Seth Jani: “Vesper”

 

 

Vesper

It’s getting dark now.
I set down the half-finished book
and find the kingdom filling with water.
Insects murmur as the light drains
and a second radiance pours out
its alms.
May I be forgiven for never knowing
the earth closely enough?
For never discerning the small words
in the wind’s confusion?
I pause and watch the shadow
of a moment.
I count the breaths between
eons of time.
From the lip of the canyon
the blood moon almost fits
into the palm of my hand.

 

About the Author: Seth Jani lives in Seattle, WA and is the founder of Seven CirclePress (www.sevencirclepress.com). Their work has appeared in The American Poetry JournalChiron ReviewRust+Moth and Pretty Owl Poetry, among others. Their full-length collection, Night Fable, was published by FutureCycle Press in 2018. More about them and their work can be found at www.sethjani.com.

 

Image Credit: Alfred Stieglitz”Equivalents” (1927) Digital image courtesy of the Getty’s Open Content Program.

John Dorsey: “Perpetual Motion”

 

Perpetual Motion

in the 1980’s 
everything was smooth sailing 
except 
drugs
aids
starvation
exploding space shuttles 
&
the threat of foreign wars 

we had miami vice
& a small hole 
peeking through the ozone layer
from all of those cans of hairspray 

everyone in the trailer park 
had a waterbed

our neighbors at the top of the hill
got their kids a chihuahua puppy for christmas

they would take turns tossing it
onto the bed 

watching the poor thing 
sway back & forth
like a drunken sailor

only a few weeks 
after bringing it home 
it slid right off the bed

snapping its neck 
without even a whimper

rubber ball still firmly in its mouth

as a child’s birthday party went on
in full swing in the next room

it was so quiet
that we thought 
it was playing a game

& then the youngest neighbor boy
started wailing  

as his brother approached the body 
with plastic army men
as if it was just some peaceful beast 
he had killed in battle

their father covered it up 
with a beach towel
as their mother asked us
who wanted cake

& somehow like magic
the decade was over
before it had even really 
gotten started.

 

About the Author: John Dorsey lived for several years in Toledo, Ohio. He is the author of several collections of poetry, including Teaching the Dead to Sing: The Outlaw’s Prayer (Rose of Sharon Press, 2006), Sodomy is a City in New Jersey (American Mettle Books, 2010), Tombstone Factory, (Epic Rites Press, 2013), Appalachian Frankenstein (GTK Press, 2015) Being the Fire (Tangerine Press, 2016) and Shoot the Messenger (Red Flag Press, 2017) and Your Daughter’s Country (Blue Horse Press, 2019). His work has been nominated for the Pushcart Prize. He may be reached at archerevans@yahoo.com.

 

More By John Dorsey:

The Mark Twain Speech

Creatures of Our Better Nature

Picker

 

Image Credit: Marion Post Wolcott “Parked cars on private yard and trailer park sign where many workers from United Aircraft live in their own trailers. East Hartford, Connecticut”  (1941) The Library of Congress

 

 

Ben Nardolilli: “Large Bull-Thistle”

 

 

Large Bull-Thistle

Looking up Chenango County,
It’s what I do at work, travelling through
The internet and coming across
Maps, images, and demographic data
For counties I’ll probably never go to

But I help out the people there,
Or who died there and whose families
Have moved on to other places,
They need their checks
And I make sure they get them

I know death unites us all,
Yet asbestos seems a runner-up,
I wonder if I’ve ever been exposed
And if some pale tumor
Is ready to bloom inside me because of it

Then I can join with the men
And women who died by similar means,
In Erie, in Albany, in Kings County,
In Warren, and in Wayne, finally,
Someone else can process a claim for me

 

 

About the Author: Ben Nardolilli currently lives in New York City. His work has appeared in Perigee Magazine, Red Fez, Danse Macabre, The 22 Magazine, Quail Bell Magazine, Elimae, The Northampton Review, Local Train Magazine, The Minetta Review, and Yes Poetry. He blogs at mirrorsponge.blogspot.com and is trying to publish a novel.

 

Image Credit: “Thistle” L Prang & Co. (1886) The Library of Congress

 

 

L.B. Sedlacek: “The Moon’s Trees”

 

 

The Moon’s Trees

In 1971 Stuart Roosa orbited the moon
on Apollo 14 with some 400 seeds packed
away in his personal kit, orbiting too.

The seeds were: loblolly pine, redwood,
sweetgum, sycamore and douglas fir.
They were germinated back on earth

and planted all over the world.  
Some were planted beside
their earthbound counterparts.

After more than 20 years, there’s 
no discernible difference between 
the two classes of trees.

Some of the trees are no longer alive.
Roosa is buried in section 7A of
Arlington National Cemetery.

Even with the intricate machinery,
the trees didn’t like what the
moon is supposed to do.

 

About the Author: L.B. Sedlacek is an award winning poet and author with poetry and fiction appearing in many different journals and zines.  Her latest poetry books are “The Adventures of Stick People on Cars” (Alien Buddha Press), “The Architect of French Fries” (Presa Press) and “Words and Bones” (Finishing Line Press.)  She is a former Poetry Editor for “ESC! Magazine” and also co-hosted the podcast for the small press, “Coffee House to Go,” for several years.  She teaches poetry at local elementary and middle schools and publishes a free resource for poets, “The Poetry Market Ezine.”  In her free time, LB enjoys swimming, reading, and taking guitar lessons.

 

Image Credit: John Russell “The Face of the Moon” (1797) Public Domain

John Macker: “Last Riff for Chet”

 

Last Riff for Chet

Chet Baker used to bend over
his horn like the saddest, most suffering flower
speak into it like an echo does in dream
coaxing faded blossoms from the air
gathering them in breath to the place
on earth he felt closest to
trembling with shadows
then mutate their fragrances into a
civilization of invisible words as if
every spring, trigger-fingered
April’s bent their music to the ground
coaxing forth rose after rose
their powder-burned faces
bold, fragrant, strained, maverick
delivering echo after echo.

Chet sounded the blues,
riffed circles around the discordant rainbows
of romance in the dark until 
they drifted so close
you could pluck them like strings:
standing there streetlamp insouciant 
smoking the heroin gun of Paris
blowing interstellar lullabies
working his own myth into the 
hard ground
while I’m bent over this ancient
jukebox in the Lariat Bar
hit parade reduced to a row of square
buttons I punch into entropy.

At last, I find Chet as he empties a 
chamber of pure blue language
onto a white tablecloth
opens the window to each new bloom
with his lips
as he always has,
saying something pure to the earth
knowing no surrender is a cliché.
He had chiseled features.  
There’s a plaque for him in Amsterdam
outside the Hotel
Prins Hendrik at the last spot
he soared through life
on his way  
to the ground.

 

About the Author: John Macker’s latest books are Atlas of Wolves (Stubborn Mule Press, 2019) and The Blues Drink Your Dreams Away: Selected Poems 1983-2018 (Stubborn Mule Press, 2018 and a finalist for a New Mexico/Arizona Book Award.) Macker has lived in Northern New Mexico for 24 years.

Wayne F. Burke: “Ants”

9260118705_91a171d0dc_3k
.
Ants
.
no one to play with or
talk to, nothing
I know to do, a hot summer afternoon
I wandered into the Larson’s yard next door
sat on their walkway and
watched ants come up out the
cracks and ant hills
a flood of them spreading
across the plain of the
walk, and then
other ants, with wings
flew down from the blue sky
in squadrons,
a blitzkrieg attack–
a mighty struggle began,
ferocious as Hastings or
Waterloo–
the Queen of the wingless crew
rolled over her winged-foe
like a tank
the dead and dismembered piled
as the battle raged and
the afternoon slid into shadow:
I did not hear
my grandmother
the first time she called
me
in to supper.
.
.
About the Author: Wayne F. Burke‘s poetry has been widely published online and in print. He is the author of six full-length poetry collections–most recently DIFLUCAN (BareBack Press, 2019). He lives in Vermont (USA)
.
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Image Credit: Image from “Histoire naturelle des fourmis, et recueil de mémoires et d’observations sur les abeilles, les araignées, les faucheurs, et autres insectes” Courtesy of the Biodiversity Heritage Library

Chase Dimock: A Review of Sugar Fix By Kory Wells

 

A Review of Kory Wells’ Sugar Fix

By Chase Dimock

 

       When Kory Wells sent a submission of poetry to As It Ought To Be Magazine last Spring, I was first struck by her sense of history. In “The Assistant Marshal Makes an Error in Judgement”, Wells writes about a census taker in the 19th century whose guesses at the races of citizens become their legal racial identity inscribed in his government ledger. Today in 2020, it took a court battle to resolve the citizenship question on this year’s census. This poem is more than just a historical footnote; its reminder of how the politics of identity and who has the right to recognize it have continually defined American society. In this way, Wells follows the words of fellow southern writer William Faulkner, who famously wrote (and was even more famously quoted by President Obama) “The past is never dead. It’s not even past.”

       With Sugar Fix, Wells explores the never dead past of today through the personal and cultural memories of sugar. Recipes handed down from generations are clues to her family mythologies, the proustian taste of chocolate ice cream on her tongue is a confessional, the trade in sugar and sweets in the south is a material history of the racial and class tensions of reconstruction to today. It would be easy for a book of poetry centered on the metaphor of sugar to lapse into saccharine sentimentality and syrupy cutesiness, but Wells is a poet who understands the cost of pleasure and the sweat demanded of our brow before we taste the sweet. She knows the personal price of indulgence and the social cost of supplying society with its sugar fix.

       In “Still Won’t Marry” Wells takes on the persona from the traditional Appalachian song “Angeline the Baker,” envisioning her as weary of the constant propositions of trading sugar for skin:

He says a little taste of sugar will cure
my weary back, my aching shoulders, my
singed arms. Like I don’t know what that man wants.

Angeline’s side of the story is wise to the after effects of the sugar fix “The bed a pleasure too short. Babies Chores./ His wants ahead of mine.” Wells connects this folklore of indulgence in sugar and flesh to her own past in a poem whose title conveniently saves me from having to summarize its premise: “He drove a four-door Chevy, nothing sexy, but I’d been thinking of his mouth for weeks.” During a date at a Dairy Queen Drive in, Wells is fixated: Continue reading “Chase Dimock: A Review of Sugar Fix By Kory Wells”

Larry D. Thacker “In the Days of Drones”

 

 

In the Days of Drones    

            “And it came to pass that each of them 
            Were given their unique mark, a familiar, 
             A spirit drone following on each action 
            Made by them, as one with their thoughts.”

There is no satisfactory term yet
for the size of these personal drones,
not nano-sized, micro nor mini.

They are not the size of the tiniest  
domesticated animals, teacup Yorkies, 
for instance, but indeed visible. 
Let us say, somewhere between 
a large dragonfly and a fit swamp frog. 
These are, of course, non-technical terms. 

Some hybridized ho-hum miracle 
of organic-electronic-philosophical flesh,
most resemble agile, fragile insects. 
They are very near indestructible. 
They crawl. They fly. They hover and hide.

They do not belong to us. You belong
to them essentially, assigned 
by the Office on Personal Safety. 

It is not a choice. You turn fifteen, 
you get a monitor drone. A third eye 
some call them. There is no fanfare, no 
happy party, no article in the local news 
crawl, no culturally significant ritual 
with drums, dancing. 

                                      No marching 
across a stage, no bowing, transferring 
of drones from one hand to another, 
no mutilating of body parts, no gifts,
handshakes or hugs from an official,  
no new names imagined by a shaman,
no vision quest, sweat lodge, no songs, 
cards with cash. No cake. No ice cream. 

You just wake up from a night’s sleep
and your drone is with you, in sleep mode
on your chest, having already finished 
merging with your brain however it must.   

Who, or what, exists on the other side 
of these creatures, monitoring, recording, 
watching, listening, or not, or whatever, 
remains a great mystery to most of society. 

But there are rumors. Always rumors. 

 

About the Author: Larry D. Thacker’s poetry is in over 150 publications including SpillwayStill: The JournalValparaiso Poetry ReviewPoetry South, The Southern Poetry Anthology, The American Journal of Poetry, and Illuminations Literary Magazine. His books include three full poetry collections, Drifting in AweGrave Robber Confessional, and Feasts of Evasion, two chapbooks, Voice Hunting and Memory Train, as well as the folk history, Mountain Mysteries: The Mystic Traditions of Appalachia. His fourth full poetry collection, Gateless Menagerie, is forthcoming from Unsolicited Press. His MFA in poetry and fiction is earned from West Virginia Wesleyan College. Visit his website at: www.larrydthacker.com

 

Image Credit: The Library of Congress

Caroliena Cabada: “True Story”

 

 

True Story

The river once flooded the K through 8
school in my hometown. When the waters took
weeks to recede, they held classes in the
town’s only peach-colored outlet mall. Lunch
in the food court. Economics in a
house of commerce. Recess playing four-square
in the parking spaces painted white on
greying blacktop, dodging cars. But it won’t
become a storied place. The town let the
mall fall apart, torn down for a Super
Wal-Mart where I once bought crusty bread and
salad greens with my dad on a health kick
and this was the cheapest produce in town.
I attended the new elementary
and middle built out of the old school’s kind
of red brick, Frank Lloyd Wright Prairie Style (it’s
the Midwest) built further from the river
bed. In the sun-soaked nook of the middle
school library I read a book written
about those kids in that mall during that
flood, going to school. I wonder: Next time
the waters rise, what incongruous place
will house our learning? The second amendment
in a Bass Pro Shop, hunting rifles on
the walls. Gladiators in a professional
football stadium after a hurricane.
Science experiments in a farm-to-table
restaurant. A while back, people just called
that home economics.

 

 

About the Author: Caroliena Cabada is an MFA candidate for Creative Writing and Environment at Iowa State University. She serves as co-managing editor of Flyway: Journal of Writing and Environment. Her poetry appears in Eunoia ReviewThe Orchards Poetry Journal, and Lyrical Iowa

 

Image Credit: Carl Mydans “Ohio River in flood, Louisville, Kentucky” (1936) The Library of Congress

Jeff Hardin: “A Namelessness of Starlings”

 

 

A NAMELESSNESS OF STARLINGS

Down hollows I go walking, nine years old,
as nameless as starlings on far-away fence posts.
To what larger world do I feel myself drawn?

I thirst after ripples dying out on an inland pond.
I dream a circumference of wandering along
until an answer blooms forth from the call of an owl.

Maybe already I have disappeared, a creek stone
no morning light falls upon. Sycamore leaves
drift and touch down and slide the sky along.

Syllables, too, can lengthen how we listen 
to an afternoon of wind through sage grass
leaning toward so many moments still unknown.

A sapling rises through the dawn come down
to find another fallen cedar, its privacy just one 
more face I’m happy to have mistaken for my own.

 

About the Author: Jeff Hardin is the author of six collections of poetry: Fall Sanctuary (Nicholas Roerich Prize); Notes for a Praise Book (Jacar Press Book Award); Restoring the Narrative (Donald Justice Prize); Small RevolutionNo Other Kind of World (X. J. Kennedy Prize), and A Clearing Space in the Middle of BeingThe New Republic, The Hudson Review, The Southern Review, Southwest Review, North American Review, The Gettysburg Review, Poetry Northwest, Hotel Amerika, and Southern Poetry Review have published his poems. He teaches at Columbia State Community College in Columbia, TN.

 

Image Credit: James W. Rosenthal “Close up view across stream to fallen tree – Middle Bridge American Sycamore, Near former site of the historic middle bridge, U.S. Route 34, Sharpsburg, Washington County, MD” (2006) The Library of Congress