Author: asitoughttobemagazine

Paul Ilechko: “Pig Roast Sonnet”

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Pig Roast Sonnet

They all wore black and stank of last week’s 
Miller Lite     they stank of smoke and memories
they stank of bitterness     that picked up speed
as it tumbled downhill and across the town
before it skidded to a halt in front of the fire
where a pig’s head stared vacantly into 
the middle-distance     unfocused clouds for eyes
they all wore camouflage as they blended
into suburban life in a small New Jersey town
where cathedral bells were tolling to remind them
of the ones they left behind     in rough pine boxes
buried shallow     or nothing left at all except
the smell of meat and a memory of a face     staring
emptily through the stink of whiskey and pain

About the Author: Poet and songwriter Paul Ilechko lives with his partner in Lambertville, NJ. He is the author of several chapbooks. His work has appeared in a variety of journals, including The Night Heron Barks, Feral Journal, Iron Horse Literary Review, Gargoyle Magazine, and Book of Matches. His first album, “Meeting Points”, was released in 2021.

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Image Credit: The natural history of quadrupeds, and cetaceous animals. Bungay, [England] Printed and published by Brightly and Co,1811. Courtesy of the Biodiversity Heritage Library (public domain)

Agnes Vojta: “In my mother’s kitchen”

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In my mother’s kitchen


Grandma’s measuring cup
is still on the shelf,
her nutmeg grater 
hangs from its hook. 

For sugar and salt, we still use 
the little wooden shovels.
I set the table 
with the familiar 

blue-and-white dishes,
the placemats my sister 
and I weaved that Christmas 
we got the looms.

In the pantry, I still reach
for the light switch on the left
where it no longer is. 
Dad rewired the kitchen

twenty years ago. I cannot 
rewire my brain, cannot train 
my hand to reach 
to the other side.

About the Author: Agnes Vojta grew up in Germany and now lives in Rolla, Missouri where she teaches physics at Missouri S&T and hikes the Ozarks. She is the author of Porous Land (Spartan Press, 2019) and The Eden of Perhaps (Spartan Press, 2020), and her poems have appeared in a variety of magazines.

Image Credit: Floris Van Schooten “A Kitchen Still Life With Pots And Pans On A Stone Ledge And Animated Figures In The Background” Public Domain

Victoria Twomey: “The Healing Properties of Tony B”

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The Healing Properties of Tony B

that long winter storm
left you with no power for eight days

stubborn, independent old man
stoic child of the depression, brave survivor of war

huddling by your fireplace for days
skin so cold to the touch when we arrived

we brought you to our house after a small fuss
you were too bone chilled, pale and weary to say no

and oh to watch you warm and melt
and get the pink back in your face 

sitting on our couch
after a hot shower

wrapped in a blanket, your hands curved around a hot cup of tea
a warm buttery-sweet croissant on your plate 

I put Tony Bennet on the stereo
you smiled said hey! this is my music

told us, you didn’t realize 
just how cold you had been 

what a gift to hold you in memory
all the rest of my days like that

you letting me love you, listening to Tony B
the warm steam rising from your cup of tea

About the Author: Victoria Twomey is a poet and an artist. She has appeared as a featured poet at venues around NY, including The Poetry Barn, Barnes & Noble, and Borders Books. Her poems have been published in several anthologies, in newspapers and on the web, including Sanctuary Magazine, BigCityLit, PoetryBay, Autumn Sky Poetry Daily, The Tipton Poetry Journal, Verse-Virtual, The Agape Review, The Trouvaille Review, with many forthcoming. Her poem “Pieta” was nominated for a Pushcart Prize.

Image Credit: Carol M. Highsmith “Comfy leather and burled-wood chair in the Round Room, the center of ranch gatherings and entertainment at the A Bar A guest ranch near the town of Riverside in Carbon County, Wyoming” (2016) The Library of Congress

LB Sedlacek: “Black Truck, Stopped”

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Black Truck, Stopped
		
Black truck, old man
white hair
wearing brown cap
pulled down low
over the forehead.
			
Black truck, stopped
in the driveway
white dog
tongue flapping
head hanging out the window.
			
Black truck, old man
commanding
black dog
barking
to stay at home.
			
Black truck, stopped
like the time the
policeman stopped me
under a bridge
to give me a ticket.
			
Black truck, old man
living alone
giant creaky house
tomatoes for sale
in the front yard.

About the Author: LB Sedlacek has had poems and stories published in a variety of journals and zines. Some of her poetry books are “Swim” (Alien Buddha Press), “I’m No ROBOT” (Cyberwit), “Happy Little Clouds” (Guerilla Genesis Press), “Simultaneous Submissions” (Cyberwit), and “Words and Bones” (Finishing Line Press).  Her first short story collection, “Four Thieves of Vinegar & Other Short Stories” came out on Leap Day 2020 from Alien Buddha Press.  She also served as a Poetry Editor for “ESC! Magazine” and published the free resource for poets, “The Poetry Market Ezine,” from 2001-2020.  In her free time, LB likes to swim, read and attempt to play the ukulele.

Image Credit: Carol M. Highsmith: “Interior of an old, rusted truck outside the Cutler General Store in the Carroll County, Indiana, settlement of Cutler, which was laid out by John A. Cook during the construction of the Logansport Crawfordsville & Southwestern Rail Road in 1871” (2016) The Library of Congress

CL Bledsoe: “Where Do You See Yourself In Five Years?”

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Where Do You See Yourself In Five Years?

The man on the other side of the table
is a variety of sneezes, held together
inside beige by sheer force of lack 
of will. What he’s smelled out there 
is more sensible than me, but I don’t 
so much fault him as marvel at his 
restraint. In the face of all joy, this
man chooses the sour eye. He gets 
excited at the prospect of a new tie 
on father’s day. His hair is a damp 
smattering of crumbs from other 
people’s meals, and he’s proud of 
its pedigree—carries a laminated 
copy. Everything about him is 
something I don’t understand, something
I would avoid at all costs, and vice 
versa, but the difference is he holds 
the soft feathers of my future in his 
sweaty palms and all I hold is the bill.

About the Author: Raised on a rice and catfish farm in eastern Arkansas, CL Bledsoe is the author of more than twenty-five books, including the poetry collections Riceland, Trashcans in Love, Grief Bacon, and his newest, The Bottle Episode, as well as his latest novels Goodbye, Mr. Lonely and The Saviors. Bledsoe co-writes the humor blog How to Even, with Michael Gushue located here: https://medium.com/@howtoeven His own blog, Not Another TV Dad, is located here: https://medium.com/@clbledsoe He’s been published in hundreds of journals, newspapers, and websites that you’ve probably never heard of. Bledsoe lives in northern Virginia with his daughter.

Image Credit: Carol M. Highsmith “Office Interior” (between 1980 and 1990) The Library of Congress.

Carolyn Adams: “Forecast”

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Forecast

I’ve started to think in weather,
to measure time that way.

I don’t know what you’re saying 
if you don’t tell me
it’s raining, 
or there’s snow coming,
or give me the percentage 
of sunshine to expect.

My friends tell me
the frost is gone in Galway.  
Late-winter
is moving through.

These and other forecasts,
accumulate 
all the news I need.

Snow has softened
everything
in Santa Fe.
Cold ventures
in from the wilderness.

Gusts roll in the Cascades, 
transient clouds obscure
the summit of Mt. Hood.

Rain is expected in Borneo.
A heat wave in Sydney.
Extremes mark every hour.

Hello and goodbye 
are steeped in tempests.

About the Author: Carolyn Adams’ poetry and art have appeared in Steam Ticket, Cimarron Review, Dissident Voice, and Blueline Magazine, among others. Having authored four chapbooks, her full-length volume is forthcoming from Fernwood Press.  She has been twice nominated for both Best of the Net and a Pushcart prize.

Image Credit: Chase Dimock “Albuquerque Stoplight Sunset” (2021)

R.T. Castleberry: “Bare A Heart”

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Bare A Heart

Take ice clouds, take an owl
shading the rose moon,
clouds crystalline at the edges, 
their bleak diamond centers 
etching wingtip and claw.
Hold a river cup, 
lip washed by melting frost,
dipped to overflowing from 
the ripple of Lyra’s reflection.
Take a family ring,
garnet red, etched bronze,
worn as fetish, borne 
through conquest voyage, 
arranged marriage.
Hold the passing ocean storm in sight,
stripped branches as divining rods,
as cudgel or cane, a wand
to conjure an island cave’s comfort.
There are those who 
connive a resting space in 
untracked lanes, intemperate riddles.
Forego your sighting. 
Leave them to their peace.

About the Author: R.T. Castleberry, a Pushcart Prize nominee, has work in Steam Ticket, Vita Brevis, San Pedro River Review, Trajectory, Silk Road, StepAway, and Sylvia. Internationally, he’s had poetry published in Canada, Wales, Ireland, Scotland, France, New Zealand, Portugal, the Philippines and Antarctica. His poetry has appeared in the anthologies: Travois-An Anthology of Texas Poetry, TimeSlice, Anthem: A Tribute to Leonard Cohen, and Level Land: Poetry For and About the I35 Corridor. He lives and writes in Houston, Texas.

Image Credit: Arthur Dove “Storm Clouds” (1935) Public Domain

K. Andrew Turner: “Monsters”

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Monsters

for the art Jimi Hendrix by Moëbius

Orange clouds, like mountains, burn

under the weight of the falling sun,

two rocks jut from the green ocean

where sharks swarm

I watch a pelican as large 

as a pterodactyl fly the sage home

A man wears

a robe, the symbol

of his power

his face broad, dark

his eyes free to bore

to memorize

his hands a vise

around the woman,

green from the ocean

she is out cold

Beams of black 

form a halo of darkness

his intent unknown

but I fear 

for the woman

at the hands of a man

so enthralled

by her architecture. I cannot help

but think that she

is the victim

that she is not the monster

we are told she is

no, she tries to protect

herself

her ocean so green

perhaps it is dying

she may be the last

the only

and this man is the one to take

her, to take the ocean

to set mountains ablaze

perhaps the sage

and his pelican-dactyl

stay away from the world

soaring above to remain

untouched and unsullied

by mundane concerns

perhaps the man is the monster

or the sage

or the monster is inside

ready to take

when presented with such

succulent

verdant beauty

About the Author: K. Andrew Turner writes queer, literary, and speculative prose and poetry. In 2013, he founded East Jasmine Review—an electronic literary journal. He was a semifinalist for the 2016 Luminaire Award. Heart, Mind, Blood, Skin is now available from Finishing Line Press. Read more at: http://www.kandrewturner.com

Joanne Durham: “Homage to Angelica”

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Homage to Angelica


No bloodline connects me  

to English gentry,  

but she is my foremother, too,

this woman adorned in flowing gown,
  

rose-woven garlands that sweep into auburn curls. 

Here she is: secluded with her alter-egos

to debate her future. One gently mocks the other,  

the second shows conviction, finger pointed 

toward her passions

as boldly as Moses’s staff 

signaled the Promised Land.  

I sensed her presence

as I donned the required skirt for dinner  

at my women’s college in the ‘60s, supposed  

to earn an MRS degree, or failing that,

to choose  

between secretary, teacher, or nurse. Instead,  

my friends and I sequestered

in the janitor’s closet, moved aside  

brooms and stacked pails, 

to strum guitars and write lyrics exploding

into a world we had yet to imagine.  

I decorated my dorm room 

with Picasso’s Lovers, Bob Dylan’s

haloed hair glowed from the ceiling. 

But ancient women swam in my veins, 

witches who brewed

potions centuries old, healing woes 

no one dared name. Here remains 

the artist who discarded

the coy smile she flashed at her suitors 

and painted herself  

into the right to choose her future.

About the Author: Joanne Durham is the author of To Drink from a Wider Bowl, winner of the 2021 Sinclair Poetry Prize (Evening Street Press, 2022). Her chapbook, On Shifting Shoals, is forthcoming from Kelsay Books. Her poems have or will appear in Poetry East, Third Wednesday, Calyx, Rise-Up Review, Love in the Time of COVID Chronicles, and numerous other journals. Please visit https://www.joannedurham.com/ for more about her background, publications and awards. 

Image Credit: Angelica Kauffman “Self-Portrait Hesitating Between the Arts of Music and Painting” (1791) Public Domain

Alex Z. Salinas: “Overboard”

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Overboard

I dreamt I was pushed over the edge 

Before I was ready to jump

And the surface stung like a jellyfish’s caress 

As I sunk in the pusher’s tears— 

Herman Melville’s agony—

And anchored to my ankle was 

Moby-Dick

And I gurgled the ocean with a fleeting sense of

Poetic justice 

As the cold watery locker

Reclaimed my lungs &

The sun sailed & vanished—

Would it dive in &

Resurface my aching bones?—

How was I to know?

A killer poet (& poet killer) 

Was on the loose

And a line by Renata Adler

Rattled my suffocating mind:

Lonely people see 

Double entendres everywhere—

Would Melville attend my estate sale

And buy my library wholesale?—

How was I to know?

The deep salty palace believes not in

Reinvention

But I don’t pretend to 

Speak for the darkness

Accepting me blindly—

Blithely— 

Which is to say

Here I’m treasured 

Even though I arrived by way of

Sitting on a powder keg—

Then I woke up & choked on my spit.

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About the Author: Alex Z. Salinas is the author of two full-length poetry collections: WARBLES and DREAMT, or The Lingering Phantoms of Equinox. He is also the author of a book of stories, City Lights From the Upside Down. He holds an M.A. in English Literature and Language from St. Mary’s University. He lives in San Antonio, Texas.

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Image Credit: Chase Dimock “Chain-Link Ocean” (2022)