July 2012 | back-issues, poetry
I
And as it walks across the land
With bright sparking legs
The lightning leads the thunder
II
The static of lightning
Between two hands
And they cannot touch
A thing
III
The old oak tree still stands
Dark and slightly bent
From the crack of the lightning
IV
The animals know what it means
When the lightning comes
V
He strikes with lightning
Because then there is fear
Without a face
And with force
VI
It waits
Shooting among the clouds
The lightning baits its prey
As a cat
VII
As lightning does
Quick and brilliant
We have come
And we go
by A.M. Kennedy
A.M. Kennedy is a graduate of the University of South Florida. She lives in the perpetual sunshine of Florida where she enjoys writing a range of fiction from dystopian to horror. Occasionally she is aided by her two loveable muts and insidious feline.
July 2012 | back-issues, poetry
It won’t just be the handshake of the ocean. It will also be the empty string of the guitar. and a woman’s voice will sound like the skin of a turtle, wishing. She will not only be wishing but pregnant also. Along with a boy she will carry a marzipan apple and the island of Krk. They will travel out of her soft center to meet the busy sun.
by Gregory Zorko
July 2012 | back-issues, poetry
Victory
Couldn’t see.
Couldn’t move.
Paraplegic.
She kissed my body,
my clothes removed themselves,
he hummed “Crooked Teeth” while I cried silently
like I was at my own funeral,
wondering what I could have been,
how much time this was going to take.
She was going to be a writer, my mother would
hyperventilate, being the DJ to my death disco.
She was such a good girl, my dad would say,
not knowing that good
daughters don’t have threesomes.
I didn’t put up much of a fight,
just a few slurred Don’ts’, but don’t doesn’t mean won’t.
And I did, I really did.
I let them have their way with me like I was Thanksgiving dinner,
sweating turkey, panting gravy,
something that everyone could have a piece of.
I stared at the ceiling, 347 stars on one tile.
I couldn’t get my dad’s voice out of my head.
She was such a good girl.
I was such a good girl,
I am a good girl.
Jawed Decay
The happy days ended for you with your diagnosis
or maybe they ended years ago when your trailer
in St. Augustine burnt down,
when you had a kid and got married,
or when you started chewing the tobacco
that fast tracked you into chemo.
Remember how you pushed me into an ant hill
and my brother had to kick your ass?
You came over with purple eyes apologizing
for the bites,
bites that resembled the beginning stages
of the cancer spreading through your jaw.
If I had known then about your disease
I would have warned against using your jaw so much.
You could’ve saved it for more meaningful
conversations between you and your wife,
you and your baby daughter.
The happy days ended when you went
to the trusted family doctor who said you were fine,
he said there was nothing wrong with your jaw,
didn’t caution you to stop chewing
or quit smoking,
to go home instead of drive back to work,
or tell you that cancer is the leading killer of Americans
next to heart disease and stroke.
You carried on like any normal hypochondriac
for months before there was clearly something wrong
then you died in a hospital watching Happy Days,
wondering if you could have prevented this years ago
when you pushed me into that ant hill,
when you learned what sarcasm was,
when you started chewing.
by Jessica Farrell
July 2012 | back-issues, poetry
your heart is a cracked accordion filling fast with salt – Patrick Rosal
My ex-wife called to tell me this.
Well, not exactly this. She called for money
I’d already paid. As an aside, in passing,
she added this: Our son cries.
He holds his face in his hands and sobs.
He stops by for food, cleansing, a couch
for sleeping on. He talks to himself.
He scratched the name “Jesus”
into his chest, says he’s fighting
the devil. He asked if he was adopted,
says Bob Marley is playing games
with his mind. His prescription
bottle’s full; he says the doctor is stupid.
Our son cries, she tells me in passing
after asking for money I’d already paid.
She cries, says she prays for magic.
I do not cry right there in front of her,
on the phone. Instead, I blink hard
and blink hard again.
by Danny Earl Simmons
Danny Earl Simmons is an Oregonian and a proud graduate of Corvallis High School. He has loved living in the Mid-Willamette Valley for over 30 years. He is a friend of the Linn-Benton Community College Poetry Club and an active member of Albany Civic Theater. His work has appeared in or is forthcoming in various journals such as Avatar Review, Summerset Review, The Smoking Poet, Toe Good Poetry, Pirene’s Fountain, and Burning Word. His published poems can be found at www.dannyearlsimmons.blogspot.com.
July 2012 | back-issues, poetry
Today,
I realized
everything I do is a joke
and God is on stage
doing stand-up
waging his finger at me
laughing
uncontrollably
while everyone in the audience
is relieved
he isn’t pointing his stubby fat fingers
at them.
by Kari Hawkey
July 2012 | back-issues, poetry
most mad and moonly
she’s a little crazy, right? half,
at least. cloaking herself in
inky star-spilled darkness,
unmasking her many moods;
this waxing and waning at whim
crescent grimace gloating,
gibbous eye hypnotizing
tumbled time and tide
fat and full and freckled
face beckoning, reckoning
you are but earthbound, and
she, a beacon of the night
who can neither shed nor
bear her own exquisite light.
Demarcation
Draw a line in the sand.
Don’t cross it. Color inside
only, and only in the most
muted of tones. Show ID.
Please keep all limbs and
appendages inside the
vehicle. Control all spon
-taneous laughter. A proper
level of decorum must be
maintained at all times. When
you’ve had it up to here, secure
the perimeter and batten down
a hatch or two, paying particular
attention to not getting finger
-prints on glass ceiling.
Don’t grasp at first or last
straws, or allow them anywhere near
that camel over there. Use sunscreen.
Tilde
If we unscroll this thing, give it syllable
and song, taste it along our torn tongues,
our dialect is horses, hooves pounding
forward, manes flinging salt water to the
waiting wind. Our floating hope is a tiny
bird’s crest, conjugated in cinnamon and
sage, aged carefully, held with ginger hand.
If we stand, on this, one last promise, we
are archers heading into battle, quivers of
anticipation and rage and unsheathed
joy. If we toy with noble wisdom, crack its
solid amber shell, pronounce it loud and
well, this cant, with all its quiet meditation
and clasped conjugations and implied con
-jectures, this language of our hearts might
live and breathe and brave this aged place.
by De Jackson
De Jackson is a poet, a parent and a Pro Crastinator (not necessarily in that order) whose heart beats best when accompanied by inky fingers and salty, sea-soaked toes. Some of her work has has appeared, or is forthcoming, in Sprout, Red River Review, Bolts of Silk and Indigo Mosaic.
