Magazine
What to Do After You Don’t Die on the Table get up write a few things down shake thinking they missed something.
About the Author: John Dorsey is the former poet laureate of Belle, Missouri and the author of Pocatello Wildflower. He may be reached at archerevans@yahoo.com.
Image Credit: “Operating room – eye institute” Public domain image courtesy of the Library of Congress
Homage to Jim Harrison The grackle with its blue head dunks violently his beak in the bird bath while chickadees and starlings battle the squirrels for sustenance. Cars power by here in the city and squirrels rush the street for lack of places to run. On the porch with my one-eyed dog, I run my weathered hand on his head and search fruitlessly for the Zen moment like Jim Harrison's dogs betray their owner's point of view. I keep his grizzled nose pointed at the source and breathe in his wisdom.
About the Author: Rusty Barnes lives with his family and a horde of cats in Revere MA. His work appears widely, and his most recent chapbook is DEAR SO & SO.
Image Credit: John James Audubon “Purple Grackle” Public domain image courtesy of Artvee
Day -hab driver I pick him up from his day hab program he is smiling but I give him a Tylenol because it is raining and I don’t know what to expect On those days Elvis, the Beatles or kidz bop? I ask him praying it’s not the last one A horrible station where they auto tune kids singing bubble gum pop songs he chooses the Beatles and smiles when I sing along to day tripper We turn on South Main Street not far from The whataburger where I gave the drifter who approached my window seven dollars His left eye looking straight at me his right eye a one way ticket out
About the Author: Melanie Browne is a poet and fiction writer from Texas. She has been published in several anthologies including This is Poetry Volume IV: Poets of the South and Cowboys &Cocktails Poetry from the True Grit Saloon.
Image Credit: Esther Bubley “Bus trip from Knoxville, Tennessee, to Washington, D.C. Looking out of bus window in Tennessee” (1943) Public domain image courtesy of the Library of Congress
YOUR GIFT OF STARS Sic itur ad astra – Virgil for Bruce Around 1 AM we bounced seven miles out a rough dirt Road, through locked gates, into the mountains to arrive At Karen’s uninhabited trailer, which she spent all the Previous afternoon cleaning, then making up a bed we Could use for what was left of the night. She stocked it With bottles of water, freshly drawn from her springs. She showed me how to work the generator, and Pointed out that we would need to pee outside, then She drove down the steep hill to her place, leaving us With flashlights to make our way around. Once we Settled in, you disappeared into the cold air of the yard. I found you gazing at a broad, clear sky dense with stars. Excited, you pointed out the various constellations to me, Especially the ones you could seldom see anywhere else, Telling me some of the ancient stories behind them, How they came to be ensconced in the night sky. It seemed that the new moon had politely excused herself From the scene just so you could index the constellations Then hand them to me with their interconnections revealed, a Gift which I would never have requested, but will never forget
begun 07/01-29/2023 Santa Rosa, CA events occurred the early morning of 06/18/2023 Yorkville Ranch Road, Mendocino County, CA
About the Author: M.J. Arcangelini, (b.1952, Pennsylvania) has resided in northern California since 1979. He has published extensively in both print and online venues & over a dozen anthologies. He is the author of 6 published collections, the most recent of which is PAWNING MY SINS, 2022 (Luchador Press).
Image Credit: Henri-Edmond Cross “Landscape with Stars” Public domain image courtesy of Artvee
Afraid of Heights Yes, I am, and maybe you are too— vision blurs, stomach turns, ground falls away. Any bridge or ledge, any tall building or tower makes me tremble and Oh, God, never look down! You may slip and fall, you may be drawn into its vortex. Is it fear of falling, or fear of jumping? Might I lose control or welcome new freedom? I’ve thought long on it, but only after, breathless, I am across. Once on a bridge holding my baby in my arms, I shuttered and sat straight down wooden railing at my back. In a glass elevator I melted like candle wax to the floor and stayed for the door’s release. I admit it here, look it in the eye, risk all, and welcome any sweet relief.
About the Author: Larry Smith is a poet, fiction writer, memoirist and editor of Bottom Dog Press books in Ohio. He and his wife Ann cofounded a meditation center in Huron, Ohio. His most recent book is CONNECTIONS: Moring Dew: Tanka.
Image Credit: Detroit Publishing Company “Cliff stairway, High Bridge, Ky.” (1907) Public domain image courtesy of the Library of Congress
Haiku from my Grandmother
I
“Don’t you think we should “eat that stuff now because it “expires in five weeks.”
II
“I don’t need my cane; “I just use my shopping cart— “I shop at Walgreens.”
III
“Did you take your cups “to the sink already or “are they still down there?”
IV
“Did you know that Paul’s “answer for everything is “drink another beer??!?!!”
V
“Don’t you have something “you should be doing today? “Why are you still here??”
VI
“I’m not eating that! “Just what do you think I am? “Some kind of vulture??”
About the Author: G. M. H. Thompson enjoys golden sunsets with fine wine, taking long walks on the beach, & getting to know you better.
Image Credit: Carol M. Highsmith “Kitchen spice pantry at the Joseph D. Oliver House, also known as Copshaholm, in South Bend, Indiana” (2016) Public domain image courtesy of the Library of Congress
The Other Genesis What do we see outside except a canopy of ebony wings, garlands of feathery smoke moving on blackened water? Against the sketchy light it looks like a cancer patient showing us their fifth x-ray. The troubled lungs, highlighted: a cage of full-grown crows in a space too small for them and anxious for routes to escape, fanning their jittery wings against imprisoning walls. Something screamed in fear, locked inside us, watching. Resistance is useless, absurd, trapped in something we are. We saw their work when free: the substantial killing along the state route. They strutted around the roadkill, plucking at bits of the dying creatures, supple as the playful light. When will it end? we ask. And why did it ever begin? We are the understanding they lack. So we took them deep inside us.
About the Author: Royal Rhodes, who was trained in the Classics, is a retired educator who taught classes in global religions and Death & Dying for almost forty years. His poems have appeared in: Ekstasis Poetry, Snakeskin Poetry, The Montreal Review, The Cafe Review, and other places. His poetry/art collaborations have been published with The Catbird [on the Yadkin] Press in North Carolina.
Image Credit: Image originally from British Ornithology: Norwich: Bacon,1815-22. Courtesy of the Biodiversity Heritage Library
Boarding House Bedroom - After Vincent van Gogh I tell the widowed landlady, I’m an artist, and she rents me the room cheap. The colors for this room must be both bright and tranquil for me to feel alive, work round the clock in a fever. I choose yellow for the bed and chairs. Violet for walls, green for the window frame, a fence encasing light that leads to a view of the public garden where men and women stroll the lane surrounded by blue pines. I immerse myself for days, weeks, months, until a voice, a train inside my brain, rumbles through, rattles the pictures on the wall.
About the Author: Robin Wright lives in Southern Indiana. Her work has appeared in The Beatnik Cowboy, As it Ought to Be, Loch Raven Review, Spank the Carp, The New Verse News, Rat’s Ass Review, Little Old Lady Comedy, Bindweed, Fevers of the Mind, One Art, and others. She is a Pushcart Prize nominee, and her first chapbook, Ready or Not, was published by Finishing Line Press in 2020.
Image Credit: Vincent Van Gogh “Bedroom in Arles” (1888)
Crabbing at Nehalem Bay: a virelai After “Douce Dame Jolie” by Guillaume de Machaut My will is that your claw should grab This cat food, that your mind should stab Its doubts and urge you, like its lab Rat, into trying something new. The tide is closing out my tab… I swab The weather’s face and ocean’s too. I fill my boat with air and flab To nab Some pride and dinner for my boo. I’m frightened not when shorelines blab; I see the semi-love Les Schwab Half-buried under sand. My cab Is fate; we’re not just driving through! My will is that your claw should grab This cat food, that your mind should stab Its doubts and urge you, like its lab Rat, into trying something new. The seagulls here all do the dab. Ahab I’m not, but niveous visions do Call me away from any slab A schlub Could stand on; courage isn’t blue. The clam beds sleep beneath Queen Mab Despite my screams when every ab I catch is slightly rounded. Drab My engine’s soul and instinct’s clue. My will is that your claw should grab This cat food, that your mind should stab Its doubts and urge you, like its lab Rat, into trying something new. Off Hwy 101 facts jab Prefab Experiences; they don’t come true Because the gift of every crab Is gab: They rival Athens in a coup! But south of Wheeler, night’s hijab Is not on yet. My buoys scab The waters so that Dr. Krabbe, If he was here, would say, “Achoo!” My will is that your claw should grab This cat food, that your mind should stab Its doubts and urge you, like its lab Rat, into trying something new.
About the Author: Jake Sheff is a pediatrician and US Air Force veteran. He’s published a full-length collection of formal poetry, “A Kiss to Betray the Universe” (White Violet Press), along with two chapbooks: “Looting Versailles” (Alabaster Leaves Publishing) and “The Rites of Tires” (SurVision).
Image Credit: Wissenschaftliche Ergebnisse der Deutschen Tiefsee-Expedition auf dem Dampfer “Valdivia” 1898-1899. bd.6. Atlas Jena,G. Fischer,1902-40. Public domain image courtesy of the Biodiversity Heritage Library.
Notice Served Low sky, gray beneath gray, thin dim sun loitering behind without noticeable intent; aging summer drags beat-up sandals at autumn’s order to pack up its things and move on to the next hemisphere – but clouds above and bluster below, orange leaves eddying in gutters and entryways, foreshadow the inevitable: a fall of highs and lows, woodsmoke perfuming dawns and dusks, frost’s hungry fingers tracing windowpanes, cupping cheeks.
About the Author: Steve Brisendine – writer, poet, occasional artist, recovering journalist – lives and works in Mission, Kansas. His most recent collections are Salt Holds No Secret But This (Spartan Press, 2022) and To Dance with Cassiopeia and Die (Alien Buddha Press, 2022), a “collaboration” with his former pen name of Stephen Clay Dearborn. His work has appeared in Modern Haiku, Flint Hills Review, Connecticut River Review and other journals and anthologies. He holds no degrees, several longstanding grudges and any number of strong opinions. Write to him at steve.brisendine@live.com.
Image Credit: Andor Dobai Szekely “A Summer Landscape” (1910) Public domain image courtesy of Artvee
As It Ought To Be 