April 2017 | poetry
Dissolving through the throngs on LoDo streets.
Beer soaked smiles and purple clothed melee.
Bars brimming full with possibility.
First Rockies home game only minutes away.
The golden bubbly flowing from the taps.
Anticipation in the on deck circle.
Optimism cheering from the stands.
At the plate the hopes of all the people.
And on the mound our cynicism fades.
The windup for the season has begun.
Is our fate to be despair or victory?
We’re tied for first but yet to score a run.
Each day is opening day- we start anew.
Our destiny depends on what we do.
Mike Coste
April 2017 | poetry
A Parable
A big wave was coming. My car rose, then filled with water. O God, this can’t be happening! I looked up, my car could fly! It rocked up over the trees, skimmed the tops. Through the clear bottom I spotted my childhood home. I lowered my car and it hovered over the pool in the yard. Then I jumped through the roof into an empty room. At the back was a closet with a hidden door. I opened it. Someone was walking down the hall & hugged me. A thin man I loved. He showed me the closet he was building, the dome ceiling I hadn’t noticed before. The wallpaper didn’t fit, and between the seams the bare walls breathed.
A Sign
My father came to sit on the blue wicker stool in the upstairs bathroom of my childhood home. Talking in his familiar voice as if he’d been alive the whole time in another place. I finally asked him the question I most wanted to before he died. He said I feel it whenever you pray for me, he who never understood what it meant to pray. He said it feels like deep silk. I didn’t understand but I did. I asked him to give me a sign that he heard me when he returned to wherever he had to go. He repeated it feels like deep silk, my home.
Barbara Siegel Carlson
Barbara Siegel Carlson is the author of the poetry collection Fire Road and co-translator (with Ana Jelnikar) of Look Back, Look Ahead Selected Poetry of Srecko Kosovel. She lives in Carver, MA.
April 2017 | poetry
My eyes fold on the
past – a frozen wasteland
warming
These may be
false hopes, but they
heal the wounds we
savor
Insecure stains of the distant
slowly crawling closer
I hear their drums
pounding on a heartbeat further
A forged bellow creeps
somewhere between stomach and
mouth,
loosely fitting its skin to
match the crowd.
Joe Albanese
Joe Albanese is a writer of poetry and prose. Recently he had a piece published in the Fall 2016 edition of Sheepshead Review. In 2017 he has work to be published in Calliope and Adelaide Literary Magazine.
April 2017 | poetry
Bottomless Lake
they all said it was “bottomless,”
that lake past all the farms,
a couple hours’ drive;
they said boats went down
and never left a trace, vanished
as if swallowed whole by time,
no simple sand and rock there to receive them,
no sound, no scrape, no muffled thump
like everything that falls
(and everything does fall);
they all believed it like Yeti in the snow,
saucers in the desert,
things that kept the world exotic
while life took every mystery away,
a box filled and emptied every day,
a depth they knew so well
where water came and went
between the pull of moon and sun,
subtracting to some finite sum,
and they’d fall themselves
into the true abyss
for which there is no wonder
but the unexamined buoyancy of faith
Literacy
what we will and will not understand,
the language of the world
waits in space between the leaves,
rattles in the chatter of the wind,
whispers hope at nightfall,
despair within the questions of its bending trees
in seasons that it does not know,
days in the dyslexia of me
and we,
twisted from the discourse of the sun
John Kristofco
John P. (Jack) Kristofco’s poetry and short stories have appeared in about two hundred publications, including Burningwood. He has published three collections of poetry and has been nominated for the Pushcart Prize five times.
April 2017 | poetry
A boy of birdpoems
and monstrous stories
a painter of numbered rocks
frozen from their histories
a swinger of vines
a creek leaper
a loam digger
and salamander nabber
a boy of graveyards
and grave making
a boy of bramble wanders
scraping a new way
a boy of blush faces
and hidden dreads
and strange songs
etching his lobes
a boy who made me
in the shadow of his spots of time
buried in synapse gaps
of retold dreams
that I might still see the stars
shimmer an ancient sky
David Sam
Born in Pennsylvania, David Anthony Sam has written poetry for over 40 years. He lives in Virginia with his wife and life partner, Linda. Sam has three collections and was the featured poet in the Spring 2016 issue of The Hurricane Review and the inaugural issue of Light: A Journal of Photography & Poetry. His poetry has appeared in over 60 journals and publications. His chapbook Finite to Fail: Poems after Dickinson was the 2016 Grand Prize winner of GFT Press Chapbook Contest and his collection All Night over Bones received an Honorable Mention for the 2016 Homebound Poetry Prize.
April 2017 | poetry
A black drape flutters
before my face or is it
a heavy veil of smoke
while offering prayer
for a friend
following a cremation.
Let the dark pall shield my eyes
dim my mind from knowing the process
of immolating a beloved soul, flesh, bones.
While Jewish law forbids cremation
I ask further how a family rights this
course after the holocaust,
after human beings delivered
such a means of death.
Nancy Smiler Levinson
Nancy Smiler Levinson is author of MOMENTS OF DAWN: A Poetic Memoir of Love & Family; Affliction & Affirmation, as well as numerous stories, and poetry that have appeared in publications such as Confrontation, Phantasmagoria, Poetica, Touch: The Journal of Healing, Survivor’s Review, Blood and Thunder, and Drunk Monkeys. A CNF piece was a Pushcart nominee in 2015. Nancy lives in Los Angeles.
