July 2015 | back-issues, poetry
But I can only pour you this poem:
with poor cloth-made and form not yet shaped,
metaphors rain upon flesh and bone
floating riddles dress in pale champagne froth
tiers of honeysuckle foam pin to a clover’s song
light seeps inside the ink droplets black–
an ever-musing vestal rhyme
charts my fingers to your mortal gasps.
With warmth of day the eyes grow dark,
I breathe your name of caress reigns
where wings of holy light stretch my ocean vast,
in soft similes of wind-drops caught
and hollow crowning thorns.
Weak nods full of sleep in the shadows deep,
old notes draw your breaths once more–
depart soon as last sighs coax from my lips,
courting you home.
by Lana Bella
Lana Bella has a diverse work of poetry and flash fiction anthologized, published and forthcoming with more than eighty journals, including Aurorean Poetry, Burningword Journal, Chiron Review, Contrary Magazine, elsewhere, The Criterion Journal, Poetry Quarterly, and Featured Artist with Quail Bell Magazine, among others. She resides in the coastal town of Nha Trang, Vietnam with her novelist husband and two frolicsome imps.
July 2015 | back-issues, poetry
luck
young dog
standing in the blocks
four blue bills working
in against a cigar smoke call
once more around
try to take them
tree high shots
tipped one and feathers
out of another
but the steel shot
fails me
they are gone
like mad buddists
westing to the timber
only the grey spent husks
to show for
normal heart
day has a playlist
heartfelt grooves
breaks creative logjams
emphasizes flaws
errors honored
as hidden intentions
sing into the sadness
canons for life
makes a tasty soul
write a catchy tune
about a nerve induced asthma attack
don’t miss a beat
wage a heavy peace as
going around corners is scary
see it with new eyes
get into woodworking
follow hockey in church basements
crush the capsule
life is a godzilla disaster movie
success beat you down
tough to imagine
ever being young
an original american horror story
billionaires in birkenstocks
johnny cash not being played
on country radio
teenage jesus jerks in cowboy hats
creative people don’t always turn out
to be interesting
like chance meetings in london tube
someone called amy
conversation like watching sausage
and politics being made
world just gets tinier
it used to be a stage
a private confessional
by Dan Jacoby
Dan Jacoby is a graduate of St. Louis University. He has published poetry in Belle Rev Review, Black Heart Press, Canary, Chicago Literati, Clockwise Cat, Indiana Voice Journal, Haunted Waters Press, Deep South Magazine, Lines and Stars, Red Booth Review, Wilderness House Literary Review, Steel Toe Review, Red Fez and the Vehicle. He has work soon to be published in Bombay Gin, Dead Flowers, Floyd County Moonshine, Maudlin House, R.KV.R.Y., and theTishman Review.. He is a member of the American Academy of Poets.
July 2015 | back-issues, poetry
You’re on the other
side
being abstract, acting
distant,
I have a stack of
thoughts in front of me,
unfinished; have poems to
write, poems I
should be writing; instead
I’m writing this; an
alarm goes off, it’s mine
Saturday morning, you’re
laying around somewhere,
Cootie Williams is blowing
Gator Tail; I shut the blinds
and the world outside
goes on and on and about
and out without me,
this poem is running, jazz is
dead, so are all those jazz
men playing, dead, but time doesn’t
make sense anyway; it’s
just going in circles, stealing
what it can,
which is everything,
we aren’t friends; I can’t see the
trees,
I’m hiding from the sun.
by Thomas Pescatore
Tom Pescatore grew up outside Philadelphia dreaming of the endless road ahead, carrying the idea of the fabled West in his heart. His work has been published in literary magazines both nationally and internationally but he’d rather have them carved on the Walt Whitman bridge or on the sidewalks of Philadelphia’s old Skid Row.
July 2015 | back-issues, poetry
The time until you die
grips the top of my hand
grates my fingers against
puckered metal
collects skin and bone
shavings
into a soft pile
on the good China.
by Jane Juran
July 2015 | back-issues, poetry
Like lace
Itsuki always dances behind cob webs
There, he can manifest several shapes
and pick which one he likes
Sometimes I help him move,
for he has no control over his particles
He is like lace,
weightless and transparent
Sometimes I worry I will injure him
if I want to kiss his cheek bone
or cradle his hands
If he would beg for my love,
I might be happy
If he would look at me and blush,
I might feel gorgeous
Today when he performs,
I tilt against the fireplace mantel,
hands gripping my elbows,
eyes exhausted with longing
I wish I could be a ghost
and be afraid of myself
for a good reason
Mournful moments
I imagined myself dancing,
arms out to cuddle lonely spirits,
eyes closed to feel powerless
I imagined someone told me I was handsome
and didn’t need to smile
I imagined I was in Japan,
the place my embryo developed
I imagined there was romance to my suffering
and that the pulse in my chest was a hand begging for me
I imagined the lights were off
and that my shadow was someone I liked
I imagined the room was full of demonic voices
and that I was not afraid of anything
I imagined I was dying and that my funeral
would be beneath the ocean
I imagined I was titling into glass
and cracking my bones
I opened my eyes and saw a skinny silhouette standing
ahead of me, arms tied behind the back
I made not a sound as the figure came forward
and kissed my throat
“Stop picturing mournful moments.” a feminine voice hissed
“It is shattering my organs to see you so sad.”
I remember hearing myself laugh
Then I was unconscious, floating through lavender mist
and tiny insects
by Ashlie Allen
Ashlie Allen writes fiction and poetry. She is also a photographer. Her work has appeared in Literally Stories, The Gloom Cupboard, The Birds We Piled Loosely and others. She wants to visit Japan one day.
July 2015 | back-issues, poetry
(truth-harmony-beauty:
the necessary conditions
to create or perceive a Bonsai)
i
In Santa Monica, on a crowded Promenade
I stare at the tiny tree on the tilted cart
At the silent, knuckle-thick trunk
That angles impossibly down.
Bristlecone Pine. Cascading.
Dwarfed by pruning, training.
I have been told:
To see a Bonsai
Forget that branches have been wire-coaxed
That pea-sized lead has hung for years
Forget trimmed roots
Forget conifer tips
Plucked between ball of thumb and finger.
Forget the salesgirl who smokes a French cigarette
To spite her worn-out boyfriend.
He waits on the stool, my perfect mirror,
Staring into the crowd of unfamiliar faces.
His arms reach back.
Forget my mother in her bath, closing the door.
You’re too old now, she says with an awkward smile.
Or:
The hand of measured fingers
that hush the baby’s mouth –
small, noisy o.
Or her ping-pong fists, pounding at my chest.
ii
To see a Bonsai, shrink into
Its crafted grace, five-needled fascicles
Branches suspended as if draped over a ravine
As if you draped over that ravine.
Everything must go, they say.
Ignore:
The blue-gray light of television
Muted voices, costumes of the past
A family of three, watching wistfully.
On the other hand:
Here’s my father at my own boy’s arm:
Trying to wrest a towel my boy will not surrender.
I forgot those fingers.
How the unknown assaulted him by existing.
How much vengeance he hoped to extract.
At night, when no one was watching,
He grew very small.
Cut tongue. Stumped root. Chest of tools.
I watch him at the plumbing
Twisting against the unyielding world.
My own arms reach back
To the dinner where we talk about manners
But not the oak tree that fell in the storm
Exposing our academic life to the neighbors.
Faces screwed up from the inside.
Show of a smile
imitation of a perfect
imitation.
iii
To see a Bonsai, the Masters advise:
Don’t shake the tree loose of its crumpled form —
Shake the idea of the crumpled form loose from the tree.
As in:
My mother’s shroud draped across my face.
As if I agreed to pack
What we could’ve torched on any summer night.
I drive past my parents as they walk
Arm in arm. I call, but they do not
recognize my voice.
In the mirror, I watch them recede, vexed.
This is any summer night.
This is the overgrown pool, teeming with croaking frogs.
There is the real moon, deemed untouchable.
Like a cracked, windswept pine
at night on the cliffs
old, awake, alone—
There must be an original tree.
iv
If only the Bonsai remains
Who then is watching?
Or a handful of pale water
content to be held
content to flow.
Come, moon, patient and familiar
no longer cluttered with history.
My mother and father
One hand for each—
We’ll sing the old, rustling mantra:
Evergreen, evergreen, evergreen.
Here’s a quiet walk. Here’s a trackless forest.
Here’s a shakuhachi flute, unattended.
by Roger Soffer
Roger Soffer has written, and sometimes produced, miniseries and feature films for networks and studios, and is currently doing three bilingual animated features for China. His poetry has been Pushcart Prize-nominated and is featured or forthcoming in many journals, including Pennsylvania English, Spillway, Jet Fuel Review, and Euphony.
