Month: July 2024

Two Poems by A. G. Elrod

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Locusts & Honey

And what if this cradle falls, if the bough breaks?
Would it be so terrible, to be estranged
and alone, attuned to echoes? The fear
and pain of inconstancy, searing scars
in the name of love, ever unwilling to relent.

Is contented isolation so frightening
as to be avoided at the price of abuse?
Should this bough break, it is doubtful
that another could be found.
And if the cradle falls, might sleep come
cold and numb, yet sweet all the same?

Can solitude truly sustain? Is this what
the ascetics sought, crawling into cracks
and clefts of unyielding waste? Is a steady diet
of locusts and honey so bitter to the taste?

Part of me longs to know, yet dreads the truth:
that solitude might be my final, fitting proof.


Prodigals

How would a perfect love to prodigals appear?
Would Desire its sacred benediction grant?
Would it fester, feeding ennui like rot?
Would we withdraw, warped and wary in disbelief?

And love’s blinding luminescence,
Does it need sorrow’s shade to shine?
The wretched only may know redemption,
And the Fallen fathom a Paradise long passed.




A. G. Elrod is a Lecturer of English in The Netherlands’ university system and a PhD candidate at Vrije University in Amsterdam.

Two Poems by Lynn White

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Clock

They were traditional
retirement gifts.
Perhaps the first time
one was given in irony,
an employer with a quirky sense of humour.
But then it caught on and became the norm.

I was a small child,
only four years old
when one was given
to my father.
It was brown
all brown
with a glass front
and cream numbers and fingers.
It sat dismally on our mantelpiece
ticking away morosely
long after his death.

As I child growing up I used
the glass as a mirror,
a smiling face, a funny face,
a gurning face or a frown,
my faces livened it up a bit.

I thought I would leave it behind
when my mother died
it’s ticks and rocks seemed to slow
in sadness at the parting,
a parting as hard as that
from a lover.
Too hard.

So it’s with me still
sitting there looking morose
and releasing a memory
with every tick
and tock.


Sneek Peek

My first attempt at throwing a pot
was not successful.
My large lump of clay twisted and turned
on the wheel
till it became cup size
then egg cup size.
I rather liked my egg cup in the end,
well, not quite the end,
it’s final end came in the kiln
with bang.

Who would have thought then that potting
would become my trade,
my living,
certainly not me.
But that’s what happened for a while.
Look here’s a sneak peek
into my studio
the grainy black and white
showing it’s age.
It’s all gathering dust now
so a sneak peek is all I can offer,
just a glimpse of how things were
a long time ago.

“Sneak Peek” first appeared in Visual Verse.




Lynn White lives in north Wales. Her work is influenced by issues of social justice and events, places and people she has known or imagined. She is especially interested in exploring the boundaries of dream, fantasy and reality. She has been nominated for a Pushcart Prize, Best of the Net and a Rhysling Award. Find her on her blog or on Facebook.

“Sonnet on the Death of a Friend” by Jonathan Weinberg

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When Summer’s veil is hooked on heaven’s thorn,
And bandaged evenings trespass into day,
Abandoned spirits have no place to mourn,
And I am here, and you are far away;
If I could only love you with my words,
Then let them fall from heaven like the rain,
Splashing on your face in gentle chords,
And in the morning we will meet again;
If I could love you like an open field,
Or wind-drawn ship that plows the wat’ry plain,
The thoughts of many hearts would be revealed,
And I could love you like the falling rain.
     If I could love you with a metaphor…
     But no one writes like Shakespeare anymore.




Jonathan Weinberg studied Literature at the University of Victoria, in British Columbia, and Rhetoric at the Catholic University of America, in Washington, DC. He and his wife Laura, and their children, live on a small acreage near Kansas City. He is a policy writer for the U.S. Treasury. He is the author of The Blessed Book of Beasts (Eastern Christian Publications).

Two Poems by Diane Elayne Dees

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I Saw You Today

You sat on the taupe armchair
in my living room and refused
my offer of coffee or tea,
just as you always do.
I told you some silly stories
and we laughed together,
talked about sports, validated
each other’s passionate opinions.
Maybe we’re just old, we said,
but—more likely—the world
really is crazy. You listened to me,
something you never did
when you lived here. You said
nothing that was sympathetic,
yet I felt as if you heard me.

Who are you? I wondered, for
the thousandth time. I thought
of that time, thirty years ago,
when I saw you—tall and blond,
arms crossed—leaning against
the restaurant wall, waiting for me,
and I felt, for a moment,
like we were in a movie.
Marriage is a fragile thing;
I will never finish picking up
the shattered pieces of ours—
I swallow them when I breathe,
they cling to my skin, they float
around the head of the ghost-like
woman I see when I look in the mirror.

I still do not know who you are
or who we were. But I know
that we, too, are fragile,
that we will never again be
who we once were. I know
that resolution is just a word,
and that we are somehow bound
forever. I know this because,
for just a little while,
I saw you today.


Sleeping in a New Bed

We hadn’t had the bed that long
when the marriage ended.
I’d had the legs cut down,
knowing that he wouldn’t notice.
When he moved out, I had them
cut down again because my body
craves intimacy with the vibrations
of the earth. It was solid ash,
stained mahogany—durable,
but highlighted by that red-brown
tint of blood. I changed
the wall color, the art, the lamp,
the nightstand, the bedding.
The room became an oasis
of serenity, but no amount
of mauve and gray could
calm the fires of my mind
or ease the stiffness of my limbs.

But once disassembled, the bed,
a neat pile of glossy boards,
lost its power. Now I sleep
on a new bed. The wood
is a lighter tone, the headboard is solid
and sturdy. I am still close to the earth,
but I no longer lie on layers of sorrow,
betrayal and regret. A new bed
has no magic power to heal my mind
and body, but its clean, minimal
design whispers a message
as each day ends: Keep it simple,
feel the earth beneath you,
realize your strength, and—
at long last—let your body rest.




Diane Elayne Dees is the author of three chapbooks, Coronary Truth (Kelsay Books), The Last Time I Saw You (Finishing Line Press), and The Wild Parrots of Marigny (Querencia Press), as well as four Origami Poems Project microchaps. Diane, who lives in Covington, Louisiana, also publishes Women Who Serve, a blog that delivers news and commentary on women’s professional tennis throughout the world. Her author blog is Diane Elayne Dees: Poet and Writer-at-Large.

Two Poems by Sara Cosgrove

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My Grandfather’s Garden

The North Country yields
the most fragrant flowers—
Tropicana, Sterling, and Peace roses.

They’ve been nurtured for a decade,
season after season.

An attentive doctor/caregiver named Stanley,
who took up gardening at the age of 70,
planted 100+ bushes and
trained them to endure our cruel winters.

The 1991 Halloween Blizzard
would’ve destroyed the buds in my grandmother’s vase
if we hadn’t raked thousands of autumn leaves,
stuffed them into large sacks
and put them to rest atop the rose bushes.

When the leaves finally scattered
and the Spring rain dissipated,
we marched through the maze with our garden hoses,
watered the fertile soil
and waited for our freshly picked bouquets to bloom.


Puppy Love

for Merry

Merry, Merry, Sugar Plum Fairy,
You lean in to love with
Revolutionary ardor.

I’m watching your tail
Wag with intent
As you nuzzle your favorite toy—
A fluorescent ball of fluff I named Fraggle Rock.

Its googly eyes are looking at you,
Looking at me.

This is our spiritual home.

When I return from a trip to the grocery store—
The only acceptable excuse for truancy—
I set the bags on the kitchen floor.

You carefully inspect the goods
Before we feast.

My selections typically meet with your approval:
Baked salmon, sweet potato mash, broiled top sirloin steak with
All the fixins.

We sit before a buffet of nutrient-dense deliciousness,
A veritable cornucopia,
Every single day.

Because we are rich,
We sleep with full bellies
And dream of our next adventure.




Sara Cosgrove is an award-winning journalist and poet. Her poems have appeared or are scheduled to appear in The Seventh Quarry, Meniscus, Osiris, Poetry Ireland Review, Frogpond (Haiku Society of America), Autumn Moon Haiku Journal, Notre Dame Review, Gargoyle, San Antonio Review, ONE ART, In Parentheses, Panoply, Unbroken, and Roi Fainéant. She has worked as an editor for 15 years and has studied in the United States, Cuba, and France.

Two Poems by Arvilla Fee

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You Once Told Me I was Beautiful

In the spring
when stems were new,
blossoms bright
against the mid-March sun;

we blazed together
during summer,
blown by tipsy winds,
electrified by stars;

you still held me
as dew tipped the grass
in frosted-silver droplets,
and gold hung from my arms;

but then the leaves fell,
as did the temperature,
as did your eyes, your smile;

I suppose you shivered
at the sight of naked branches,
a strange fragility,

but darling, did you not know
that a new spring would come,
that I would bloom again,
thrusting through crusted earth;

you see I am a perennial,
back every year, lovely, fresh—
she is just an annual
and will be gone by season’s end.


An Avalanche of Poetry

a poem gathers
          words
tumbling
at breakneck speed,
leveling everything in its path
until each stanza stacks
like disheveled cords of firewood
one atop another,
sides heaving with panted breaths
at the bottom of the page.




Arvilla Fee teaches English Comp for Clark State College and is the managing editor for the San Antonio Review. She’s been published in numerous presses including Contemporary Haibun Online, Calliope, North of Oxford, Right Hand Pointing, Rat’s Ass Review, Mudlark, & others. Her poetry books, The Human Side (2022) and This is Life (2023), are available on Amazon. Arvilla has an awesome husband and five children (having recently adopted their 3-year-old foster child). She loves reading, writing, photography, traveling–and never leaves the house without a snack and a bottle of water (just in case!). Her favorite quote in the whole world is this: “It’s not what you look at that matters, it’s what you see.” ~ Henry David Thoreau

Two Poems by D. R. James

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Personal Archeology

Imagine the graphable shifts
in your own self-civilization
from proud, young hunter
to calculating gatherer
to steady cultivator: industrious
over worker of your fragile
inner child. And notice

those thin but alarming layers
in your sedimentary record,
the relative moments indicating
odd breakthroughs, beneficial
mutations, weathered disasters—
in my case, that sudden thaw
of marital ice, the one that displaced
my psychic shoreline inland
hundreds of miles, submerging
remnants of a domestication
I’d survived in ignorant
and therefore precarious peace.

Any trained observer could write up
the reports, even poems
on the highlights. Why, I can recount
all kinds of particular days
like geological calamities:
when my grandfather died
and his wrist watch stopped
on the minute he hung his screaming arm
over the gunwale at the Red Umbrella Inn;
the first time I got drunk, so sick
on a buddy’s dad’s secreted liquor
I thought my life would spin forever
out of control; my wedding
when I served the wine, played crazy
blues harmonica and scatted us
on our merry married way;
the divorce.

So why, you may now want to know,
can’t I recall the eons in between,
those thick, bland strata,
those uniformly-striped piles of years
on years when nothing noteworthy
seems to have happened
but wherein must have developed
the insidious disintegrations,
and wherein I must have lived
over twenty thousand of my give-or-take
twenty thousand five hundred days?


Psychological Clock

As García Lorca may have written: some people
forget to live as if a great arsenic lobster
could fall on their heads at any moment.
—Stephen Dunn,      “Sixty”

The will between your ears—plus
when it cuts in, or not—can make
the tick followed by the tock
a pattern to soothe or drive you nuts.
It depends on your kind of quiet.
I’ll wait while you stop to listen . . . .

Now perhaps experiment: try tocking
the tick, ticking the tock, coercing
your orthodox clock to reverse itself.
You’ll find your mind can even tock
then tock, and that the tick, tick, tick
of your current, your always passing,
precious life can be less analytic. Me,

I’m finally grasping that concept called
the noumenal: Plato wisely warned
philosophy’s best kept till your thirties,
so these extra couple decades (or so)
have helped Kant’s metaphysics
make some inroads toward my a priori
formulations, those few brute givens
that lie behind my phenomenal world.

Not that I’ll ever make my sweet way
to where the meanings lie, but
at least I’ve seen it’s not too late
to loosen the noose around our
categorical necks and that the pre-
positions of our space-time grammars
needn’t wield such schoolmarm sway—
like the stranglehold that’s left red welts
around my pliant, compliant soul.

Look, our lucky brains will shuck some
million cells, including a few from troubled
routes through tired gates that may never
wend our way again. But there can be
rejuvenation, for I’ve caught a glimpse
that is both its outcome and its witness.




D. R. James, retired now from nearly 40 years of teaching college writing, literature, and peace studies, lives with his psychotherapist wife in the woods near Saugatuck, Michigan. His latest of ten collections are Mobius Trip and Flip Requiem (Dos Madres Press, 2021, 2020), and his prose and poems have appeared internationally in a wide variety of print and online anthologies and journals.

Two Poems by John Grey

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A Poet’s Autobiography

I write poetry
because it was
the last art form standing.

I took piano lessons
but my hands, eyes and ears
never could come to terms.

With easel, palette and canvas,
I strode off into the landscape
in hopes of becoming the next
Thomas Cole or John Constable.
My first disproportioned oak
would be my last tree.

My sculpting skills
resulted in a dash to the emergency room
to reattach a fingertip.

I finished three chapters of a novel
but lacked the perseverance to go on.

In my one and only ballet class,
I slipped on the lake floor
and almost drowned the swan.

But I discovered that,
after every one of these failures,
I could retreat to my bedroom
and, with pen and paper,
jot down how miserable I felt.

After that, I could easily adapt my scribblings
to my disappointments, my fiascos,
in everything from romance
to work life to family.

One day, back in the mid-nineties,
something good happened to me
and that inspired a poem
of sheer optimism and joy.

I made it a point
not to put it with my other poems.


Other People

Other people have entire lives that are not mine.
They go to baseball games. They shop at Macy’s.
And they invest money on the stock exchange.
They sit, one among many, at the dinner table.

Other people have family dogs.
They attend banquets, celebrate trophy winners.
Their good deeds roll up into what they call “charity work.”
They try to be disagreeable only part of the time.

Other people are rarely alone and, if they are,
they tend to pace about the room.
Their writing life consists of taking a phone message
for somebody who’ll be home later.

Other people take their medicine religiously
and their religion like medicine,
They garner meaning from the day’s meaningless labor.
They do their utmost to be nothing at all like me.




John Grey is an Australian poet and U.S. resident recently published in New World Writing, North Dakota Quarterly and Lost Pilots. His latest books, Between Two Fires, Covert, and Memory Outside the Head, are available through Amazon. You’ll find more of his work upcoming in California Quarterly, Seventh Quarry, La Presa, and Doubly Mad.

Two Poems by Lorraine Caputo

~ Randal A. Burd, Jr. ~ 1 Comment

El Convento de San Francisco

A fortress façade of white-trimmed grey,
the bell towers with three stilled bells,
the doors shut against the heat of mid-day.

Within we walk, through the old convent.
After 450 years, it is now a school,
the green blackboards with faded chalk writings –
lessons of language and history,
the hymn of Nicaragua,
bars and sharps and words
woven across the space.
Within one sala,
upon a blue-bordered porcelain plaque:
Bartolomeo de las Casas
Defender of the Indians
Resided in this room
In the year 1536.

Past the weed-covered courtyard
with hoopless basketball courts,
is a collection
of pre-Columbian statues
raided from the islands
in the lake a few blocks away,
now protected behind a fence,
covered by a red-tiled roof.
Time-worn,
weather-worn,
forgotten in this aged place –
no-one has been here for a long, long while.
Leaves blown in upon the tiled floor,
signs askew on their pedestals.
The faces of dead heroes and images
of crocodiles, jaguars and eagles
gaze across the half-ruined compound.


Dissolving Into the Silence

Again this morning
I awoke too quickly

I tried to gather
the fraying threads
the tenuous chords
of my dreams

but already they had
dissolved
into the predawn
silence




Lorraine Caputo is a wandering troubadour whose poetry appear in over 400 journals on six continents, and 23 collections – including In the Jaguar Valley (dancing girl press, 2023) and Caribbean Interludes (Origami Poems Project, 2022). She also authors travel narratives, articles and guidebooks. Her writing has been honored by the Parliamentary Poet Laureate of Canada and nominated for the Best of the Net. Caputo has done literary readings from Alaska to the Patagonia. She journeys through Latin America with her faithful knapsack Rocinante, listening to the voices of the pueblos and Earth. Follow her adventures on facebook or on her website here.

Two Poems by Michelle DeRose

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–And the River Like Ink

Most floats you find me feet up
on the gunwales, cold drink
koozied in my hand, scanning sky-
or bankward for interesting bits–
the first yellow sprout amidst green,
a flat tail in retreat. It doesn’t feel
like toil. Just motion, being propelled,
each bend a nudge to notice what
I couldn’t see two or three strokes

earlier. We hit snags, of course,
when I fail to scour the surface and,
too late to veer or draw, we scrape
or come full stop. Most scratches
on the craft are my fault, too distracted
by the cyclone of eagles banking an updraft,
say, or by webs between branches so gauzy
they could staunch blood, to consider
what awaits below the water line.


After Sunday School

Meteors and volcanoes, or God–
my nephew at four debated
his best car-seated buddy
about what snuffed the dinosaurs,
erased forever any chance
for a pet stegosaurus.
The black nylon straps
chevroned across their torsos
pointed at each other in red-
lidded clips, like blood-
dipped fingertips.

His dad, the philosopher driver,
suggested maybe God sent
the meteor to trigger the volcano,
so they could each be right.
The one-second pause before
they both blurted NO
informed their chauffeur
the four year-olds relished
the rift, wished it to linger
more than their common longing
for a pet filled the gap between belts.




Michelle DeRose teaches creative writing and African-American, Irish, and world literature at Aquinas College in Grand Rapids, Michigan. Her most recent poetry has appeared or is forthcoming in Sparks of Calliope, Dunes Review, Making Waves, The Journal of Poetry Therapy, and Healing Muse.