c o n v e r g e n c e:
an online journal of poetry & art


MIRROR by Brenda Yamen

MIRROR by Brenda Yamen

by Michael Lee Johnson

I'm a thin, tall, black lady
living in a small pink cottage
my body barely fits inside
the frame, and I'm sitting
on my buttocks with my knees
bent and my head
scrapes the inside wall
at the crease where
the roof starts leaning in
on one side against my brain.
A red flower pot balances
on my kneecap and gracious
black stems and black
flower leafs sprout skyward
through the chimney top
ascending into blue
winter sky like
Jack the Bean Stalk.
Small words are written
in black all over my pink
walls, inside and out,
and I can't remember
any of them or how they
join together right to left.

Around my world of
pink and black are
blue skies with snow
frames around all four

My pink palm of my hand
holds my chin up;
I'm cramped up inside
of myself and the
black framed window
near my eyes
keeps most of the blues
and sunshine out.

by Jane Blue

Like birds, like big fat birds, like pheasants.

Awkward, unbelievable, hunched.

Grabbing octaves, double octaves, easily.

Crescendo to diminuendo, in the wink
of an eye. A bird's eye, pivoting. Birds

lit on the keys and stirred them. Even there
under the balcony, each note rang true.

Beethoven. Beethoven's hands exactly

as he in his deafness heard: agitato, con
and then pianissimo and then

sforzando; his hands
were dragons singing; his hands

laughed, like water
tumbling over rocks. His powder

puff hands, his cannon ball hands, his
bowling ball hands, skimming the alley

suddenly from a whisper to a loud
glissando. A soft trill. His hands

the hands of a magician. There in the dark
in San Francisco. His old hands

like sausages, magic
sausages. His old wrinkled hands

blazing, like his eyes.

JENNER by Myles Boisen

JENNER by Myles Boisen

by Michael Lee Johnson

I stick
my hand
out toward
the sea,
roll out my palm.
I offer a plank,
a trail for you.
Follow out into the water
and the salty stars.
When you stretch out
and give your heart
to the final moment
of the glass night sky,
draw me in—
sketch my face
on the edge
of our moon—
sad and lonely
over ages of celestial
moon sleep and dust.

1   |  2   |  3   |  4   |  5   |  6

home   |  Table of Contents   |  archive