This is not the final picture of me, the Greek chorus that was my family, gazing down, hissing—
adulteress, lousy mother, heretic.
False poses, opaque makeup, stiff hands coaxed loose by the mortician, pink rosary beads strung in mute prayer through pale wax fingers.
Florid lilies and heaps of hydrangeas stand watch, alongside cheerful tulips.
I am visited, prayed over. My head propped on a satin pillow, the double chins more prominent, the red lips stitched shut.
This is what everyone wanted. I am finally mute.
Son, I tell you this while I still breathe--
Place the rough grey gravel shards of me into a hummingbird-adorned urn, into the damp warm earth, alongside my mother.
About the Author: Susan Cossette lives and writes in Minneapolis, Minnesota. The Author of Peggy Sue Messed Up, she is a recipient of the University of Connecticut’s Wallace Stevens Poetry Prize. A two-time Pushcart Prize nominee, her work has appeared or is forthcoming in Rust and Moth, The New York Quarterly, ONE ART, As it Ought to Be, Anti-Heroin Chic, Crow & Cross Keys, The Eunoia Review, and in the anthologies Fast Fallen Women (Woodhall Press) and Tuesdays at Curley’s (Yuganta Press).
Image Credit: John Rubens Smith “Two ornamental urns” Public domain image courtesy of the Library of Congress
Frank Bidart once commented in an interview that an emphasis on voice isn’t fashionable in contemporary poetry. That idea might go a long way towards explaining the lack of appreciation for Tim Peeler’s work since Peeler’s poetry is emphatically about southern voices and southern characters. Peeler is more original than fashionable. He is of the DIY, autodidact, mountain bred, and baseball referencing, fried bologna school of American poetry. He is also the only member.
Some books don’t fit into categories. And some poets don’t. For a number of years now, Tim Peeler has been creating unique, character driven poetry sequences about folks who are neither proud nor ashamed of their poverty. Peeler doesn’t make a fetish of the blue collar. Poverty and wealth are just reference points. Economics is part of what defines his characters, but it is not the whole definition.
The emphasis on character is why Peeler is so hard to categorize. Though he is as southern as moonshine, pine trees, and molasses, his character-driven writing is closer to Chekhov than Dickey. He begins and ends with a person in a specific situation. There may not be a problem to solve, but there is definitely an incident to examine.
There is a texture to Peeler’s poetry which comes from his deep knowledge and appreciation of vernacular. He can use words like “whatnot” and “fixin” and make them an integral part of the poem without drawing attention. He is not a flashy poet, but a subtle one. He draws the reader in and pulls rabbits out of every hat he comes across. He does this while making the reader care for characters who are often either left out of poetry or reduced to stereotypes. There are no “types” in Peeler’s poetry. There are only people.
Many poets are addicted to the idea of the blazing line. They are in love with anthology pieces. Tim Peeler is not that type of poet. In his work, poetry happens as part of the everyday. It seems to be dictated from characters at a diner, rather than created by a solitary individual. This is not to say that the accessibility of Peeler’s sleight-of-hand poetics is easy. He simply makes it look that way. His poems are as clear as mountain air and just as easy to take in.
About the Author: Mike James makes his home outside Nashville, Tennessee. He has published in numerous magazines, large and small, throughout the country. His poetry collections include: Leftover Distances (Luchador), Parades (Alien Buddha), Jumping Drawbridges in Technicolor (Blue Horse), and Crows in the Jukebox (Bottom Dog.) In April, Red Hawk published his 20th collection, Portable Light: Poems 1991-2021.
Image Credit: “Craggy mountains and Dome from Rich Mountain, North Carolina, U. S. A.” (1905) public domain image courtesy of the Library of Congress
On Ownership
My hair has always been mine
and my clothes were always
equal parts mine and my sister’s;
my glasses are mine, even though
I don’t wear them often these days.
They are mine nonetheless.
But when you ask me,
‘to whom does your body belong?’
I can only recite the names
of a handful of people
whom I cannot look in the eye:
a trusted adult, a classmate
from a few years back,
the guy at the bar who didn’t
bother to ask my name, or
really any questions before
placing his hands on my
body-that-isn’t-quite-mine
and I laughed it off to my
friends because that’s just
what you do when a weird guy
does weird shit: you laugh
it off and then you go home.
Home, to me, is an apartment
with a lock that still hasn’t been
fixed and walls I can’t paint
because, even though I pay
my rent on time, it’s not really
mine. Is anything really mine
if my own flesh isn’t mine?
The first man I ever loved
and allowed access to this
body-that-isn’t-quite-mine
did not return my call when
I told him about a pregnancy
test that I had to take in the
Freudenberger Residence Hall
communal bathroom, alone.
In that moment, this trembling
body-that-isn’t-quite-mine
was a thing that he no longer
wanted to claim, as if it now
belonged to someone else
with a heartbeat just like the
pounding one in my chest, which
didn’t feel like my own. That was
four years ago, back when
I at least had the option to make a
difficult choice regarding this
body-that-isn’t-quite-mine,
and I still do not know how to reclaim
the bodily autonomy that
has been stolen from me
time and time again since I
was a little girl on the playground,
a frightened teenager in a dorm,
a tired adult watching the news.
Now, when you ask me,
‘to whom does your body belong?’
I will recite the names
of nine Supreme Court Justices.
About the Author: Madeira Miller is a writer and poet seeking a creative writing degree at Missouri State University. Her work appears in ‘Dreamstones of Summer’ by WinglessDreamer, ‘Praised by December’ by WinglessDreamer, Every Day Fiction Online Magazine, F3LL Digital Magazine, The Gateway Review Literary Magazine, ‘My Cityline by WinglessDreamer,’ The Bookends Review Creative Arts Journal, ‘Sea or Seashore’ by WinglessDreamer, Bridge Eight Press, In Parentheses Literary Magazine, Dipity Literary Magazine, Abstract Literary Magazine, Academy of the Heart and Mind Literary Magazine, and New Note Poetry Magazine.
Wednesday Morning
all the construction workers running about trying
to wrap it all up & i’m in my black car stopped
sitting smackdab in a construction zone next to
summer beaten cornfields showing their rust
yellow browning tassels silks & stalks to my
left a solid baker’s dozen of volunteer sun-
flowers creamy to bright gold circling mahogany &
flowing seamlessly into green & at the ground
below them are twice as many pale-blue bronze
rose deep-purple irises in a roadside ditch
sudden rain causing
distortion— imagine
a van gogh
About the Author: Victor Clevenger spends his days in a Madhouse and his nights writing. Selected pieces of his work have appeared in print magazines and journals around the world. He is the author of several collections of poetry including A Finger in the Hornets’ Nest (Red Flag Poetry, 2018), Corned Beef Hash By Candlelight (Luchador Press, 2019), A Wildflower In Blood (Roaring Junior Press, 2020), Scratching to Get By (Between Shadows Press, 2021), and 47 Poems (Crisis Chronicles Press, 2022). Together with American poet John Dorsey, they run River Dog.
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 Southand 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
17. 07. 2023
From the balcony -
empty Taco Bell cups
race down the street
like hysterical kids.
Hollyhocks thrash
against one another
in the wind.
Summer is sick
and I run my finger
along the balcony rail,
feeling the tender
warmth from the lingering
touches of sunshine.
When the storm arrives,
I am far too interested
in watching it unfold
to care about what’s been.
I want
nothing more than
for change,
to always feel this way.
About the Author: Gwil James Thomas is a poet, novelist and inept musician. He lives in his hometown of Bristol, England but has also lived in London, Brighton and Spain. His twelfth chapbook of poetry Wild River Carry me to Sea will be published soon by Back Room Poetry. His poems have recently featured in Viper’s Tongue, DLF Lit, Paper & Ink, The Songs From The Underground anthology and Late Britain Zine. He plans to one day build a house, amongst other things. Instagram: @gwiljamesthomas
Image Credit:Herman Saftleven “A Hollyhock” (1682) Public domain image courtesy of Artvee
Cast them into the wind
We arrive at the shore
eroded since we were last here
& recite the first line of a prayer
water is water is water.
At home, my wife puts her hand
on my own to stop me from
adding too much masala to the pot.
After dinner I carry our child,
sunburnt & sleepy, to their bed
where they ask for a story.
There are the things they don’t tell you about grief.
It can be the sound of blood running across the sky
& also the softest brush of a wing.
I get up to turn off the light and put down the book
one more chapter? I ease back down
gently sweep the sand from the floor & begin.
About the Author: Hilesh Patel is a writer, consultant, educator, artist and member of the art group The Chicago ACT Collective. He was born in Dar es Salaam, Tanzania and has called Chicago home for most of his life. His work has been published in Passengers Journal, Relief Journal, Jaggery and others. You can find him most days teaching adjunct classes, reading, grinding cardamom, and on Instagram and Twitter at @hilesh.
Image Credit:Hugo Simberg “The Wind Blows” (1897) Public domain image courtesy of Artvee
YOUR GIFT OF STARSSic 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
As It Ought To Be 