October 2010 | back-issues, poetry
a haiku and our night out
from ridge to ridge
camera projection left –
of freemans’ waters
neon billboards
one night in finders corner
with fiddle strings
the look of true love
st patrick’s day in sarawak
our plate’s green orchid
a haiku is a fitted appliance
knock on the porch door
sterling rose out of daisies
unsigned gift card
white and blue pills
syringe, thermometer, bedpan
empty bauhaus chair
a haiku is a hundred different ways
in good time
the stars shine brighter
sometimes longer bursts
at the festival
urban samurai in hemp
buttonquail – blue-backed
Desmond Kon Zhicheng-Mingdé has edited more than 10 books and co-produced 3 audio books, several pro bono for non-profit organizations. Trained in book publishing at Stanford, with a theology masters in world religions from Harvard and fine arts masters in creative writing from Notre Dame, Desmond is a recipient of the Singapore Internationale Grant and Dr Hiew Siew Nam Academic Award. He has recent or forthcoming work in Copper Nickel, Clutching At Straws, Dark Sky, Fence, Grey Sparrow, Presence, Nano Fiction, Notes from the Gean, Spilling Ink Review, Spork Press, Sugar Mule, and Write From Wrong Magazine. Also working in clay, Desmond sculpts commemorative ceramic pieces for his Potter Poetics Collection. These works are housed in museums and private collections in India, the Netherlands, the UK and the US.
July 2010 | back-issues, poetry
by JE Baker
The doe is dead, devoured by hounds.
Her bones lie by the river’s edge.
Curled small,
small is never long;
her body will grow and cast away the brush that veils her.
Her fair spots will fade with time.
It’s the sparrows that call her to run,
to stretch her legs long and flee.
But the fawn, she listens to the leaves
whispering that it is safe to stay.
I stood at the sink
scratching and scraping until fingertips were bloodied and sore.
As the water ran I thought,
her spine curved like the back of my ear –
her heart in a box.
It’s easy for the leaves to die.
The mantle of dirt shows the way.
Head south,
toward the river;
blood smothers the earth where half-eaten bones are still strewn.
Ash-covered tracks form a trail.
The Huntsman keeps her heart in a box,
to take to his aging Queen.
But from there an iris still watches,
warning her daughter never to stay.
The water was hot
and the steam held a stench like a scream at the back of the throat.
My eyes burned, but I knew
she hadn’t had time to not be timid –
she breaks like the doe.
Hidden, hooves tucked up underneath.
She rises and stamps on the ground.
Look at them,
her feet ashen;
slight and unsteady as they search for a suitable trail.
She won’t fall to the arrow.
The Huntsman thinks she breaks like the doe,
running, her tail in the air.
But the white flag isn’t surrender,
waning fear frees her heart lest she stay.
July 2010 | back-issues, poetry
by Madeleine J Deerly (1938-2009)
well here I was, facing another locked drawer without a key,
and not just metaphorically, although there is that.
thinking more crap that you accumulated and left me to deal with;
more coins, more stamps, more bills, a neatly
rubber-banded bundle of Publishers Sweepstakes entries
never sent in but saved because god knows why.
all that junk in my basement. a car that no one wants,
cowering in dusty mortification and leaking oil
all over a dozen or so cartons
containing nothing useful as far as I can see.
and I think, oh what a lovable idiot you were, you great big doofus
what a warm and funny simple guy, and wasn’t I lucky
to be the one you loved and left all this mess?
and wasn’t life more interesting and full because you were so careless
about the details, like putting the car title where someone could find it?
and wasn’t I just telling someone the other day
about how none of this mattered because you and I were always
so crazy about each other?
and isn’t it ironic now that I have to pay some guy $65
to drill out this lock and find this little pile of what will turn out to be
love letters from the Polish lady who took care of your mother?
yes, the very one for whom I wrote the glowing reference,
although my intention was not to refer her to you.
to whom was I talking, when I thought I was talking to you?
and just how long did you think it would take
for me to turn this into material?
July 2010 | back-issues, Erik Austin Deerly, poetry
I went to your memorial last Thursday
but you were not there
in your place was an old photo
you on your horse
full head of poorly cut hair
accidentally hip.
The woman spoke about energy, afterlife
and rejoining your ancestors.
While we bowed our heads
you reached into your holster
drew your revolver
and took pot shots.
If you didn’t want your bronzed baby booties displayed in public
you should’ve mentioned it while you had the chance, cowboy.
Published in little bang, Volume 1, Number 1, 2008
July 2010 | back-issues, Erik Austin Deerly, poetry
Cold meat covered in thin white cotton.
One foot protrudes.
Mouth agape, drools silently.
Teeth removed, stored neatly on the roll-away table.
As if you might get warm,
or wake up and need to chew.
Sourness—a look or a feeling? I’m
not sure. Mislabeled television controls.
I’ll see what I can do to fix this
error.
Published in little bang, Volume 1, Number 1, 2008
July 2010 | back-issues, Erik Austin Deerly, poetry
I love you, I told him
Meals on wheels didn’t come ’til three o’clock
He’s pissed
I love you too, he said, trying to swallow it back down
*
Rewind, thirty years:
Leisure suit and perm aside,
Dad’s never changed
Trouble with women, he says, they just want to be happy
He never remarried
Thanksgiving with my Mom—Christmas with Dad
I came home after college
He was an old man
*
He reads glossy magazines
Schools me on pop culture
On his 78th birthday he asked for Moby
Though lately he prefers punk
When I was young, I had this dream my dad was shot
in the chest with a cannonball
He came home in this dream; I could see right through
the big round hole
The wound was clean, as if he were made of cookie dough
I couldn’t bring myself to touch him
*
Gave my dad a hug the other day
We repaired his iTunes
Picked over cold lunchmeat
Snapped a few pictures, said goodbye
Three days later—snail-mail from Dad
Scrawled across the back of a carefully folded article
About Balinese Hip Hop:
I love you, too
Published in little bang, Volume 1, Number 1, 2008
