M.J. Iuppa.
Blind (Wo)man’s Bluff
Snow falls all morning
in the wind, windowpane
full of fern crystals bent in
a waver of weather, visible
chill testing the view–
isolated thoughts
of never going back,
hard words– a confused
buzz hangs in her ears–
She must move:
eyes closed– arms outstretched.
Jackie Jones
One Will Be The Other
talks of politics over a
late-night glass of wine —
"honey, whose turn is it to give the baby her bath?"
or: "are you sure you want to sleep here tonight?"
slop paint on stretched canvas and call it art.
listen to songs about it broken
and call it love
Rhonda Lott
The Lazy Dog
Now is the time to make circles with mints, do not haste any longer.
—Fortune Cookie
The typing teacher raises types of mint—
pepper, lemon, and spear—in rows, not rings.
She has lost all her pupils now, and yet
still longs for steady lines, the soothing ding,
the full stop. She understands how the fox
forgets his purpose the quicker he springs
past the pup, over and over, the crux
of a chant vaporizing as it grows
sacred. In the next yard, orchids and phlox
lap like pond ripples. Yes, the neighbor knows
the value of circles, of decisions
left undone, of unpunctuated prose.
But just like her, he kneels at the garden’s
bank each morning, snatching at perfection.
Zach Lundgren
Dirt Roads, A Long Walk Home
The night is chloroform; it trips, falls, and stumbles at our feet. Darkness steals color, replaced with shades of black. Your warm palm in mine as quiet feet step along.
Fireflies, caught in the curtain closing night, shadowed smile, your pretty face painted blue eyes, blonde hair, loose dirt, beaten over years of use. I can hear you breathing, cutting through cold air, quickening - - anticipation. There are your horses. Don’t worry, we won’t spook them; just fireflies in the night. Trees and dark bushes reluctantly give way to your fence, these front posts fixed last summer. We hop your gate. "Don’t spook the horses," you whisper, "don’t wake the house, don’t tell them anything."
We move to the light like moths, helpless, and know what must be done. I bring you to your door, following the script in my mind, and then kiss you gently because you’re more delicate than the last leaf clinging to its Autumn branch above us. Then you’re gone, I’m alone, and I walk home along the same dirt path. The dark air smells colder; I place my hands in my pockets and close my eyes. The night is chloroform.
Donal Mahoney
In
this belle like a feather
floats table to table
bearing menus and water,
stuns a Yankee
in
whose host swears the South
has many more like her.
Up North, the Yank says,
young ladies like her bump tables,
slop coffee in saucers.
No wonder this Yankee
in
smiles when again
this belle like a feather
floats table to table
bearing menus and water
as if she is certain
the earth isn’t there
and the sky and the air
are highway enough for a belle
bearing menus and water
Carla Martin-Wood
Sunrise
in the light that rises
victorious
over a dark world
mired in its hungers
blind of heart
and unwilling children begin
routines of breakfast
and flossing and trudging
to classrooms undesirable
as resentful workers commute
through cul de sac lives
from empty home
to mundane cubicle
and the retired faithful
kneel to worship self-
righteous beside the jaded
Sisters at early mass
somewhere in that chaos
there is a singular moment
in an unremarkable life
when a heart beats
joyous at the butterfly effect
of quickening fetus
or a long-neglected spirit
faced by the elemental
testimonies of creation
revives in fresh assurance
of a grand design
or unexpected tears
punctuate wonder
as a friend crosses over
from pain to peace
in the light that rises
victorious
Louis McKee
A Woman on the Corner
Barely more
than a shadow
in early evening
dusk, I want her
to be beautiful,
and so she is.
The air moves
her hair; her hand
moves—she waits
for someone—
I want it to be
me, but it’s not,
so I watch
from my doorway
as she looks up
and down the avenue.
She thumbs a lighter;
sparks, but no flame.