Monthly Archives: March 2014

Song of Sorrow by Jeremy Garnett

Harken, to the breeze which blows, and the words which flow, like a curlew’s cry on the evening wind.
   Haunting, ever haunting,
till in the fading light, gone to memory.

Listen, beneath the moon-time glow, for the dance of silent wanderers, beyond the edge of hearing,
   haunting, ever haunting.
Crying out in absent loss, gone to memory.

Glance, from below shuttered eyes, as wisps of sorrow vanish between decaying buildings, forgotten trees.
   Haunting, ever haunting.
A remembrance of reality, gone to memory.

Sidle out of space or time, step from reality’s dream to the edge of darkness, balance on the edge that is
   haunting, ever haunting
the stream of life that never was, gone to memory

Hear the curlew’s cry and pirouette on the edge of silence, till truth’s song cascades across the frontier,
   to haunt, forever haunt,
on the periphery of existence, atop the wall of sanity, in memory’s future and history’s impending past.

   For the curlew’s haunting cry
and weep, for all that wasn’t and all that will never be,
gone to memory.

Like Her by by J.D. Isip

Thirty-eight, maybe forty boxes—
how does that divide by nine marriages?
Old photo albums we don’t look through
stacked sideways, shut for years—
A hat box her third husband gave her
from Italy—where she said he died
At least to her—stuffed with Christmas cards
the old 70’s, foil kind—flimsy
And showy, now frail, like her

I’ve begged her to dump them, dump them all
but she protests, she pulls some trick—
A yellowed picture of my dad in a fading, brown suit
or my brother’s first card from his father (not mine)—
I digress. To me, it’s a waste
like being married nine times

To hold onto the crumbling pieces of a past
that rots away in a rented storage space
Each box as empty as they are full

Married nine times—unfathomable
as these old boxes, stuffed, overflowing
Contents far too daunting, too consuming to explore—
probably not enough to learn from, or care for
To me, it’s a waste—I’m not like her—
I’d throw them away
Clean up and move on.

J.D. Isip’s academic writings, poetry, plays, and short stories have appeared (or will appear) in a number of publications including The Louisville Review, Changing English, Revista Aetenea, St. John’s Humanities Review, Teaching American Literature, The Citron Review, Poetry Quarterly, Scholars & Rogues, Mused, and The Copperfield Review. He is a doctoral student in English at Texas A&M University-Commerce.

Do the Dead See? by John Brugaletta

I was new at the job, so the corpses were new to me.
As I snored in my room, a mortician came in, woke me.
It was a homeless man, our mortuary’s month for them,
and he needed me to assist. When I got to the
room with the porcelain table, he said, “I’ve got to go
over to the other side for more embalming fluid.”

So I waited, looking at the street dweller’s face,
stone white and rigid. How many soup kitchens
had poured their chicken plasma down that throat?
What career of his had crashed, what wife died
or left him as he sank? What did his voice sound like,
his walk look like? What would he say about himself?

Then his eyes opened.
I waited for him to speak, make a move, anything.
Nothing. Just the eyes staring at the ceiling.
The mortician came back. I said, “Don’t embalm him.
He’s alive. Look, his eyes opened.” He said, “Aah,
they all do that,” and he slipped holders under the lids.

John Brugaletta likes to make tables out of unusual woods like jatoba and purpleheart. He also likes to write poems, sometimes about himself, sometimes not. He left the Marine Corps in 1960.

The Tall Arab by Andrea Jackson

I followed you across the ocean, 
	didn’t I?  
The tall Arab made my path clear, 	
	gave reality and shape 
	to my existence. 

I collected anecdotes for you, 
	harvested personal events. 
My eyes were your servants;
	They sought nothing
	for themselves.

Will you tell me 
	how you could let it happen, 
this bifurcation between the outside, 
	the heat and the golden light 
	and the tall Arab, 
and the inside where you plot 
	and conceal?

And didn’t you notice, 
	just at that moment, 
	how the world ended?

Andrea Jackson has an MFA from the University of Missouri – St. Louis. She writes fiction and poetry. Her most recent publication is a story in the 2013 Alligator Juniper.

Fire Rainbow by Fern G.Z. Carr

“My heart leaps up when I behold
A Rainbow in the sky;” ~William Wordsworth

Diaphanous wisps of cirrus
laden with hexagonal crystals
beckon the sun
to traverse their
optically aligned
plate-shaped faces
and refract its rays
at perfect right angles
to create an ice halo
also known as
a fire rainbow –
a chiffon cloud
of flame-like plumes
the colors of the spectrum –
its vibrant reds, oranges, yellows,
blues, greens, indigos and violets;
the colors that set skies ablaze
with their icy fire.

Fern G.Z. Carr is a member of The League of Canadian Poets. A 2013 Pushcart Prize nominee, she composes poetry in five languages and has been published from Finland to the Seychelles.