sprovence
-
S. Mead, Marble Sky
Stephen Mead Marble Sky These cut squares, these street blocks, a sea of them& feet on that ice, the gray wisps of hard streaks,reflections in a sheep’s eye, the clear, the occluded,how it spreads, the expanse, how it may lift—–Lines in such space, clock hands, dagger arrowsagainst the blue, the cloud-white, & everywheretightropes with balancing…
-
Corso-Maddox, Bolt of Enlightenment
Marjorie Maddox Bolt After the photograph Bolt of Enlightenment by Paola J. CorsoEach bolt unbolts the brain that’s trainedonly to see one dimension. Angle your mind toward what’s perpendicular and parallel.Let thought splinter where it will.Shadows refuse nails, but each bolt’s opening fits perfectly your wide-alive eye.On the other side, imaginationwaits with telescopic sight: kaleidoscope…
-
K. Bodrie, Where Do Trees Go after They Die?
Kat Bodrie Where Do Trees Go After They Die? I wake to hear a fresh craaack outside, a thud. The house hasn’t trembled but I don slippers and sweatshirt anyway, make sure we don’t need to get flashlights ready. Beyondsideways sleet and rain, pastthe wooden light pole, a hemlockfrom the public parkhas fallen into the…
-
J. Jules, What Did Widows Do Before the Internet?
Jacqueline Jules What Did Widows Do Before the Internet? Alone in the house, late at night,the toilet flushes with a whistle,followed by a squealing sound,like tires skidding on black ice. Is it urgent? Worth the extra priceof an after-hours plumber?Alone in the house, late at night,there is no one to ask except Google,who thinks I…
-
M. Griffiths, Moon Rocks
Mary Anne Griffiths Moon Rocks My mother is in the turquoise sewing room, trapped with her hate of mending and thread, stitches, needles, and scissors, all things that cut and bind. I walk in, crying and crying, unable to remember why. But it’s all upheaval, an out-of-control thing I can’t possibly rein in with my…
-
M. Duncan, Pinecone Dolls
Margie Duncan Pinecone Dolls Dried leaf mosaic a faded quilt – olive, amber, flax – covers sleeping pineconeslined up in the battered box. Dressed long agoin petals and ferns, we buried them under sky and swings. Dig them up, release their seeds, feathery as child-whispers, as wings. Margie Duncan lives and hikes in NJ with…
-
K. Lawson, Sauna Secret
Kirk Lawson sauna secret nestled in your dreams a tiny cedar havenand three granite boulders naked insideour steamy spirited sweatthe red-hot stonesrocky ledges wet pine needlesand chilling fallsthe waterwhisperswake up Kirk Lawson lives in Ulster County, New York, and the Shawangunk Mountains. He enjoys poetry as a creative outlet to explore and enhance meaning in…
-
J. Bellanca, The Prescription
Jim Bellanca The Prescription Myleft hipcreaked, shrieked,moaned “I hurt.”Doc says,”Pay first.” Jim Bellanca began authoring poems 66 years after his careers as an English teacher and publisher. He favors celebrating the green world and the travails of old age. The Ethereal Haunted Journal, Down in the Dirt, The Aerial Journal, and Witcraft have accepted Jim’s…
-
S. Mockler, It’s Only Tea
Susan Mockler It’s Only Tea Gathered in a circle in her living room—some of us meeting for the first time, cups of herbal tea and chocolate chip cookies that looked like they came from the grocery store balanced on our knees, she asked us to introduce ourselves by name only to the people on either…
-
B. McAfee, Groundhog
Bob McAfee Groundhog sitting on the old swale walllooks at his watch,tucks in his shirttail,whistles a few bars of “How Much Wood Would a Woodchuck Chuck?”to the tune of “Who’s Afraid of the Big, Bad Wolf?”,nods to the members of the peanut gallery,reaches back in his memory,hems and haws,casts his eyes to the heavens,looks down…