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


by Sean Lause

The splendor of my isolate city
that I scoop from ice and snow
this relentless Winter of 1963 .
. . I delve deep beneath the woeful tombs
of older Winters, those pale kings.
I listen for emanations from below,
seeking the icicle’s captured priest,
and my own enraptured heart.

Chanting fables to the wounded winds,
molding solstices into spheres of diamond,
I dig deep, deeper still,
the snow humped high, higher,
to hide my secrets sure.
Then lower yet, into the ground
of things, where the dark worm
keeps cold vigil for the Spring’s blood return.

My cave is just wide enough for wonder,
with a hole sliced in the top
to watch the wandering planets
snake eye through the night.
Outside howl the white wolves of war,
but here no hunger or rage can find me,
not the storm's last shattered grand piano,
nor blundering giant batter down my door.

Oh light inscrutable,
with your snow's swift sleight of hand,
accept an old man's incantation
to this sacrament of dream.

GOLD PERALS 4 JESUS by Junior Mclean

GOLD PEARLS 4 JESUS by Junior Mclean

by Richard Carr

The carrion crow flew at dusk—forgetting his toothbrush

I toss in bed all night—acting out an inner violence
seasick in a rocking ship

The ship searches a coastline of exploding breakers
for the inlet

Lighthouse in ruins
a winged figure fans a little fire on the cliff

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