“Stripy Jerseys” by Lynn White

~ Randal A. Burd, Jr. ~ 1 Comment

There were a lot of ragwort plants
around the library.
Some were bare of leaves and covered
with orange and black stripy jersey caterpillars.
Others were lush and green with leaves
and devoid of caterpillars.
As usual, the family planning strategy
of the cinnabar moth
left much to be desired.
I began to transfer them carefully
from the leafless to the lush.

I stood back to admire my achievement,
momentarily disconcerted
when a rather stern-looking stranger
asked what I was doing.
I explained.
“Huh”, she said,
“I’ve been doing the same over on the other side.
I thought it was only me who does this.”

It was a strange way to begin a friendship
but it lasted
all her life.
I think maybe I should go to the grave
in the woodland,
where her body lies,
and scatter a few ragwort seeds.
Maybe the moths will come
each year
and make
a living memorial.
She would like that,
I think.

“Stripy Jerseys” first appeared in New Reader Magazine.

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 and writes hoping to find an audience for her musings. She was shortlisted in the Theatre Cloud ‘War Poetry for Today’ competition and has been nominated for a Pushcart Prize and a Rhysling Award. Her poetry has appeared in many publications including Apogee, Firewords, Peach Velvet, Light Journal, and So It Goes. Find Lynn at: https://lynnwhitepoetry.blogspot.com and https://www.facebook.com/Lynn-White-Poetry-1603675983213077/.

“Send Out the Clowns (Far Out)” by Edward Lee

~ Randal A. Burd, Jr. ~ 1 Comment

Isn’t it time
someone drew the curtains
on this farce
we’ll call government?
There are too many clowns
on the stage, their jokes
long since over
and never that funny
to begin with;
surely there are other acts
to follow, better-skilled professionals
and eager-to-learn amateurs,
ready to repair the damage
our collective I.Q.
has relentlessly taken?
And if this is all
we can expect
for the next thousand years,
please then, someone trip
the fire alarm
and let us out of here,
before someone really does
burn this place
to the ground, and we,
lassitude-d by despair,
allow ourselves to burn
into perfect peaks of ashes
too heavy for the even strongest winds.

 

Edward Lee’s poetry, short stories, non-fiction and photography have been published in magazines in Ireland, England, and America, including The Stinging Fly, Skylight 47, Acumen, and Smiths Knoll.  His debut poetry collection Playing Poohsticks On Ha’Penny Bridge was published in 2010. He is currently working towards a second collection. He also makes musical noise under the names Ayahuasca Collective, Lewis Milne, Orson Carroll, Blinded Architect, Lego Figures Fighting, and Pale Blond Boy. His blog/website can be found at https://edwardmlee.wordpress.com.

“Why I Do Not Write About the Passions” by Leslie Lippincott Hidley

~ Randal A. Burd, Jr. ~ Leave a comment

My poems are mincing, prissy things
With hands enclosed in cotton gloves,
No shrieks of pain, no turgid loins,
No trembling roses, or old loves.

My poems are too polite to speak
Of romance or of raging wrath
And, Quakerish, they walk upon
The plain and simple Friendly path.

The Russians write of storms of feeling,
Longing, lovers lost and stuff.
They rend their clothes and tear their hair out,
Bared souls standing in the buff.

I am too WASP to wash my undies
In the public square with verse
That cuts and bleeds blood puddles,
That a doctor or a nurse

Would have to suture up with string
Or medicate some other way,
So I’ll just have to write these silly
Rambles till I see my way

Around these problems, loosen up,
And let my hair down. You can drink
From Passion’s cup and tell me all
About it. I won’t waste the ink.

 

Mrs. Hidley has been writing prose and poetry for her own amusement and that of her family and friends and others for most of her 73 years. And one of her ten grandchildren is named Kalliope. She has lived in Walla Walla, Washington; Frankfurt and Bremerhaven, Germany; Upper New York State; Enid, Oklahoma; Montgomery and Prattville, Alabama; Lubbock, Texas; Dover, Delaware; West Palm Beach, Florida; Goose Bay, Labrador; Washington, D.C.; Fairfield, California; Omaha, Nebraska; and now resides in Ojai (Nest-of-the-Moon), California, where she continues to write.