Beware September’s falling leaves.
Beware first autumn’s signs.
Humidity still up its sleeves —
seasons’ peculiar lines.
“Summer’s worst provocative heat
by now has surely passed.”
How unwary, how obsolete!
Aspersions must be cast.
Blistering air slows conduction
through injured spinal cord.
Stifling any production,
of movement, walking, word.
Wading through gelatinous muck —
afternoon’s opaque haze.
In frigid, dry apartment stuck —
trapped inside endless days.
Apple cider, cinnamon sticks —
the fall teases and baits.
Taunted by Dog Days’ semantics —
the invalid just waits.
What kind of a cruel mentor
dangles crisp clarity?
An equinoctial tempter —
This unpredictable tether —
capricious and chronic,
As uncertain as the weather,
sneaky and sardonic.
Amanda Banner is a physician who lives in Wynnewood, Pennsylvania with her family. She has won prizes for her poetry, memoir and novel excerpts at The Philadelphia Writer’s Conference.
I don my recently dyed, twice retired,
rebuilt, retro camel coat. My hands,
rigid from cold, neck pressed warm
against cloth once fashionably puke green.
Ears like TV antennas are alert for
sounds of sandy crunch on cement steps.
The ones that made the flats
of my palms and knees bleed
when I tripped over my own
damn feet, shoelace untied.
There was no pride in that
humbling free fall.
My awkward stance sucked all
thoughts of romance like paint
needed to upscale the
rusted white lattice rail he used
to scale. I listen, watch, wait,
impatience my best know trait.
I’m too cold to move and I’m
counting on a full moon tonight.
Ronda Miller, a Life Coach whose clients have lost someone to suicide or homocide, has poetry at The Smithsonian Art Institite, transformed as art, online, in ‘BEGIN AGAIN: 150 Kansas Poems’, ‘To The Stars Through Difficulties’, ‘Going Home: Poems from My Life’, and in documentary ‘The 150th Reride of The Pony Express’. She is a Kansas girl.
New York chokes in a molten haze,
all colors muffled.
Skyscrapers tire of aspiring
and choose to do the hula.
Seated on the pavement,
lethargic bums in greasy rags
begin to sizzle.
Clock hands droop at 6:30,
And stay there.
You couldn’t spit if you wanted to.
No bus comes.
The limo at the light
turns to taffy and
stretches half a block.
the driver wears a loincloth!
Limp tourists drape themselves
like laundry on a fence,
dripping cameras and wristwatches.
Balls refuse to bounce.
Dogs stick to the sidewalk.
Fire hydrants issue steam.
Hasidic Jews remove their hats
and step into fountains.
Prostitutes jam the bus station,
Buying tickets to Alaska.
Sarah Venable teaches creative writing in Barbados. She’s been published in Poui; the anthology, The Truth About Oranges; Arts, Etc., on Anansesem.com, and soon on St. Somewhere.
Prone body becomes broil, resembles lobster
or maybe baked bean. Unnatural
pigmentation spreads across unprotected skin.
Straps save miniscule bits from fiery rays.
Delayed pain begins. Tomorrow
will bring blisters, weeks of peeling, pretending
to be a snake. Later,
forgetting all of it when the warm embrace
of sand and waves smiles, summons.
Inner phoenix responds, automatically answering
A.J. Huffman is a poet and freelance writer in Daytona Beach, Florida. She has previously published six collections of poetry all available on Amazon.com. She has also published her work in numerous national and international literary journals.
Your curves continue,
at image of old,
at new language.
There’s a ghost for
each of us looming
register nothing but
Specters don’t hold hands,
taunt our new selves
not to touch.
Air is broken tile.
We walk cautious,
Matthew Porubsky has four collections of poetry and works for Union Pacific Railroad as a freight conductor. Books, links and info at mppoetry.com.
I want my own closet
where I can
pull up a chair.
my candy red
patent leather shoes.
in the moth grey lace.
Without your sweat
stewing in every crotch
of your jeans.
I want to dress
in the wake
of my own
Now in the dark of early morning
it all begins to come clear—
the spoons in their drawer slots,
the flashlight where it might be needed,
my wife still asleep in our bed.
We moved here from 7 climates away
not knowing if our transplanted needs
could accept the acid soil and the sweet sun.
But in a week the house began to live,
its faucets standing like Elizabethan servants
ready to pour out the water of many uses,
the electric outlets eager to inspire tools,
the heating here for the easy asking.
Taken alone, all this is not a marriage,
but begun in such a place,
like a plant in the loam of lust,
it aspires to more, and it finds more as it rises
into the air, the light, the admiration.
We water it with our losses, prune it
lightly with our respect for its future,
and cater to its needs with our own need
for mercy projected onto it as a friend.
John J. Brugaletta was editor/publisher of South Coast Poetry Journal, has had two volumes of his poems published, and lives in Northern California with his wife and several bears.