October 2013 | back-issues, poetry
Miss American Pie.
Don’t whisper.
White heat.
Excuse me while I break this chair.
The levee is extremely dry.
The trees will burn.
Sparks crisping against grey skies.
Snow melting around my feet.
Fusion of wires. Meltdown.
— Rose Mary Boehm
A German-born UK national, Rose Mary Boehm lives and works in Lima, Peru. Author of two novels and a poetry collection, her latest poems have appeared – or are forthcoming – in US poetry reviews. Toe Good Poetry, Poetry Breakfast, Morgen Bailey, Burning Word, Muddy River Review, Pale Horse Review, Pirene’s Fountain, Other Rooms, Requiem Magazine, Full of Crow, Poetry Quarterly, Punchnel’s, Avatar, Verse Wisconsin, Naugatuck River Review, Boston Literary, Ann Arbor etc.
October 2013 | back-issues, poetry
Letter to Rome
Back home, opening
an old letter
I received from you,
the front of the envelope,
post marked 1931
address washed out,
sent unspecified like
artifacts to archeologists.
The neatly folded paper
inside, written upon
graph paper of rectangles
I imagine it bears
news like I got a week after
I left you. Paul committed
suicide. maybe I love
history so much
because I like to see
that people get through
horrible events and
seeing blood, toothless
nooses, brackish intent.
I miss you.
Train
The modern art is an opening act
for the Sistine chapel.
After the school of Athens
and the heavenly patriarchs
there are women painters,
artists questioning paternity,
maybe just before the stairs
a painting shows the train
tracks into Auschwitz No
names it’s called, the white
lines leading into
darkness, the darkness covered
with numbers. A9448, A3769, subtle in the
foreground, glaring as your eye moves up
into the gloaming.
A foreboding yellow spot
on the top of the canvas reminds
of death.
The dead who have no names,
yes, but also the living that
were turned into numbers.
Most of the people around
move quickly towards fame,
the show’s zenith,
unsure if they recognize this image.
These very same who walked over
the swastika mosaicked
on the ground of the Hall of
Constantine the transience of
signs. Alteration, like with a dress,
has possibilities of beauty or disaster.
Rebirth not always positive.
Now we move from dark into
light and “remain silence please.”
— Maddie Boyd
October 2013 | back-issues, poetry
I typed my doctoral dissertation
in the driveway of our old
house in Ohio hoping for
a head start on my spring tan.
I sat in a nylon-webbed lawn chair
wearing my swim suit on a sunny
seventy degree afternoon.
My Smith-Corona electric typewriter
sat on two cases of empty Stroh’s
longneck beer bottles tethered by an
orange extension cord to an outlet in the garage.
Of course, I had a cold one
sitting beside me on the concrete
to sip between paragraphs.
The warmth made an onerous task more palatable
and drinking beer made me feel like a rebel.
My committee would have found
this scenario hateful; not befitting a scientist.
But after I graduated, I took a job at a major university
and cranked-out research for the next thirty years.
Today I plan to go outside with my laptop,
sit by the pool with a beer and write some poetry.
The elitists at prestigious poetry journals
would probably not approve.
I won’t always be writing about mythology, muses,
classic oil paintings or arcane issues in philosophy.
I won’t necessarily be structuring my verse
as a pantoum, sestina or villanelle.
But as a writer and a reader, I know
there is something to be said for enjoyment.
— William Ogden Haynes
William Ogden Haynes is a poet and author of short fiction from Alabama who was born in Michigan and grew up a military brat. His first book of poetry entitled Points of Interest appeared in 2012 and a second collection of poetry and short stories Uncommon Pursuits was published in 2013. Both are available on Amazon in Kindle and paperback. He has also published over seventy poems and short stories in literary journals and his work has been anthologized multiple times.
October 2013 | back-issues, poetry
The physician fired my father
For insubordination.
Dad couldn’t regulate the dosage
Or himself.
He is hibernating in his room,
Eyes closed and face turned.
Suspended and silent,
Deep in thought.
— David S. Drabkin
October 2013 | back-issues, poetry
You are young,
You always want to run.
feet would rather resist friction,
tugging beneath
the soles of your shoes,
than to compromise;
With resistance.
a constant battle,
throughout your youth;
You are disillusioned,
you want to travel faster,
than the sonic booms.
The electricity glistens;
You get older,
Feet start to develop
an appreciation for friction,
You gradually ease off;
The ignition,
had an epiphany
don’t need to sprint,
into the ground,
that will inevitably,
force you under.
Retrace your steps,
drawing every line in reverse,
want to reclaim youth?
It’s alluding you.
advanced so far in life
yet the waves
still succeed each other,
and the projections in the skies,
still creep until they meet their demise.
ask yourself, a paramount question,
“Why did I run so much?
when my skin was smooth,
when life didn’t feel so fragile?”
You start to notice things,
How the sun gleams
in the summertime;
how the flowers bloom,
blissfully,
An aesthetic marvel.
you utter,
It’s the process of human nature,
mathematically calculated;
into the circle of life,
but even so,
before you realize it,
your heart rapidly skips,
before you turned to dark,
so why the realization abruptly
why wait until eternal
condensation?
when trying to formulate
constellations in your head
until you realize that you are finally dead.
— Chris Ozog
Christopher Micolay Ozog is a twenty-one year old aspiring author and poet residing in the college educated town of Ann Arbor Michigan. Chris was Raised by two dedicated polish immigrants who once fought for their freedom in a movement that was proclaimed; “The Polish Movement Of Solidarity” during the height of the countries communism in the early to mid 1980’s. Chris has stated that he draws a substantial amount of his influence of poetry and literature from his parents who instill in him a diligent mindset. His parents put a strong emphasis on the value of literature and education which has stuck with him throughout his years of life. His affinity for the music, particularly of indie rock, can be seen in his poetry as he has drawn extensively from lyricism of that genre as well as Rap. He cites his top influences as Matthew Caws from Nada Surf, famed rapper K’naan, Michael Jackson, and rapper brother ali. He is also a fan of literature admires the workmanship of J.D. Salinger. He celebrates his Birthday On December 6ht, 1991.
October 2013 | back-issues, poetry
Deep in summer drought, most songbirds have split,
maybe flew north to the lake country.
One skittish cardinal flits about in the shrubs
protecting her nest, but the rest have left.
The pair of catbirds that chirped liltingly
in a halting sequence of whistles and whines
in the dogwoods and pines all through June
became restless after the fourth of July, mewed
menacingly for a few days, then hit the road.
Now a flock of glossy black grackles rules the yard,
iridescent, boorish, raucously chucking and reedie-eeking,
thrashing at the bird feeder, scattering seeds,
splashing wildly in the bird bath, bullying
chickadees, finches, chipmunks, and squirrels.
Yet across the parched yards, ditches, and fields
of tawny straw, march wispy armies of Queen Anne’s Lace,
undaunted by dry heat, nourished on adversity,
swaying delicately, chanting–blessed are the meek for they
shall adorn the mass graves of the human race.
— Jerry McGinley
Jerry’s work has appeared in many literary magazines and anthologies. He is currently working on his sixth book, tentatively titled “Lake Redemption.” It will be a collection of stories and poems.
