Grassfires skirt the west edge of town.
The sirens sound like far-off geese.
I miss the rain.
Apricot trees wear their full crown of white
Too early — late frosts will steal the crop,
And I will miss the fruit.
The breeze, the chimes, the birds are still,
The feeders empty and unvisited.
In the pleasant air of evening, I miss the song.
Shearle Furnish is retired as Professor of English and Founding Dean of the College of Arts, Letters, and Sciences at the University of Arkansas at Little Rock and taught English for 33 years in Kentucky, North Carolina, and Texas. Furnish also served in administration at Youngstown State University before moving to Arkansas.
I believe that black stones spawn the honey of the heaven
And the death brings us the Golden Dawn
The earth is our other body
While the oceans are initially sweet and serene eyes
My every tear is burning
Bearing a diamond
And when my body is consigned to the flames
Heaven begins to enter my body
At this time I bloom in death
Like a sun of unknown night
Hongri Yuan, born in China in 1962, is a poet and philosopher interested particularly in creation. Representative works include Platinum City, Gold City, Golden Paradise , Gold Sun and Golden Giant. His poetry has been published in the UK, USA, India, New Zealand, Canada and Nigeria.
in conversation today—
a word for when things go wrong.
the daily ugly of what shouldn’t be.
All that we avoid mentioning: ugly of shootings of innocents,
exploitation, slavery; the ugly tone
of the powerful, the ugly tone
of irrational words, self-serving
policies… All the times we answer fine but it isn’t. The unspoken in Untitled. How close the word skims you figure it out yourself, in a skinned dis-
connect. No clue. Not interested in you.
Let’s start with a teen-age boy.
His detention center doesn’t allow any kindness,
any touch. But, someone volunteered to teach
a writing class where he wrote about wanting to be a bird,
fly to where he could meet summer and fall
in Honduras. You wouldn’t call something
like that Untitled. Nor would you call it TodayWith a Dash of Yearning… or talk about how Tomorrow will be dressed.
Whatever the title, his writing will help him
when ugliness comes up. And now,
tell me about you. How do you cope
when ugliness comes up?
Kitty Jospé holds an MA in French Literature, NY University and an MFA Poetry Pacific University, OR. (2009). She has been Art Docent since 1998 at the Memorial Art Gallery, Rochester, NY and since 2008 she has been moderating weekly poetry sessions. Her work has appeared in many journals and published in five books of her poems as well as other anthologies.
under the boiling pot dropped leaves smolder; the top of a litterbin filled with cigarettes and reducing to soup on a dry afternoon. summer, full of that smoky air and missing fire. those little pops and cracks like walking barefoot and stepping on crisp packets. like dublin; walking up o’connell street while the sun shines and everyone dresses comfortably. men in shorts, t-shirts and football jerseys sliding over chests and bellies as if loose water were tumbling on rocks. women too; those airy dresses, showing more of their legs than the men even. sunglasses all over, black as burned vegetables. earth slipping, filling with scent and a hot meat market. in the pot at home, outside of the city, vegetables boil among fistfuls of ham. the air is humid, the windows shut, full of steam and the smell of toasting broccoli. at the kitchen table I open my shirt down as far as the belly, lean back, and remember walking home.
DS Maolalai has been nominated for Best of the Web and twice for the Pushcart Prize. His poetry has been released in two collections, “Love is Breaking Plates in the Garden” (Encircle Press, 2016) and “Sad Havoc Among the Birds” (Turas Press, 2019)
I finger the stropped razor ready
to slice an eyeball
to turn my head in the clouds
cutting the moon and so who is blind?
she? he? me? eyes curbed after the bike collapses
and we are undressed for bed with ants in hand. Give her
a hand! I want to hold your hand;
the accidental dead want to hold breast and butt hold
on she tosses
she will serve no fault—
the undead eschew tennis
for a strongest man competition lugging
grand steinways, church, dead
dog. Dead? The undress awakens aroused by a dick
demanding he make a man or two of himself
to read to write to duel like Burr and Hamilton
in a New Jersey meadow from which a moth
on the New Jersey shore on which a melted watch
tells who lives who dies who tells your story