Monday 21 October 2024

Wanda Morrow Clevenger: the same week my mother-in-law passed

at the cusp
of midwest coronavirus
inside the Carlinville Walmart
was a lady
trussed in surgical mask

our eyes locked
for a few seconds
as our carts rolled
past each other
in total silence
at a perceived safe
six foot distance

the associates seemed
more polite than usual
as though they knew
the funeral was on hold


Wanda Morrow Clevenger lives in Hettick, Illinois, population 200, give or take.  Her seven published chapbooks can be found on Amazon.

Saturday 19 October 2024

Samuel Louis Spencer: Sourdough #12

You called me. You called me and maybe
you ran out of bread, perhaps you need
another loaf left at your doorstep.
You called me and said you found more
of my belongings, said I should come and
get them. You called so I’m driving
over, loaf of bread resting in the backseat
like the child we never had.


Samuel Louis Spencer is a poet and journalist based in Tampa, Florida. His work has appeared in The Decadent Review, Scapegoat Magazine, Tokyo Poetry Journal, Inlandia, Third Wednesday, Barzakh Magazine, and others. 


Friday 18 October 2024

Damaris West: From Pillar to Post

I rarely had to push him.
Mostly he propelled himself
along the Corridors of Power,
the gleaming, neutral-coloured,
slippery waterways
of hospitals with that
special smell.
It was the closest he could get
to paddling his own canoe.

But I felt him disappearing.
Get yourself a red trilby,
something brash,
and earrings
to sharpen your face.
He chose an Australian slouch
hat of genuine kangaroo
leather and clip-on hoops – bronze,
silver or gold to suit his mood.

Even then they talked
over his head.
He scanned my face
to know if there was any hope
(although he said he hated hope)
and I could hardly bear to see,
belying all that buccaneer panache,
the slight wince in his blue eyes
at the thud of yet another disappointment.

Damaris West lives near the sea in Scotland. Her poetry has appeared widely in such publications as Snakeskin, The Lake, Dreich, Blue Unicorn, Ink, Sweat & Tears, and The Friday Poem, and has been placed in several competitions. Her debut pamphlet is due to appear next year with Yaffle Press. damariswest.site123.me

Wednesday 16 October 2024

Gloria Heffernan: Good News is No News

Eight billion people woke up
on Earth this morning.
Of those, let’s make
a conservative estimate
that 80 million of them—
let’s call them something catchy
like, “the one percent” –
did something wonderful.
 
Some planted trees.
Some taught children to read.
Some baked bread.
Some prayed for peace.
Some performed brain surgery.
Some even wrote poems.
 
You may want more specific
details – the who what, when,
where, why and how.
But I can’t answer those questions
because stories like that, well, 
they just don’t sell newspapers.
 
They are simply the stories you
have to search for on your own,
because they’re the stories
that make all the news
that’s fit to print,
bearable.


Gloria Heffernan’s Exploring Poetry of Presence (Back Porch Productions) won the CNY Book Award for Nonfiction. Her collection Fused will be published by Shanti Arts Books in 2025. She wrote the collections, What the Gratitude List Said to the Bucket List, (NYQ Books) and Peregrinatio: Poems for Antarctica (Kelsay Books).

Monday 14 October 2024

William Derge: Stuck

Teenage ingenue,
poodle skirt and pony tail,
fallen into the web of a giant spider.
The type of movie we used
as an acceptable excuse to heavy pet.
Anyone who cared, maybe
one or two, knew she’d get through
in time, saved not by her boyfriend,
way too cool, and dumb as a brick,
but by the high school science teacher,
a Christ figure in a cardigan, whose gift
of omniscience could calculate
the exact amount of DDT it takes
to stun a spider the size of your house.
He’ll get her out. And Mother,
lacey apron, pearls, and heels, will  
forgive her for crawling into that
cave to look for Dad, as long as she    
does all her homework and goes
straight to bed. Don’t worry about Dad.
He’ll be back when his bender wears off.

Outside, the spider’s on the loose,
the pesticide’s all worn off—
So much for science and omniscience— 
The sheriff issues some fatherly advice,
Shelter in Place, though
real estate values are falling fast
under eight hairy legs.

The price for taking risks isn’t
falling into a sticky net;
it’s the humiliation of having to be rescued 
through the combined efforts of
every Tom, Dick, and Fred in town,
firemen, policemen, power workers 
and Terminix.  They’re in cahoots
to restore the community
to its God-given state of normalcy. 

In the end,
she’ll graduate cum laude
and marry her boyfriend—
dumb as he is—
He’ll take over his father’s 
Maytag distributorship,
They’ll have a mess of kids.
and forget all about
the big arachnid, and Dad,
dead, sucked dry in the cave.


William Derge’s poems have appeared in Negative Capability, The Bridge, Artful Dodge, Bellingham Review, and many other publications. He is the winner of the $1000 2010 Knightsbridge Prize judged by Donald Hall and nominated for a Pushcart Prize. He is a winner of the Rainmaker Award judged by Marge Piercy. 

Saturday 12 October 2024

Stephanie Ross: Epitastic

after Mary Oliver’s The Sun

 

slide out of blackness

        slip into greyness
        away from nimbostratus

but not quite there yet

        saunter into rising hills
        away from drifting fog 

but not quite seeing the crest

        skip along that mountain ridge
        toward the viewpoint

but not quite there yet

        glide into sunshine
        toward that epitastic vision

but not quite feeling that peak

        until Shen and Universe coalesce
        expanding your clarity

        that fantastic epiphany 
        under your skin


Stephanie Ross (she/her) is a Ren Xue Yuan Qigong teacher and Vancouver Island poet. Her writing has appeared in Surging Tide, Passionfruit Review, RXA Qiblog, Quail Bell, Roses & Wildflowers, and The 2023 Poetry Marathon Anthology. Her life cultivation practice inspires her writing. Connect with her: www.stephanierossauthor.com

Friday 11 October 2024

J.K. Durick: Banking

It’s all a matter of
accounts and cards
checking and savings
credit and debit
numbers in
and numbers out.
It’s almost like magic
entries appearing
and vanishing
earnings, spending,
spending, spent,
never enough,
never too much.
There’s a running
total online and
a paper summary
once a month
if you request it.
There isn’t a fat wallet
waiting for you
or a pocketful of change.
This is banking
direct deposit, online bills
quietly paid
money becomes
almost invisible, weightless
pending today and
it will be gone tomorrow.


J.K. Durick is a retired teacher, taught for years at Trinity College of Vermont and after that for many years at the Community College of Vermont. He and a friend started following the pandemic by writing a poem for every day – "we now have run out of pandemic and have written 1629 and plan to continue till we run out."

Wednesday 9 October 2024

Marguerite Doyle: Bag of Cats

Sam’s folks were always going at each
other, but her father was like an uncle
to me; good fun, a kind of hero.

One hot summer we drove to a fair
and he won the big plush toys
and gave them to us like trophies.

Simon and Garfunkel sang Bridge
Over Troubled Waters
on the radio, and I wound down
the window while they argued.

Between the static I heard a sound,
low and soft. We stopped
and I stepped on wet leaves
and caught him up, just as he flung

the rock-filled sack in the river,
where the current was strongest.

I can still see the arc it made
in the air, the thud,
the flow of the river snatching it.

Going home he smoked a Marlboro
and bought more ice-cream for us.


Marguerite Doyle's publication credits include The Storms, The Honest Ulsterman, Skylight 47, The Wexford Bohemian and The Waxed Lemon. In 2024 she was the winner of the Mill Cove Gallery's Poets Meet Painters Competition. Marguerite lives in Dublin.

Monday 7 October 2024

Jean O'Brien: The Year I Turned Fifteen

When I placed my eight-year-old hand
over the painted wood, I felt
and heard the deep thrum of the hive,
the bees were about their business.
Grandmother’s garden was peopled
with hollyhocks that grew higher
than my shoulders. I pushed a path
through their silent, scentless bells
and came to where the bees were boxed.

I listened to the drowsy stir
of an engine idling as
the hive settled for the evening,
and saw late stragglers, legs swollen
with pollen as they flew home.
They never stung.

She would tell me to go in as the blue sky
turned navy, while she talked to the bees
telling them her news, counting off
on her fingers, who had died, who been born,
about her troubled daughter,
and whose harvest was lost.

Grandmother died the year I turned
fifteen, she was old and ill,
no longer running her fingers in a trill over
the piano keys, no longer attending the hive.
That year I shot up past the hollyhocks,
and that same summer
a handful of pills killed my mother.
And I started telling the bees.
 

In Celtic mythology there was a custom of ‘telling the bees’ who would pass on messages to people who had died.

[Previously published in Stars Burn Regardless, reproduced with permission from Salmon Publishing.]


Jean O'Brien has published 6 collections of poetry with Salmon Publishing Ireland, her latest being Stars Burn Regardless in 2022. She has won prizes for her work and tutors in creative writing/poetry in places such as the IWC (Irish Writers' Centre) and at Post Graduate level. www.jeanobrienpoet.ie

Saturday 5 October 2024

Jean L. Kreiling: The Full Moon and the Lighthouse

The full moon boasts that it delivers all
the night-time brilliance anyone might need;
impersonating daylight, its beams fall
on seekers crossing sea and land, who read
their route or fortune in once-monthly splendor.
The lighthouse blinks its eye, tonight redundant
though steadfast as a chivalrous defender;   
with moonglow so unblinking and abundant,
its man-made flash looks pale.  But it maintains
the rhythm of a song Sirens might sing,
and punctuates the tide’s moon-governed gains
and losses. Winking at its glimmering
competitor, the lighthouse waits its turn;
one night its faithful light alone will burn.


Jean L. Kreiling is the author of three collections of poems; her fourth will be published in late 2024.  Her work has been awarded the Kim Bridgford Memorial Sonnet Prize, the Rhina Espaillat Poetry Prize, and the Frost Farm Prize, among other honours; she lives on the coast of Massachusetts.