Daniel Romo: “20/20”

Posted on by Chase Dimock

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20/20

When the regular asked how she was doing
the barista replied, Living the dream, before making
his usual drink
and isn’t that what we all do as we rely on
whatever form of faith and familiarity it is that
keeps us moving into the face of
a new day?

I just had my eyes checked for the first time because
I’m at an age where I’ve seen every hurt too clearly
and I want to ensure my vision from here on out
will allow me to recognize the victories in any battles
the younger me would’ve deemed too fatal
to fight.

My face stuffed into a machine transported me
to a world of tiny, tricky letters appearing too small
to be alive
and that’s how I feel sometimes,
overcome by a combination of consonants and vowels
teaming together to create sounds that still echo
amongst memories clanking around in a life
I’ve left behind but will never
forget.

Shouldn’t we all aspire to attain the stillness of the barista,
the one who makes the same drinks and repeats the process
in the midst of monotony and minimum wage,
her fears and misgivings swirling around inside each cup
like a never-ending threatening motion
before eventually settling at the bottom
rather than us guessing at a series of blurry symbols in our lives
trying to guess at
what we can’t see?

Her customer leaves and thanks her for his purchase and for
her sense of reverie and the barista says,
I’ll keep it as long as I can
and the optometrist says I’ll need reading glasses
in the next few years,
both of us making out all that is in front of us
the way we want to see it
whether in the distance,
or right under our noses.

 

About the Author: Daniel Romo is the author of Apologies in Reverse (FutureCycle Press 2019), When Kerosene’s Involved (Mojave River Press, 2014), and Romancing Gravity (Silver Birch Press, 2013). His poetry can be found in The Los Angeles Review, PANK, Barrelhouse, and elsewhere. He has an M.F.A. in Creative Writing from Queens University of Charlotte, and he is an Associate Poetry Editor at Backbone Press. He lives and teaches in Long Beach, CA.

 

More by Daniel Romo:

The Main Event

 

Image Credit: Conrad Poirier “Paul Legendre looks in a sextant” (1944) Wikimedia Commons, Public Domain

Victor Clevenger: “Milkman’s Mustache”

Posted on by asitoughttobemagazine

 

 

Editor’s Note: This is the first in a series of poems by Victor Clevenger about his son, nicknamed “The Milkman”

 

 

Milkman’s Mustache

i offer him a razor for the first time

he declines it 
like a thirsty hound from hell 
when offered holy water

turning his head from side to side 
in front of a bathroom mirror 

admiring something that looks quite fragile in its infancy

like spiderwebs the color of rust 
that spell out the word masculinity 
in a thin font stretched 

across his cracked lips

 

About the Author: When not traveling on highways across America, Victor Clevenger spends his days in a Madhouse and his nights writing poetry.  He lives with his second ex-wife, and together they raise children in a small town northeast of Kansas City, MO.  Selected pieces of his work have appeared in print magazines and journals around the world, as well as at a variety of places online.  He is the author of several collections of poetry including Sandpaper Lovin’ (Crisis Chronicles Press, 2017), A Finger in the Hornets’ Nest (Red Flag Poetry, 2018), and Corned Beef Hash By Candlelight (Luchador Press, 2019).

 

Image Credit: Achille Devéria “Portrait of a Boy” (about 1850–1855) Digital image courtesy of the Getty’s Open Content Program.

Jonel Abellanosa: “Jaguar”

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Jaguar

I dwell in your mind, your thoughts dense
as jungles, anxieties rough as the tree’s limb.
I feel at home in your deep space, seeing
through your eyes. The future furred
with silk. Hearing you speak in tongues,
I prowl your ribcage. You’ve mastered
the language of bats. Blood vessels I trace,
stream echoes, sounds of the moonbeam.
If I smell self-doubt I drag the deer up.
No hunter finds your anger, your calm
silent as my tiptoes. I crouch behind you.
Speak truth to power. Vultures circle
but they’ve to cage me
before they silence you.

 

About the Author: Jonel Abellanosa lives in Cebu City, the Philippines. He is a nature lover, an environmental advocate, and loves all animals particularly dogs. His poetry collections include, “Meditations” (Alien Buddha Press), “Songs from My Mind’s Tree” and “Multiverse” (Clare Songbirds Publishing House), “50 Acrostic Poems,” (Cyberwit, India), “In the Donald’s Time” (Poetic Justice Books and Art), and his speculative poetry collection, “Pan’s Saxophone” (Weasel Press). He loves to self-study the sciences.

 

Image Credit: Illustration from “Marvels of insect life” (1916) Public Domain, courtesy of the Biodiversity Heritage Library

Jean Biegun: “Hospice”

Posted on by asitoughttobemagazine

 

 

 

Hospice

It’s nothing I can talk about, June— 
I don’t even know how to be here.
I sat once with a friend who was giving 
birth.  That I could do, but you:
I can wash your floor, but I’m no good 
at pushing you to heaven.

Let me try, though, June.  Listen, 
there are 16 hushed angels  
at the edge of the bed, and listen, 
June, they are hugging quite happily
and humming an ethereal anthem.  

I’m not making any of this up.
Easter Bunny and Tooth Fairy 
are here, too, as well as the winner 
of the 6th Annual Spelling Contest 
who crowned you the 7th.  He passed 
on in Viet Nam, 34 years ago this month, 
remember?  

He is kneeling here by your elbow 
and grinning your favorite winning words— 
“grandeur” and “halcyon.”  How did you 
know the letters in “halcyon” back then,
June, without knowing the definition:  
tranquil?

I am counting 7 leprechauns all  
with bunches of 4-leaf clovers ready
to stuff in your hands.  It will be 
a blast,  I can see right now.

 

[This poem was included in the 2008 Wisconsin Poets Calendar.]

 

About the Author: Jean Biegun began writing poetry back in 2000 as a way to overcome big-city job stress, and it worked.  Poems have been published in Mobius: The Poetry Magazine, After Hours: A Journal of Chicago Writing and Art, World Haiku Review, Blue Heron Review, Goose River Anthology and many other places.

 

Image Credit: Simon Alexandre Clément Denis “Study of Clouds with a Sunset near Rome” (1786) Digital image courtesy of the Getty’s Open Content Program.

Okla Elliott: “The Social and Spiritual Possibilities of Lent”

Posted on by asitoughttobemagazine

–

The Social and Spiritual Possibilities of Lent

by Okla Elliott

…

Editor’s Note: Our late Managing Editor, Okla Elliott, originally posted this article three years ago. It was his final post before he passed away. We are republishing this article in his memory. In the final year of his life, Okla took a deep interest in exploring spirituality, theology, and Catholic teachings. This article is a prime example of his great ability to investigate new ideas and understand their capacity for better expressing and illuminating his core values and principles.

…

.We do not generally conceive of Lent as a political or social matter. Its central purpose is a personal and spiritual one, but as the well-worn phrase instructs us, the personal is political. I therefore want to invite us all to think of how we might combine the personal and spiritual aspects of Lent with potential social gains.

According to a 2016 article in The Independent, the three most common things given up for Lent are chocolate, social media, and alcohol—in that order. And a 2015 TIME article offers similar findings. These are all personal sacrifices that do not have much of a social or political dimension. Giving up certain popular items such as meat does have a notable social impact. The environmental gains of giving up meat are significant, since the factory-farming livestock industry has several negative impacts on the environment, from inefficiency of food production to detrimental waste products.

I offer here a list of five options for what we might give up for Lent that can merge spiritual growth and social betterment.

1) I would strongly suggest the aforementioned meat option, since it has such a prominent place in tradition and can have such a positive social impact.

2) If possible, give up driving and use public transit instead. This will have a positive environmental impact, obviously, but it will also allow you to see the people of your city whom you might otherwise never encounter. Of course, this is perhaps an option only for those who live in certain areas, but you might be surprised how elaborate your city’s public transit is if you’ve never looked into it.

3) Give up eating out. At first this might not seem social at all, or even the opposite of a social option, but if you conceive of Lent as not only a negative notion of giving up, but also a positive notion of doing something good with what you gain by giving up things, then you will see that the several hundred dollars you save by not eating out can be used in myriad ways for social good. I would suggest donating to non-profits or your church’s efforts to help the poor. You could also use the money saved to do nice things for friends and family, which will strengthen your social community at the closest level.

4) Give up the convenience of plastic bags. Make the extra effort to bring a canvas bag with you when you shop, or if you’ve only purchased one or two items, don’t ask for a plastic bag. With an estimated 8 million metric tons of plastic entering our oceans every year, to say nothing of the millions of tons in our landfills, reducing unnecessary use of plastic is of paramount importance.

5) Give up self-reinforcing thought. This one is a bit more abstract, but it is no less important. What I mean here is that if you’re a staunch Democrat, make yourself read several issues of a conservative magazine not with an eye for criticism but rather an urge to understand and empathize. And do the same if you’re a diehard Republican. Read some classics of liberal thought and really try to hear the concerns mentioned. The point is to bridge divides and to prevent hatreds between humans. If we can force ourselves to develop the habits of mind that reduce prejudice and living in our echo chambers, we have a much better chance of curing the ills of the world.

What makes the above choices good ideas is that the social impact in no way reduces the spiritual impact. Giving up driving to work in favor of taking the bus, for example, is a personal sacrifice just as much as giving up social media would be, yet it helps society more broadly in addition to the spiritual gains associated with the sacrifice.

And there is no need to limit yourself to the five options I offer here. Get creative and make your own list that suits your personal and social concerns. There are many ways to improve ourselves and the world around us, and doing one does not preclude doing the other.

—

[This piece originally appeared at PennLive.com and was syndicated to several other venues in 2017.]

 

About the Author: Okla Elliott was the co-founder and Managing Editor of As It Ought To Be from its inception until his passing in 2017. For more about his life and work, visit our memorial page. 

 

Image Credit: “Ash Wednesday” Julian Falat (1881)

Robert A. Morris: “Natchez Green”

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Natchez Green

I was eleven, walking out past Silver Street to 
the river’s edge, headed “under the hill,” a spot
infamous for men who no longer exist and their 
transient killers.  Some say a ghost woman walked

the Mississippi, her body anchored by gold from 
her lover so she could lay beside him at the bottom 
where the bottles turned to jewels.  Looking out, I 
saw something flash, deep emerald, and unbroken, 

glittering in the river silt, waiting like a patient miracle. 
Expecting Laffite’s treasure map. Clutching the cork 
with my teeth, little boy hands twisted. The sharp too 
sour smell gave me a headache, and I stood hearing 

phantoms as the wind made the bottle coo. In the river 
debris, a hand summoning me to the water. I threw 
the bottle, which it accepted, swirling the rank liquor, 
towing it further and further from my shore.

 

About the Author: Robert A. Morris lives near Baton Rouge and works as a teacher.  Besides poetry, he also writes fiction and bashes out the occasional song on his blue Stratocaster. His work has appeared in The Main Street Rag, Pear Noir, and The Chaffin Review among others.  He is in the final stages of editing a chapbook titled Descending to Blue that he would like to see published in the near future.  For updates, please visit his blog  https://robertamorrisblog.wordpress.com

 

Image Credit: William A. Faust “Natchez Trace Parkway, Located between Natchez, MS & Nashville, TN, Tupelo, Lee County, MS” (1997)

Rob Plath “that which”

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that which 

sitting on 
my old green 
couch 
she asked, 
“are you afraid”
& i replied, 
“terrified”
w/ out even 
asking of 
who or what 
& we lifted 
our bottles 
against 
that which 
follows us both 
day & night 
across streets 
beneath sun
& moon
thru doors 
& down corridors 
& into rooms 
of any dimension 
& into dreams 
& moments 
of waking 
& dreams again

 

About the Author: Rob Plath is a writer from New York. He was once tutored by Allen Ginsberg for two years from 1995-1997.  He has published 22 books and a ton of poems in the small presses over the last 26 years. He lives with his cat and tries his best to stay out of trouble.

 

Image Credit: “Portrait of a Couple” Unknown Artist (1860s) Digital image courtesy of the Getty’s Open Content Program.

Stew Jorgenson: “5 Geezuz”

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5 Geezuz

I asked her how she felt about 5G
she said it might be
the new heaven and earth
of which Jesus spoke…
everything so nice
a real virtual paradise
smart TV’s
camera phones
electric cars
surveillance drones

artificial and
emotional intelligence
unconscious streaming
on demand

I took a sip of my high-buck latte
and told her we’d die just in time
if we’re lucky

She said it’s too late for that
come back to bed
it’s memory foam
I’ll make you forget

 

About the Author: Stew is a part-time wordsmith who has more words than he knows what to do with. Sometimes he uses the extras for poetry, celestial navigation, or target practice. He has worked on farms, fishing boats, and in factories.  He’s skilled at mistakes, guilty by association, and suffers from occasional bouts of inspiration. He is working on a cure.

 

Image Credit: Carol M. Highsmith “Power lines dominate the skyscape above Flagstaff in northern Arizona” (2018) The Library of Congress

John Grey: “Maud”

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MAUD

The parlor
stands for all of life,
even for those things that most resemble death,
because Maud occupies her favorite chair,
knitting a sweater for no one to wear,
out of the necessity to busy the hands,
relieve the mind of its terrible duties,
retell her story in stitch after stitch
so the end result is something warm and lovely.

A crucifix on the wall,
a husband behind glass,
bestow in silver-plate and photograph
the blessings that remain to her,
from her thick mop of white hair,
to wrinkled but active fingers,
all the way down to
the knitting needles,
the basket of wool skeins.

Jesus is nailed and hurting.
The man in uniform 
is off to war, off to heaven.
She joins them in pain
with a bend to her spine,
a much-broken heart.

But there’s still this 
sheer blood-red dreaminess
to her shapeless eyes
And her breath is like a breeze
continually rousing her aged loveliness.
Yes, it’s more of a winter wind these days.
But the chill can never settle.
And she cannot quite settle on the chill.

 

About the Author: John Grey is an Australian poet, US resident. Recently published in That, Dunes Review, Poetry East and North Dakota Quarterly with work upcoming in Haight-Ashbury Literary Journal, Thin Air, Dalhousie Review and Failbetter.

 

More By John Grey: 

Move On

Downsizing

 

Photo Credit:  Gertrude Käsebier “Grandmother Käsebier with Knitting” (1895) Digital image courtesy of the Getty’s Open Content Program.

Rusty Barnes: “The Act of Working”

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The Act of Working

The act of working occupied 
my father like an obsession,

a crushing sixty hours a week,
running a loader over and over

again into heaps of gravel
and sand, piling dump trucks

full and sending them out into
the world. Rock he loaded built

prisons and roads all over 
the states of NY and PA

but he came home every night
dirty and so exhausted he’d

eat then fall asleep, cigarette
still in his fingers and  I write

this poem over and over,
seeing my father lie there,

hoping somehow this poem,
this time, will end differently.

 

About the Author: Rusty Barnes lives in Revere MA with his family. His poems appear widely, in Plumb, Heavy Feather Review, and Black Coffee Review, most recently. His latest chapbook, Apocalypse in A-Minor, is out from Analog Submission Press.

 

Image Credit: Lewis Hine “Factory Worker” (1931) Digital image courtesy of the Getty’s Open Content Program.