January 2016 | poetry
Photo printed with Funding Appeal, 1965
That behemoth Bel-Air,
its tail stopped by a tree,
lurches outside the photo frame
hiding its eyes, but most of all
stilling its mouth –
metal teeth in a tight grill
tensed to spill the truth.
It knows too much of the four
posed along its flank,
its silver trim and steel doors
a backdrop of comic relief
for the rescued souls
about to disappear into the bowels
of the rear-facing third seat
for a ride to Sunday School.
Innocence lost
in the House of Orphans
festers in greasy rivers
of soiled minds.
Just ask the coiffed one
staring intently
into the Brownie,
a little Red Riding Hood,
her headband taming tresses
loved by the wild boar of the night,
or the boy in black and white,
his skinned head and summer smile
claiming joy—
joy down deep in his heart,
one less waif on the streets
thanks to the largesse of donors.
That taller boy, arm behind his back
looks fit for service, if only
his new clothes weren’t hiding
cigarette burns —
scars that turned his heart to ash
and tossed it in a twilight zone.
The youngest,
a girl with a bob and a bag
looks like a proper wife in training
standing on the promises of a full belly
bound for glory in that Bel-Air –
such wishful thinking, these crafted fruits.
The children look pretty as their picture.
If only we could hear that car
spewing the old siren songs:
the Lord loves a cheerful giver,
and suffer the little children,
and public prayer has its reward.
by Janet Reed
Janet Reed teaches writing, literature, and theater for Crowder College, a small community college in the midwest. She lives large among her books, pets, and friends. Writing since childhood, she started submitting work for others to read this fall and is pleased that several pieces have been published.
January 2016 | poetry
June 27 Deadwood, SD
God has more surprises. The sun is not hot. Stars are
not light. Grass appears to bend, is rigid. I send away
grief. I want change. Want it good; the back forth of
seesawing guilt, the black-white of yearning. The earth
is mud-scarred red and green. This is what desire feels
like, it’s our slow-wicked last chance. From here we can
touch the end of the world, jagged and dull; God is not
finished with us
June 30 Pierre, SD
This is where the blue begins, where the sun clang clangs
against the sky. This is where the storm begins, raw heat
of lightning, the thick brogue of thunder. This is the flat-
black of motion, the blinking of eyes. We are a wayward
thread in a worn sweater, an almost closed door. When it’s
over we’ll be flax-winged and overflowing, we’ll be pock
-marked with stars before we crash to earth.
by Alex Stolis
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.
