April 2014 | back-issues, poetry
Drizzle
A fine drizzle softens the air
falls whisper-light
an almost-rain to glaze tired grass
and hard, cracked earth.
It lifts scents, musty cave odors
we love with our primal selves.
Earth stirs, the mist soft as a lover’s breath.
She sighs, content.
Drizzle
A fine drizzle softens the air
and falls whisper-light,
an almost-rain
enough to glaze tired grass
and hard, cracked earth
in denser shades of green and brown.
It wakes scents musty with the odors of earth.
She stirs under the touch, soft as a lover’s
breath.
She sighs, content.
no. 922
8 feb 14
å
—Janet Butler
Janet Butler lives in Alameda with Fulmi, a lovely Spaniel mix she rescued while living in central Italy. “Searching for Eden” was published by Finishing Line Press in January, 2012, “Upheaval” was one of three winning selections in Red Ochre Lit’s 2012 Chapbook Contest. She recently placed, for the third year, in the Berkeley Poets annual poetry contest. She is moderator of the monthly Poetry and Prose at the Blue Danube in Alameda, and is a member of the Frank Bette Center for the Arts, where she will teach a poetry course and Italian language class this spring.
April 2014 | back-issues, poetry
Snow on the iced-up steps
bits of slate broken,
a frozen rabbit skin dangled
from a hook near the door.
Come in, come in, you can’t
stay out there. This weather
is meant for bears
and even they are hibernating.
Snow piled high at the back
cutting the light, frosted glass
with elaborate designs. A fire
in the open grate. She buzzed
about the small kitchen
excitedly wiping her hands
on her apron. A mug full
of steaming coffee.
Dad, come and see what
the storm brought in. A big
old man bent under the arch
when he entered the kitchen
from the other room.
He chewed and smiled
and sharpened his axe.
—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 (TANGENTS), her poems have appeared or are forthcoming in US poetry reviews. Toe Good Poetry, Poetry Breakfast, Burningword Literary Journal, 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, Red River Review, Ann Arbor, Main Street Rag, Misfit Magazine and others.
April 2014 | back-issues, poetry
Green Lion Devouring the Sun
1.
Once again Z.’s following in the tracks of dad. Unlike Z. dad hasn’t
escaped the ravages of time—save for the new legs that he’s using to
snowboard through the streets. “Where’d you get those?” Z. asks.
“Don’t know, but the powder’s fantastic!”
2.
Come to think of it: Z. wakes in a fetal position
3.
After breakfast Z. curls up with Strindberg. All this vitriol
and dross for the taking
Rage, Rage
1.
Night. A little wine is spilled. The age-old drama is reenacted
not far from the church steps
2.
August and Pelagia drag out the usual knives and scrapers
and work on each other until they’re nothing but a lattice
of bone and the foul shop
3.
The next morning they look somewhat refreshed. He tries
to cozy up. Put a good spin on things
“Leave it alone,” she says. “You can’t be evil 5 of 7 days
and nice on 2”
“But you said you were evil all 7”
“Your evil is worse”
—Rex Swihart
R L Swihart currently lives in Long Beach, CA, and teaches secondary school mathematics in Los Angeles. His poems have appeared in various online and print journals, including Right Hand Pointing, 1110, decomP, Posit, and Lunch Ticket. His first collection of poems, The Last Man, was published in 2012 by Desperanto Press.
April 2014 | back-issues, poetry
There are uncertainties traversing our unknowns
despite the trolls we’ve ostracized under the bridge
of our relationships. These ogres contemplate
us from the abutments of our past: how and when
and where to snatch us by our limbs. At night when we
are drifting down to sleep we glimpse the glistening
of their red tethered eyes reflecting off the walls.
It’s not the gentle cycle of our snores we feel
but their hot breaths in the pulsing of blinking lights.
On Sunday afternoons when the lazy sparrows of
our lives should linger on our beds, it’s not the flutter
of wings echoing through the heavy air, but the gobbling
of feathers, the chewing of bones, the slow grind of dull teeth,
the grunts below our naked feet splintered by the crossing.
—Aden Thomas
Aden Thomas lives in Laramie, Wyoming. His work has been featured in Dressing Room Poetry Journal, The Common Ground Review, and The San Pedro River Review.
April 2014 | back-issues, poetry
he couldn’t stop his dreams–
each night he’d fall down a mountain
where him & our dead grandpa,
in his army greens would roll
around in a haybarn & my brother would–
out of nowhere–grow enormous tits;
grandpa would grope and suck
so as not to be sucked himself
into the vacuous sun-hole suck-shining
in the sky. When my brother woke up
he felt no horror but an overwhelming
sense of accomplishment. It seemed,
he confessed, through a cascade
of tears and thick saliva, heavenly…
This for real happened
on the way home from middle-school.
Mom was driving the dirty white Prelude &
at the intersection of after
him telling it, us conjuring it,
she pulled over and cradled his head into her chest,
caressing him violently and weeping
in the afterschool sunlight.
—Corey Spencer
Corey Page Spencer is a student of NYU’s Literature and Creative Writing program. Hailing originally from South Carolina he currently lives in Brooklyn, NY with his girlfriend and his pit-bull Hank. His work is forthcoming in Eunoia Review and SOFTBLOW.
April 2014 | back-issues, poetry
My Mother is Buried
My mother is buried on wind-swept
high-ground in a tiny ignored
cemetery.
The grass-spare plots are surrounded
by immaculate plowed fields
that never see a crop.
Every month I buy artificial flowers
at Wal-Mart and stuff them
into a cone filled with green
styrofoam, then
I get on my knees and pull weeds
away from the base of the tombstone.
Usually, I set up a lawn-chair and read
her poetry.
As far as I know she never read poetry
in her entire life, but she did
read the Bible so I always include a few
psalms.
Mostly though, the poetry is for myself
hoping that somehow that is okay.
Lately I’ve been reading her Blake.
Sometimes I read Herbert or Hopkins
thinking that maybe she would like
them better.
If I am there late in the day I usually get
drunk and have to sleep awhile before
I drive home.
One warm summer night, last July, I fell asleep
(passed out) and woke up at three a.m.
to a gray fox trying to eat the yellow
and blue plastic flowers.
Sky over Indian Hills
Silk-screened pink sky tucks behind
the four mesas, the
four of them a worm-hole to the west, and
Comanches, only a hundred years gone.
I lean against oak trees with purple-brown
leaves, some falling like dead dark
snow, while my heels dig
into the sand of an overgrown peanut field.
Sky darkens but still is dominant,
the earth a postcard. Fleeting memory is a
plaything of the infinite and soon the stars will
laugh at the tiny trees and miniature creek.
Hills darken and are gone, pink gone too,
everything consumed by hungry time
and heaven.
I sit long into the night,
coyotes in the distance,
leaves rattling in the woods.
I think that means birds but it might mean
wild hogs.
I go back to the cabin that I have left well
lit, the brightness reminding me that I am
alive and important. Just a ruse really.
I know that in the morning the sky will
be blue and the Indian hills will
be the focus of the sun.
—John T. Waggoner
