Tag: poetry

“May 18, 1980” and “finding the storm” by Constance Schultz

May 18, 1980 the sand my feet remember hot burning in summer until the mountain blew and soft ash that summer the city nearly shut down and we walked in the ghost town that was ours my father dusted the fruit tree babies with a handkerchief on his face and our roof did not fall in it was not poison like we didn’t know was not the end of the world on a Sunday I didn’t go to church finding the storm finding the storm before it arrives on the top of cascade hill cotton balls in the sky unthreading…

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“Observing Party” by Dennis Perry Clark

Observing Party Words at random, thoughts abrupt, pontific musings abound. Oh, tales of tall, salivating crescent smiles. Right knows not left for discomfited dancing twits. Rally the punching bowl, sodden dress flowers, defiled. Closet carnivorous hat-check girl dangling wares, agape gander soon snared. Voluble reverberations chasten, inescapable droning of the hive, the dogs of war bark. Hugging the walls, eschewing capture as prey from the pillagers. Boorish bow ties, heeled venomous serpents with glistening painted lips, twilling chinwag as they belly-up. Another potation palliates, courageous liquid personality arisen. Cloudy chamber pot bustles, blades clicking porcelain, self-medicating spooned septum. Lounge of…

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“Have I eaten” by Lauren Suchenski

Have I eaten Have I eaten anything in the past 9 minutes that was not air, water, pesticide or pain? Have I swallowed any part of my body and have I reached out towards the Sun in ancient, aching praise half as much as she is owed? Have I ever robbed myself of radioactive nutrition and have I known deeply enough what it is to be eaten, what it is to be plucked, what it is to be a mouthful of something meaningful? What self-deprecating honesty will be enough to honor the stalk that serves me that I am served…

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“A Small Wish” by Yuan Changming

A Small Wish I would rather be a leaf Whose body may contain The secrets of a whole forest Or A single dewdrop Whose soul can see Through an entire ocean Yuan Changming, nine-time Pushcart and one-time Best of Net nominee, published monographs on translation before moving out of China. With a Canadian PhD in English, Yuan currently edits Poetry Pacific with Allen Yuan in Vancouver; credits include Best Canadian Poetry, BestNewPoemsOnline, Threepenny Review and 1289 others across 38 countries.

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“Bed of Grass” by Anita Ngai

Bed of Grass The 38 stops just long enough for me to see him. On the patch of grass serving as median next to the bus stop at Geary and Park Presidio, a man sleeping curled up on his side. From the clothes, it is hard to tell why the gods have left him there. The reason is always similarly different. Layers covers him. A quilted, navy blue grayish jacket, a frayed flannel, burgundy grayish throw, a (too) tight wool, black grayish beanie. He is the most peaceful object on the whole 5.8 miles of Geary, or at least the…

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“abu” by Travis Gouré

abu and it is true that there may be hardened ones unspeakably rough and locked up in their chambers but no one admires no one you will have to remember that at some point when the world is darkening and starved and by the lampposts a boorish thing with leather skin needs water to carry on and in the prison the man: the flash reproduction frame ghost sits idle at the gate of the world not quite fixed to bear with what weight the jaw of the threshold shuts the thinnest will return to you the bewildered the turned in…

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“from Portraits of Imaginary Poets,” “St. Medard (bad weather),” “Unasked Questions” by Susan Cronin

from Portraits of Imaginary Poets The gun’s unquestionable heft at odds with the pink-stung silence— devastation, either way, an incomplete gesture— (for a proper explanation, the mind ever waiting—) on the precipice the gun under a tiny waltz of wings, a final indecipherable note on the wind— (the mind unvoiced, till blown out through one ear—) “What, bird, can you hear that I have been denied?” St. Medard (bad weather) horseless sheltered by an eagle shadowed by a storm cloud reliquaries weeping with rainwater Unasked Questions In the space where unasked questions unfurl, faces upturned, languid tongues lost in a…

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“Remembering Nerval” and “Principal Beauty” by William Doreski

Remembering Nerval In 1855 Gérard de Nerval found himself hanged from the grille of a cabinet-maker’s stall on Rue de la Vielle-Lanterne, the belt of a woman’s apron around his neck. He wore a hat, two shirts, two vests, and sported a tetragrammaton sketched in ink on his chest. No more walking Thibault, his pet lobster, on a leash. No more drinking wine from human skulls. No more pitching tents in his room to better insulate himself from the world. No longer would he honor his carved renaissance bed by sleeping on the floor beside it. From Nerval I’ve learned…

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“Pascal the Parrot Passes” by Jim Zola

Pascal the Parrot Passes The forest molts in sympathy, an enumeration of binary trees, the beak wiped clean although it is already clean. I’ve always hated math because it adds up to nothing. Count the lumps on the widow bark. Weeping. I much prefer the fibonocci sunflowers winking in my corpsy garden. I deadhead the possibilities. Sometimes I dream my legs are roots reaching for the discontinuity. Mostly I sit and count the hours in hope my dour philosophy won’t ruffle god’s feathers. Jim Zola has worked in a warehouse, as a security guard, in a bookstore, as a teacher…

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“Bury Me Not” and “Orwellian” by Thomas Piekarski

Bury Me Not Don’t bury me on some dismal plain. I instruct you to cremate me and scatter my ashes on the American River in Coloma, at Sutter’s Mill where I’ll blend with rapids during their unimpeded rampage after a big storm. Along the way to the ocean a contingent of dissident refugees in tug boats will collect, chug beside my ashes and snatch gold that tumbles in the roistering currents. Our vigil down river will not be smooth, the gold filched by privateers that sail waters worldwide. As well as gold the soul of our nation hijacked, taken captive,…

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