October 2015 | back-issues, poetry
My clockwork sparrow is caged in bars of fear.
Its song is lonely, but it’s so clear.
My wooden rose was planted in a pot of glass.
It grows root bound, as time begins to pass.
A bronze sun blazes free to be who it wants to be
A moon trapped in its orbit, fails to see what the sun can see
She smiles so brightly, but so alone
As stars fall, only we believe what is known
It’s hard to fly, but it’s hard to fall
So we glide until we lose it all
We forget the sun and clouds on our crown
We forget the freedom of tumbling down
We simply wait to live
While we have nothing to give
We slowly wither away
With nothing good to say
Let the clockwork dolls fill with life
Let them escape this world of strife
Let them shake off the rust and age
Let the rose grow and the sparrow out of the cage.
by Stormy Headley
Stormy Headley is a young and fresh writer working toward her bachelor’s degree in creative writing at SNHU. She thrives in her poetry, short stories, and novellas, and carries her own style in her work. She’s excited to share her creative worlds with those who are willing to read.
October 2015 | back-issues, poetry
Someone once told me that
if you dream your teeth
are falling out,
it means you’re dying.
It happened in a breast cancer
support group. Nancy said she
dreamed her teeth came out
in four great clumps,
and two weeks later,
she was dead.
Grandpa only dreamed
his false ones fell out,
but when he woke,
he couldn’t find them.
He walked around the
house for a week
looking like a mummy,
sipping from straws.
The sign in Dr. Wong’s waiting room said,
You don’t need to floss all of your teeth—
only the ones you want to keep.
That was fifty years ago, and I still have
them. But when I broke my lower incisor
on a crust of rustic bread
in a trattoria near Campo de’ Fiori,
I swear to God
the Angel of Death sped
by in his Vespa, whining
down Via della Corda.
by Abby Caplin
Abby Caplin’s poems have appeared or are forthcoming in Adanna, Forge, The Healing Muse, Night Train, OxMag, The Permanente Journal, Poetica, Tikkun, Willow Review, and several anthologies. She is a physician and practices Mind-Body medicine in San Francisco.
October 2015 | back-issues, poetry
Emily As a Fifth Tattoo
The spell
& form
of Emily
is no longer
temptation
only
& when I
didn’t fidget
at all
as the needle
action(ed)
into my ribs,
Eddie said
my skin was
really soaking
her up
this time. He
was impressed
by Emily, her
dark math,
her mining
of my body
that rejoiced
in being
an element
found to be
possible heat.
Emily As a Correlative Truth
Emily is Emily
because I am
me. She would
be a different
Emily without
me. That Emily
would be better,
but far less
important to
the Emily in
this poem that
exists beyond
this poem.
Emily is Emily,
but that is
a certainty
based on Emily
& based on me.
by Darren Demaree
Darren’s poems have appeared, or are scheduled to appear in numerous magazines/journals, including the South Dakota Review, Meridian, The Louisville Review, Diagram, and the Colorado Review. He is the author of “As We Refer To Our Bodies” (2013, 8th House), “Temporary Champions” (2014, Main Street Rag), “The Pony Governor” (2015, After the Pause Press), and “Not For Art Nor Prayer” (2015, 8th House). Darren is Managing Editor of the Best of the Net Anthology.
