Tag: contemporary poetry

Barbara Daniels: “At Shearness Pool”

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At Shearness Pool

After rain sandpipers snoop 
for food at the runoff pond 
by the old tennis courts, caught 

in the tides of migration. 
I ask a painter at his easel 
how to live. He says to choose 

exacting silence. Eight turkeys, 
not really wary, step gracefully 
out of the brush. Like a hunter, 

I hold my breath. It’s sudden 
joy to spot an owl mobbed 
by blackbirds, find orioles 

hidden like lovers, like fat 
jewels. I’m happy eating 
my tuna sandwich 

and watching an eagle 
across Shearness Pool. She stuns 
me to stillness. I ask a hiker

how to live. She says 
to watch silver water just 
as the eagle lifts her wings.

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About the Author: Barbara Daniels’ Talk to the Lioness was published by Casa de Cinco Hermanas Press. Her poetry has recently appeared in Concho River Review, Dodging the Rain, and Philadelphia Stories. She received four fellowships from the New Jersey State Council on the Arts, the most recent in 2020.

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Image Credit: “A beautiful scene of some sandpipers at sunset” courtesy of the Biodiversity Heritage Library (public domain)

Howie Good: “A Theory of Justice”

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A Theory of Justice

The medical assistant asked in a flat, toneless bureaucratic voice how I would describe the pain. Stabbing? Aching? Sharp? Dull? She entered my answer on the form, but without showing any actual interest in it. A philosopher once said – or should have – that a society is only as just as its treatment of its most vulnerable members: the old, the sick, the poor. Using a dropper, I strategically place .50 milliliters of Triple M tincture under my tongue. I wait fifteen, twenty minutes, and then gray-clad troops burst from the treeline with a rebel yell. The tongue is all muscle.

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About the Author: Howie Good is the author of Failed Haiku, a poetry collection that is the co-winner of the 2021 Grey Book Press Chapbook Contest and scheduled for publication in summer 2022.

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More By Howie Good:

The View from Here

Reason to Believe

People Get Ready

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Image Credit: Howard R Hollem “Transfusion donor bottles, Baxter Lab., Glenview, Ill.” Library of Congress, Prints & Photographs Division, Farm Security Administration/Office of War Information Color Photographs. (public domain)

Julia Wendell: “Owl”

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Owl,

High up in the crown
of a Monterey cedar,
saucer-yellow eyes
blinking down at us.
“Bird,” says the wee one.
“Owl,” I specify.
Next morning, he’s still
perched on the shaggy fronds,
a mouse in his talons, blood
stippling his feathers.
“Mouse,” says the girl.
“Dinner,” I elaborate.
I am not above revealing
violent cycles of need
to even the smallest soul.
It will eventually make sense.
She will grow up
and learn to kill and kill and kill—
bugs, engines, books, time, love.
But for now, the bird stays high up 
at the center of our globe.
“Owl,” says the budding girl.
“Life,” says the old one, me.

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About the Author: Julia Wendell‘s sixth volume of poems. THE ART OF FALLING, will be published by FutureCycle Press in February, 2022. She lives in Aiken, South Carolina, and is a three-day event rider.

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Image Credit: Image from A Natural History of Birds (Public Domain) Image courtesy of The Biodiversity Heritage Library

Ruth Hoberman: “Make Way for Ducklings”

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Make Way for Ducklings  

Willows drag green fingers through our hair 
as we walk the Public Garden with our granddaughter, 
looking for ducks. I’ve never seen trees like this before,  

she says, climbing the thick roots knobbed like knuckles 
grasping dirt. We want to show her wonders,  we want to
justify—what, the stories we tell her?  

We want to justify the world. All we see are geese 
until two mallards arrive, one green-headed, 
the other gray—Mr. and Mrs., just like the book!  

I don’t mention patriarchy as I point out the male’s 
sunlit green and handsome ringed neck. Both 
seem dignified, content, deserving any help they get  

from nice policemen. So much depends  
on what we don’t discuss as we meander, cold, 
yet almost blinded by the low October sun.  

Then we pass what none of us has ever seen: 
a man decked in xylophones and stuffed dogs, 
birds, bangles, and tambourines, all dangling  

as he growls a bluesy song about sky and wings: 
So hush, little baby, don’t you cry. We watch, 
all three of us amazed as he, too, urges a child  

to trust the world. One of these mornings  
may the world justify our praise.

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About the Author: Ruth Hoberman mainly lives in Chicago. She writes poetry and essays, which have been published in such places as RHINO, Calyx, Smartish Pace, Naugatuck River Review, and Ploughshares.

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Image Credit: Image from Naturgeschichte der Vögel Mitteleuropas Gera-Untermhaus,F.E. Köhler,1897-1905 [v.1, 1905]. Courtesy of The Biodiversity Heritage Library

Ace Boggess: “Psychic Day”

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Psychic Day

Nondescript house not standing out:
bland beige brick on a brick-bland street,
cops driving by because this used to be
a bad part of town. Here we are
at the home of two middle-aged men
who sell incense, share a bowl of scented pebbles—
lavender & apple—
for customers to run their hands through,
soothing cool & smoothly reassuring.
Everywhere readers ply their craft
at twenty bucks a pop
like shares of opium futures.
I prefer ice cream, but Grace 
needs a day of peace from her subconscious 
that mocks & jabs with its jagged spears.
When she returns from her session,
she seems more easygoing—
less skittish rabbit, angry badger, 
despondent stranded dolphin on the beach.
I won’t ask about her future.
Nobody already told me, but I know.

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About the Author: Ace Boggess is author of six books of poetry, most recently Escape Envy (Brick Road Poetry Press, 2021). His poems have appeared in Michigan Quarterly Review, Harvard Review, Mid-American Review, River Styx, and other journals. An ex-con, he lives in Charleston, West Virginia, where he writes and tries to stay out of trouble.

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More by Ace Boggess:

Rock Garden

And Why Am I A Free Man?

Why Did You Try To Sober Up?

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Image Credit: Willem Witsen “Hand met gespreide vingers (1874 – 1923)” Image Courtesy of Artvee (public domain)

Rick Christiansen: “Anarchists in the Kitchen”

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Anarchists in the Kitchen

We searched for the can opener in all the usual places.

His rueful stare, when I unearthed a small Flintstone’s jelly glass, 
half full of expired lime-flavored Alka-Seltzer  tablets—
and the way he stitched his breath—when
he was thinking—alerted me to attend and wait
for his next thought
before opening the next drawer.

I noticed that the Flintstone glass was a rare one, with a faded and flaking image of Dino on it.
“Dino always freaked me out!”, he said, 
“I felt that having a dinosaur as a pet would be a crushing responsibility.”

I nodded and kept looking through drawers.

He watched me search as he plucked absently at the hair on his cheek.
I was running out of drawers and still no can opener.

He had the look of a visiting shaman,
who knows that 
he must serve as a reluctant muse.

“We are going to have to rethink this.”
He said.

I knew he had a gift for climbing inside of things and pushing outward.

I waited.

He held up a wonderful old corroded French chef’s knife triumphantly.
I remembered that it had belonged to my aunt.
Who had gotten it from her brother, salvaged from the ashes
of an old hotel kitchen fire.

“We will open the cans with this”, he said.

He popped the point of the knife 
into the first can, and began to saw and pry his way around the rim.

“See…we are anarchists”, he said.
I pointed out that this was an old Boy Scout camping trick.

And he responded, 
“Exactly.”

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About the Author: Rick Christiansen has been a stand-up comic, an actor, director, and a corporate executive.  His work can be found in the archives of Oddball Magazine, Muddy River Poetry Review, The Raven’s Perch, The Rye Whiskey Review, Stone Poetry Journal, WINK Magazine and many other publications and anthologies. His poem “Killing Bob Dylan” is in the Fall 2021 Pop Culture anthology by Alien Buddha Press. He is a member of the St. Louis Writers Guild. Rick lives in Missouri near his eight grandchildren and with his basset hound Annie.

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Image Credit: John Vachon “Dog sleeping under kitchen table in farm kitchen. Cavalier County, North Dakota” (1940) The Library of Congress, Public Domain

Jason Baldinger: “i remember the royal river”

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I remember the royal river

I remember the royal river
a bleached skeleton, bones
calloused and raw
these forever miles
the only skin left attached
vermont rain soaked halos 
glow dry in cold july sunshine 

I remember the royal river
mile long rutted driveways
a peninsula that breaks
into islands, black flies 
tall grass and hippie 
mansions lost to the grid
I shake rain tent flaps
drying out in turrets
as backgammon days 
passed picking ticks
off golden retrievers 

I remember the royal river
the maine granite coast
lone trees clawing
to hold the rocks along
the atlantic, ice cold showers
this gaunt face in a tide pool 

I remember the royal river
tequila on the docks
fortification for a last days boogie
gather these atoms south 
with notions of sacco and vanzetti 

I remember the royal river
as a skeleton 
with a compass
left in place 
of memory

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About the Author: Jason Baldinger was recently told he looks like a cross between a lumberjack and a genie. He’s also been told he’s not from Pittsburgh, but actually is the physical manifestation of Pittsburgh. Although unsure of either, he does love wandering the country writing poems.  His newest books include: A Threadbare Universe (Kung Fu Treachery Press), The Afterlife is a Hangover (Stubborn Mule Press) and A History of Backroads Misplaced: Selected Poems 2010-2020 (Kung Fu Treachery). He also has a forthcoming book with James Benger called This Still Life. His work has been widely across print journals and online. You can hear him read his work on Bandcamp and on lp’s by The Gotobeds and Theremonster.

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More Poetry by Jason Baldinger:

This Ghostly Ambiance

It was a Golden Time

Beauty is a Rare Thing

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Image Credit: Detroit Publishing Co. “Picnic rocks, Kennebunk River, Kennebunkport, Maine” (1890) The Library of Congress Public Domain.

Cord Moreski: “Space Shuffle”

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Space Shuffle

I wonder what music
the one percent will be playing
on their voyage through space
after leaving this warm planet behind
like some kid’s father never returning
after going out for a pack of smokes

maybe it’ll be disco
where they’ll wear roller skates
that glitter like the stars outside
their space shuttle windows
and dance the funky chicken
or the hustle as they get their boogie on

or maybe it’ll be
more of a nu-metal experience
where they’ll sport backward baseball caps
and break stuff like Fred Durst
while Earth in the rearview mirror
turns into a sad puddle of mud

for what it’s worth
I bet it’ll be elevator music
or Muzak for the aficionados
where they’ll tap their champagne flutes
to the beats of soft sounds
waiting to get off on the next floor.

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About the Author: Cord Moreski is a poet from the Jersey Shore. Moreski is the author of The News Around Town (Maverick Duck Press, 2020), Shaking Hands with Time (Indigent Press, 2018), and Stay Afloat Inside (Indigent Press, 2016). He was the host of the New Jersey poetry series Words on Main and the virtual poetry series The Couch Poets Collective. When he is not writing, Cord waits tables for a living and teaches middle school children that poetry is awesome. He is currently working on several new projects for 2022.

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More By Cord Moreski:

Aubrie

Someday

Understudy

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Image Credit: Earth Rise Over The Moon (Public Domain)

Laura Grace Weldon: “Butternut Ridge Cemetery”

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Butternut Ridge Cemetery 

From the back seat my six-year-old asks
about the grandfather who died
when she was four months in the womb.
She wants to know about his favorite color
and what he likes to eat, correcting herself
to say “liked” to eat. She wants to know
what being dead means, for real.

I know children ask full force till
they get what they need, like the time
my oldest asked why people have skin
darker than his, and seconds into
my big-wattage answer
interrupted to ask
why faucets turn “this way”
twisting his hand, “to make it hot.”

But she doesn’t stop asking
and since we’re driving past
the cemetery that minute, I pull in.
She skips around his gravestone
as if in a park, touching dusty
pebbles and leggy buttercups, before
announcing to air and ground
and everything between,
“I’m sorry you’re dead Grandpa.
You would have loved me.”

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About the Author:  Laura Grace Weldon has published three poetry collections: Portals (Middle Creek 2021), Blackbird (Grayson 2019), and Tending (Aldrich 2013). She was named 2019 Ohio Poet of the Year. Laura works as a book editor, teaches writing, and maxes out her library card each week.  lauragraceweldon.com

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Image Credit: Chase Dimock “Small Sunflower” (2021)

John Dorsey: “Paul & the Trailer Park Tornado”

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Sign for the old Dreamland mobile-home park in Phoenix, Arizona.
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Paul & the Trailer Park Tornado

the door of our trailer flapping
my heart wide open
my mother says
not to stand
by the window
where my fingers
touched everything
for the first time

while a plastic pinwheel
in the shape of a rooster
takes flight
over our roof.

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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 Poetry, 2017),Your Daughter’s Country (Blue Horse Press, 2019), and Which Way to the River: Selected Poems 2016-2020 (OAC Books, 2020). His work has been nominated for the Pushcart Prize, Best of the Net, and the Stanley Hanks Memorial Poetry Prize. He was the winner of the 2019 Terri Award given out at the Poetry Rendezvous. He may be reached at archerevans@yahoo.com.

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More By John Dorsey:

Anthony Bourdain Crosses the River of the Dead

Punk Rock at 45

Perpetual Motion

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Image Credit: Carol M. Highsmith “Sign for the old Dreamland mobile-home park in Phoenix, Arizona.” (2008) The Library of Congress