January 2014 | back-issues, poetry
That road through the country
Unspooling under a dark mountain
Massages my shins like wine.
Rose-colored cliffs protest
My black-and-white ideas.
The day in the city is over.
Old trees on the hillsides crack
Their knuckles into the air,
Pulling at lyres of light.
Birds glide on updrafts
Of the wound I released.
The day in the city is over.
Grasses bend in stress,
Winds unknot muscles,
Leaning hard as a masseuse.
Wheat, a promise panting
Through the throat of the valley,
Nods. The day in the city is over.
We wait under the sun,
Enduring impossible delays
Of this growth. If
The thresher holds
Our heads up to the sickle,
The day in the city is over.
But all is well.
Still on the way, believing
Earthbeats know their sway.
Brentwood
by Ryan Gregg
January 2014 | back-issues, poetry
but beauty is a living room
in a warehouse.
It lies in glass houses
measured in square footage.
Beauty is but a bird
Silk screened,
“only ninety-nine,
ninety-nine.”
My art is the pain in touch,
sanctity
Sucked from the pope
Screaming.
It feels like
raw chicken,
eats like my lovers
ate me,
so feed it.
by Brittney Blystone
Brittney Blystone studied creative writing in the United States at Northern Kentucky University and in England at University of East London.
January 2014 | back-issues, poetry
Soles blue,
numb from the snow’s fall,
I stood reflecting
at the reflection of the moon
in my dry Sherry wine.
Small circles
counter-clockwise making waves
crying, reflecting
at the reflection of the moon;
an infinite snow dons the backdrop.
What was her name that questioned
my heart’s motive for trust?
A quivering hand
presents me with a million moods
breathe….breathe….breathe…., I must,
be dissolving
in to the reflection of the moon.
In the numb I felt home.
At home I felt numb
to the desired fire
that now rents a once vacant room,
no higher,
than my brain will allow.
Like a crime scene
on the day of our Independence,
that glass shattered,
cutting, falling, reflecting
a million moons that fell upon the snow.
Don’t say my name
for it is a worthless name
no one person should have to carry.
I, who will die alone inside,
fall to pieces daily,
wanting to know why you married.
It’s all coming back to me,
in the wine, in the snow,
in the last dissolving reflection of the moon!
by Warren Frieden
