January 2022 | poetry
took a shortcut through Central Park, stopping briefly for brunch
at the old sheepfold aka Tavern on the Green. (Ever hard to please
New Yorkers prefer Cavern on the Green). Well pleased he was
with the new menu from which he sampled the warm squid salad,
followed by a small plate of Cremini mushrooms with Cabrales cheese
and red chili. Since he was nearby, and the museums beckoned
he returned their calling there to hang from lights and ponder
the Phillips Collection, most especially the Rothko Room. Once more
filled with awe, the bat out of Hell set sail for the Guggenheim’s
Twombly collection. His favorite palate chaser after the quiet room.
No one expects a bat, one on a day-pass from Hell, to be out
during the day, much less face to face, with canvas and frame, although
some find the orange tinted sunglasses off-putting and over the top,
even for a bat out of Hell. As a card-carrying Patron level member,
he is entitled as such to see what can be seen, and often more.
Richard Weaver
The author hopes to one day once again volunteer with the Maryland Book Bank, CityLit, the Baltimore Book Festival, and return as writer-in-residence at the James Joyce Pub. His pubs: North American Review, crazyhorse, New England Review, Southern Quarterly, Loch Raven Review, & Poetry Magazine. He’s the author of The Stars Undone (Duende Press, 1992), and provided the libretto for a symphony, Of Sea and Stars (2005), performed 4 times to date. Recently his 135th {Ir}Rational Narrative, aka prose poem, was published. He was one of the founders and PEd of the Black Warrior Review.
January 2022 | poetry
Scientists find strange black ‘superionic ice’ that could exist inside
other planets – Argonne National Laboratory, 10/28/21
Water, vapor, ice – glass
half full, steam from the kettle,
frost on the windshield
I thought I knew what
I needed to know about
water’s phases
But now scientists crush water
between two diamonds and heat it
with a laser
It makes weird, hot, black ice
they say, and there’s lots
of it in the universe
Maybe it’s how icy planets form
Maybe it shows how much
we’re still learning, how much
we still have to learn
And if there’s more to know
about water, just think of earth,
air, and fire
Sally Zakariya
Sally Zakariya’s poetry has been nominated for the Pushcart Prize and Best of the Net. Her publications include Something Like a Life, Muslim Wife, The Unknowable Mystery of Other People, Personal Astronomy, and When You Escape. She edited a poetry anthology, Joys of the Table, and blogs at www.butdoesitrhyme.com.
January 2022 | poetry
This time, I will begin at the ending.
That house burned in the fire
along with all of the others
in Larkin Valley.
But by then, the bats were gone.
I keep returning to this poem
that draws me to a late autumn afternoon
when my niece and I sat in lawn chairs
facing her house. Just after sunset,
a dark shape appeared
from a crack under the eves,
grew larger and left
on its jerky flight.
Then came another
dark shape
and another until
the bats had all flown out.
We pulled on our sweatshirts,
poured white wine
and waited for the stars
to begin their display.
Patricia L. Scruggs
Patricia L. Scruggs lives and writes in Southern California. In addition to her poetry collection, Forget the Moon, her work has appeared in ONTHEBUS, Spillway, RATTLE, Calyx, Cultural Weekly, Crab Creek Review, Lummox, Inlandia as well as the anthologies 13 Los Angeles Poets, So Luminous the Wildflowers, and Beyond the Lyric Moment. A recent Pushcart Prize nominee, Patricia is a retired art educator who earned her MFA at California State University, Fullerton.
January 2022 | poetry
Is death a seed born in us, growing unseen
ripening at some pre-determined moment
a heart stops, a car strikes, cancer takes a final bite
Is it possible to die a little slower or stretch time out
like a sleeping lion
or salt water taffy
Can you bargain with Time, haggling and hammering
out deals like a summit meeting
but holding hardly any chips, only a few memories
Like her first cry or moments of tidal love
that comfort you during the lean years
memories you are willing to exchange
For a minute, an hour, a day
can you wear Time down until, totally exhausted,
setting his scythe aside, consulting his ledger
fiddling with his abacus, doing the math
like your granddaughter struggling with algebra
making sure it adds up, nothing extra
Nothing left over
he looks at you with tunnel eyes, his brow
narrowed and gnarled
I am an old man he sighs, twirling
his white beard, scratching his ears
where rogue hairs have begun to sprout
He brushes away ash from a burned out star
before handing you a scrap of paper
three days
You write your lover’s name on it
postponing phantom pain
written in the black glyph of forever
Claire Scott
Claire Scott is an award-winning poet who has received multiple Pushcart Prize nominations. Her work has appeared in the Atlanta Review, Bellevue Literary Review, New Ohio Review, Enizagam and Healing Muse among others. Claire is the author of Waiting to be Called and Until I Couldn’t. She is the co-author of Unfolding in Light: A Sisters’ Journey in Photography and Poetry.
January 2022 | poetry
We track this slow animal in the snow
because it leaves a blood trail
and we think that makes it vulnerable
But then it circles back
breaks the trap and eats the bait
and suddenly disappears
Or comes up behind us
to prove its fangs are real
and at the same time
whispers to us in a soft voice
It lives in artefacts
among monuments and ruins
and at night drinks and carouses
and knocks on doors with its pommel
touting a swashbuckling history
But then finally grows old
and into a child again
was when it was first only a word
delicate as freedom or liberty
dried into a fragile antiquity
subtle as synapses in the brain
or the language of animals
Sing louder they say
and it will leave us alone
and when we dream of flight
it proves to us we have not
the wisdom of birds
George Moore
George Moore’s collections include Children’s Drawings of the Universe (Salmon Poetry 2015) and Saint Agnes Outside the Walls (FutureCycle 2016). He has published poetry in The Atlantic, Poetry, Arc, North American Review, Stand, and Orion. Nominated for seven Pushcart Prizes, and a finalist for The National Poetry Series, he presently lives on the south shore of Nova Scotia.
January 2022 | poetry
In This House We Believe In
blogs that pant and drool
speaking with the manager
In This House We Believe In
the latent philosophy of tater tots
Bundt cakes that know how to testify
In This House We Believe In
pinball melodies of washer/dryer combos
chihuahuas that wear lipstick
futures that refuse their present
therapists who prescribe cages in cages
In This House We Believe In
the salt & pepper of the masses
and of course, sanctimonious final lines.
Rikki Santer
Rikki Santer’s poetry has received many honors including six Pushcart and three Ohioana book award nominations as well as a fellowship from the National Endowment for the Humanities. Her eleventh poetry collection, Stopover, which is in conversation with the original Twilight Zone series was recently published by Luchador Press. Please contact her through her website: rikkisanter.com
