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THE SPIELERS, OIL ON CANVAS GEORGE LUKS (1867-1933) by Michael P. Aleman One Sunday afternoon after the silence of church, my sisters danced. My father frowned as the bold pair pranced through the cool house. Their laughter made me smile behind my book as father looked over the top of his newspaper to silence the noise. As the boy, I was expected to be the boisterous one, for father assumed his girls would smile demurely, wear white gloves, praise him. When their laughter rose to hilarious crescendo, when their spinning created an orange blur,he slapped his paper down resoundingly on the coffee table. “Enough!” That evening after the joy of the dance, we ate without speaking. I listened to the regular rhythm of the hall clock and the relentless sound of my father chewing. |
DANCER COBALT by Christopher Leibow |
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MONDAY MORNING
by John Abbott Those lush afternoons Of sitting in the café Watching life — the maples turning, Couples lost in each other's eyes, The writers trying to capture How life really looks — All of it gone now With days spent At work, yet the remembrance Of youth, of ease, Can still be called back Sometimes by the scent Of bergamot or French roast, The memory of something Prepared for you And you alone. |
AUDIO by Michaelle Fiore |
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LAPSE
by Taylor Graham Memory, I mean. I mean the pizza take-home box perched atop the car while I loaded the important stuff — books and papers I'd been reading over a combo pizza. A carmen — song, a magic spell, O Fortuna, a poem I was reading made me forget leftovers on the roof. I drove home. The pizza haunts me — meant for a cold breakfast. Lost forever on the road, may it become a poem. Imagine a man in faded work- jeans wondering if he'll get supper. And there out of the lane of traffic — pizza! The crusts I was saving for my dog he'll offer to his own, a clever little mutt with one brown eye, one blue, who thanks with mismatched eyes. Man and dog will sleep behind the quick-stop, dreaming poetry. Sometimes a poem can do this, can feed the hungry. |
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