likely find him writing at his studio in Carmel or at his other hideout in the eclectic, far West Texas town of Marfa.
January 2016 | poetry
Written in response to the Mali Hostage Crisis
Burn.
Imagine a hotel room
a splitting open inside
a dark heat
a hymn
shining
like sparrows
in this cavern
A dua*
being whispered
for peace.
*Dua is the muslim word for personal prayer/supplication.
by Caitlin Springer
Caitlin Springer currently resides in a small coastal town in central New Jersey, where she is serving in the United States Coast Guard. Her latest published work can be found in the Fall 2015 edition of Origins Journal.
January 2016 | poetry
I.
Little girls starving themselves brittle
and family secrets glossed in simper
abide by midnight curfews,
closing their barbed cage doors behind them.
Not women in crimson juice on taffeta,
eyes in conflagration.
Not you.
II.
When broken birds cannot be distinguished from timber
we’re forced to burn it all.
Reducing the innocent to the ash
you dust on cheeks of snow.
A charcoal mask begging for sympathy.
III.
Prosaic princes are so easily hoodwinked:
Plastic action figures empty
as dropped goblets just after the crash.
Disentangled from clamshell packages with box cutters,
all twist ties and tape and embalming fluid.
Ferried to yearly balls on golden gurneys
to dens of cougars and sparkle.
IV.
Shake out your librarian bun
as the dance floor rises to meet you,
for lucite shoes are nothing new
to the feet of a princess.
by Amy Friedman
Amy Strauss Friedman teaches English at Harper College and earned her MA in Comparative Literature from Northwestern University. Her writing has appeared or is forthcoming in Lunch Ticket, Typehouse, *82 Review, Menacing Hedge, Rogue Agent, After the Pause, Fractal, Extract(s) and elsewhere. Amy lives in Chicago, where she is a regular contributor to the newspaper Newcity.
January 2016 | poetry
The fencer lunges forward
the opponent parries but fails
and both collide corps-a-corps
while the blades flash and clash
and leave their signatures
in oozing blood that coagulates soon.
Steamy tears in droplets
combine into streams of
hot molten lava
and flow on the obdurate terrains
digging deep furrows
that soon get lined with scabs of moss.
The keel of steel slices through
the chest of the ocean
the propellers turn and churn
slip streams spiral
leaving a gash behind in the wake
ultimately fading into a mirror that it was.
Patches of infectious clouds
steal the blue from the skies
and jets streak past
leaving their tell tale trails
eventually to crumble and dissipate
wiping the slate once again clean.
by Dilip Mohapatra
Dilip Mohapatra (b.1950), a decorated Navy Veteran started writing poems since the seventies . His poems have appeared in many literary journals of repute worldwide. Some of his poems are included in the World Poetry Yearbook, 2013 and 2014 Editions. He has three poetry collections to his credit, the latest titled ‘Another Look’ recently published by Authorspress India. His fourth book P2P nee Points to Ponder is a departure from his poetic passion and is a collection of his musings on various themes which are meant to act as points in a mariner’s compass helping the reader to navigate his life better in rough waters. He holds two masters degrees, in Physics and in Management Studies. He lives with his wife in Pune. His website may be accessed at dilipmohapatra.com.
January 2016 | poetry
Has Death asked me to step out on the floor? For a tango,
long and difficult? Will I need attitude, strength
to learn new steps?
I don’t expect a polka. With luck a waltz, a whirl
of warm music in which I’ll get lost rising
and sinking in my partner’s arms.
If the evening is long, I’d like breaks. Catch breath
on a chair pushed back from foxtrotters. Fade
with wallflowers.
But it might be a marathon that ends with collapse,
then the rat-a-tat-tat of his tap dance
for which I have no shoes.
by Catherine Gonick
Catherine Gonick’s work has appeared or is forthcoming in Boston Review, Caveat Lector, Crack the Spine, decomP, DIAGRAM, Front Porch Review, Ginosko, Amarillo Bay, Word Riot, Soul-Lit, Sukoon, Forge, Jet Fuel Review, Notre Dame Review, and Jewish Women’s Literary Annual. Her poetry has also appeared in the Crack the Spine Winter 2015 Anthology. She was awarded the Ina Coolbrith Memorial Prize for Poetry.
January 2016 | poetry
Blood Clot
Through pink tinted lamp light,
I tilt in the chair,
hair sliding off my shoulders
until my countenance is black
with Japanese heritage
Last night, I woke myself up laughing
Your eyes, ivory with silver shimmer, fell on me
I cradled them until they busted
like a blood clot being bitten
You said “I can see you always.”
“Quit staring.” I moaned in response
“I feel ugly all the time.”
If I let my weight bring me to my knees
and my cheek scrape against the carpet,
I think I will feel pitiful in a sensuous way
Muscle Dust
I tilt against the lace curtain,
pale with exhaustion, half singing,
half moaning
The scarecrow argues
that I am dying and need a friend
to take care of me
Of course, he is just hay and rotten garments
He does not understand I am a muscle that absorbs
negativity and dust and
that I do not care if there is an infection
inside of me, or if I am too quiet to realize
I am alive
by Ashlie Allen
Ashlie Allen writes fiction and poetry. Her favorite book is “The Vampire Lestat” by Anne Rice.
