|
MARCH, 2015
by Steven D. Pace Remote winds come through The vents as my pensive eyes examine something— A river at the bottom of a hill, Dear Steve Its dark hair parted in the very middle Like a sidewalk or street Frozen with force in proportion, in tribute to the road And inadequacies start to spring from my mind In currents, in undertows Summoned at low tide— Oh, I'll be alright Something must spring from my accomplishments Other than prussic acid, maybe Don't you slip on the ice! People down Here can't drive on that stuff! This road is lined with letters and friends Blurred trees, crooked walking paths So there are plenty of accidents Looks like poppies or geraniums on that slope Looking all official in lavender gowns All of the special items must be Returned to the lender I am the pen held by delicate fingers onto the page Though I am sitting here in this cold-ass weather I am able (this can't be attributed to my depth) Though I am laying low, I will call you I am betting that against the moon There's a snitch in here now, Yours Truly— John |
PORT ARANSAS BEACH by Baxter Jackson |
|
A FINE END
by Allan Johnston here was something holy: a grey lake waving a fine end cloud, bird perched on built bits of wave caked to foam at its tip each ride of the quiver of geese leading into its own immaculate contemplated goosiness, a meaning or not of fish — it is only as if something passed as force through event or medium as though all were the transportation of the dead or soon to be water and wave the way a yellow cake of sky plays on through and under the greyness to give distinction a horizon seeming eternal play of sunlight available now. A fine end, sitting not knowing what will be, no assuredness in the fixed sign like the diamond out on breakwater saying not to boat swim or climb yet how often do these birds perch, watch what was always the fine end of all water touching the shore |
DEPARTURE by Stephanie Lakos |
|
DIAMONDS
by James B. Nicola There's life, or what was life, in the lump, sure. I can tell because turning it to examine its unreflective facets I end up splotched in black just as with ashes or coal. But ashes are to toss, sooty hands to wash, and coal to use, not keep, under the name of something else. "Some came in two minutes or three, some in hours," you say in your preface. Well. Congratulations on the speed and thanks for sharing. I know you better now. In carbon lie dark mysteries of heat. Set fire to them for warmth, they last and last. But what is left is afterburn. A diamond is more. Show me the jewel that's chiseled, polished, readied for display, placed painfully, painstakingly, in a setting, which will fill my lungs with breath and drop my jaw when I see it, read it, hear it, can't help but commit its image, or parts of it, to memory. A real diamond can be named Hope. How to make the dark stuff glitter? Apply pressure to "organic subterranean matter," let's call it — not for a million years but long enough that it turn into a thing that shines, a thing that the Beauty called Your Soul would be happy were she caught dead wearing it. What pressure? Desire, discipline, the weight of wisdom, or the patience till it come, and the burning need not to set it ablaze, but to fashion the raw into reflective surfaces. The larger question: Do you have the interest? The smaller's easier: Do you have the time? |
1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5
home | Table of Contents | archive