The Zingara Project

Blog

  • Marilyn Monroe by Ellen Saunders

    We applaud, adore and adorn
    the holiday tree in Rockefeller Plaza,
    embellish its natural beauty
    and render it unrecognizable.
    When its brief stint in the starlight
    is over, the man-made magic
    gone, we’ll carry it to place far
    from view. Reluctantly, we’ll return
    to our tired selves, all the while knowing
    that there’s always next year. Another tree
    that once held a winter’s worth of snow
    in its arms. Another star on the horizon.
    Another chance to build up and tear down.
    The possibilities are endless.

    —

    Ellen Saunders’ work has appeared in Prairie Schooner, Poetry East, Toronto Quarterly, Calyx, Pearl, Apple Valley Review, among others. Her first chapbook, Masquerad” was published by Long Leaf Press. She is currently working on a second collection.

  • The Winter Finch by Markus Egeler Jones

    Around the steps the trees bend
    singing themselves to sleep
    in the bending time of early winter.

    Finches strain their necks
    fluffing and fluttering
    in the snowing, blowing afternoon.

    Cars down the road rumble past
    vibrating the air like new
    woofers at the downtown cinema.

    The finches jump with whispery
    anticipation clinging to feathers
    before they mingle into nightfall.

    It is a comfortable cold
    through the wind and snow
    stars are ornaments hidden by clouds.

    The cars muffle now and whether
    darkness or clouds or the quiet
    of a starless night, they drive softly.

    Even the fir trees are gone hiding
    behind the dark curtain of snowfall and steps
    the finches vanished without notice.

    —

    Markus Egeler Jones graduated with Eastern Kentucky University’s MFA. He is an Assistant Professor at Chadron State College. His first novel, How the Butcher Bird Finds Her Voice, was published by Five Oaks Press. His fiction and poetry appear in New Mexico Review, Crab Fat Magazine, The Story Shack, Temenos.

  • American Tradition by Elizabeth Perdomo

    Forget
    those black
    bottom-line day
    specials. This is
    the real deal reason:
    Coffee & conversation
    & New York TV parades;
    dried bread crumbled &
    vegetables well chopped,
    sautéed amidst savory seasons,
    parsley, sage, rosemary & thyme,
    stuffed into a plump, thawed
    turkey, set to roast within
    an over full capacity oven.
    houses smell like home;
    Holiday scents & sweet
    potato aromas mingle
    into a green bean meld;
    red cranberry relish,
    sweet & tart & cool,
    a blend held at ready,
    while pecan pieces
    & pumpkin orange
    become skillfully
    transformed into
    fragrant memory
    crusted pies.

    —

    Elizabeth Perdomo has lived and written in the Rio Grande Valley of South Texas these past sixteen years, moving to this region from the Rio Grande Valley of northern New Mexico. Born in Kansas and raised both there and in Colorado, she has written poetry works since a young teen. Perdomo also lived in the Southeastern USA for many years, where she married and her 3 daughters were born. Perdomo has been an active member of the South Texas Border Chapter of Texas Master Naturalist since 2016. Her written pieces reflect her passion to learn about local places, culture and tradition, as well as gardening, ecology, nature and much more. Perdomo is the author of a book of poetry about the people and places in East Tennessee entitled, “One Turn of Seasons” and has had a number of poems published in periodicals, chap books andcollections, including a recently published collection entitled, “Kansas Time + Places.”

  • December by Sharon Scholl

    i

    The cottonwoods come down
    last among the shedders,
    come in piles like leather napkins
    folded brown and gold.
    Wind swirls them into speckled hills,
    mattresses for leaping children.
    I’ve watched the cutting loose
    as each twig cast its fate on air,
    the whole like silent snow,
    space a-flutter with gentle death.

    ii

    There are things we can’t hold onto,
    joys that slip from our bodies
    at the stroke of time.
    They float quietly away
    beyond the comfort of grief. We pull
    them from our minds, bend over them
    like firelight, warming old bones
    in the radiance of what used to be.

    —

    Sharon Scholl is a retired college professor of humanities and international studies. Her recently published chapbooks include Summer’s Child (Finishing Line Press) and EAT SPACE (Poet Press). She convenes A Gathering of Poets, critique group of a dozen local poets celebrating our twelfth anniversary.

  • Advent by Lynda Fleet Perry

    ~ for Mark

    From the farm’s back field the wind is rising
    as we walk, holding hands, to cut our tree
    in the crisp night air. The moon is rising

    over the skeletal tips of branches, forking
    into the gathering dark. We can see,
    from the farm’s back field, the wind rising

    by the way the old cedar moans, tossing
    its now-black foliage, as if to shake free.
    On this solstice night, the moon’s rising

    arc holds Venus—glimmering and winking—
    at celestial arms’ length. They’re married
    above the farm’s back field—wind rising

    as if to rush the inevitable coupling
    of sickle and orb, a brilliant zenith
    of this longest night. The moon is rising

    higher. Now we can see the tree, leaning
    crookedly, our Yule pine, its shadow spindly
    in the moon’s silver light.  Night has risen
    over the farm’s back field. The wind still rises.

    —

    Lynda Fleet Perry is the author of a chapbook of poems, At Winter Light Farm, published by Finishing Line Press in 2011. Her work has been published in Blackbird, Defunct, qarrtsiluni, New Zoo Poetry Review, and other journals. She received her MFA from Virginia Commonwealth University in 2014. She lives in Richmond, Virginia, with her husband and daughter, and works as a writer and communications manager for a botanical garden. 

  • Reading Moby Dick Again by Roy Beckemeyer

    1
    “…a way I have of driving off the spleen”

    says Ishmael, and I wonder
    if the writing of it is as much the remedy
    as the decoction of travel, the pen and page
    as much as the Pequod prescription,
    if the narrative, as dense as a cud of bolus,
    is truly the prima medicina for men at sea,
    at least for sailing men of letters
    longing to be shut of the shore,
    carpet bags stuffed with shirts,
    paper, a bottle of India’s finest,
    black, corked, ready.

    2

    “the whale would by all hands
    be considered a noble dish,
    were there not so much of him”

    …and Moby Dick a noble book,perhaps because there is so much
    of it, and all that explanatory
    digression between the true and
    hearty, grab you by the short-hairs
    narration is really needed, because,
    by Ahab, by Queequeg, by God,
    you cannot appreciate the story
    without you understand the job,
    the whaler’s lot in life, his tools,
    his fare, his devotion to his brothers
    on the sea, to the whale, his prey,
    the incarnation of his every need,
    his very nature.

    —

    Watch for Roy Beckemeyer’s new book of ekphrastic poems, Amanuensis Angel, coming soon (March 2018) from Spartan Press, Kansas City, MO.

     

     

  • Advent by Carol Barrett

    My mother prepares for winter
    Two hummingbirds
    Dally on the tip-top rung,
    Tomato trellis in patio garden

    Two hummingbirds
    Take in the crisp, falling air
    Tomato trellis in patio garden,
    A quiet, temporary lair

    My mother takes in crisp air
    Arranges winter coats
    In her quiet, temporary lair
    Thinks of my father, waiting

    She arranges winter coats,
    Wonders will she need them
    Thinks of my father, waiting
    His voice, his warm embrace

    She wonders will she need
    The books, the vases, teacups
    His voice, his warm embrace —
    She has enough to make it through

    The books, the vases, teacups
    Can go for another spring
    She has enough to make it through
    Look! Come watch the hummers

    What can go for another spring
    Can be boxed and sent away
    Look! Come watch the hummers
    Whirring, first snow on golden leaves

    Soon all will be boxed and sent away
    My father calling from the garden,
    Whirring, first snow on golden leaves
    My mother preparing for winter

    —

    Carol Barrett holds doctorates in both clinical psychology and creative writing. She coordinates the Creative Writing Certificate Program at Union Institute & University. Her books include Calling in the Bones, which won the Snyder Prize from Ashland Poetry Press, Drawing Lessons from Finishing Line Press, and Pansies, a work of creative nonfiction, from Sonder Press. Her poems have appeared in JAMA, Poetry International, Poetry Northwest, The Women’s Review of Books, and many other venues.

     

  • Copperfield by Leslie Anne Mcilroy

    I was not afraid of my father,
    thin/frail/sick. Never saw
    him put a hole in the wall
    or heard him raise his voice,
    but I was young and that time
    he slapped me on the head
    was only once and I am
    sure I deserved it.

    I must have. I should have
    been afraid of the way
    he quoted Rod McKuen
    and signed his letters
    “never hurt intentionally”
    like it’s a fee ride as long
    as you didn’t mean it. As long
    as we are so sensitive, we cry.

    He cried and died, little
    rabbit man and his hat.
    And to this day, I can’t figure
    out why he matters. He mostly
    doesn’t. And, imagine dying
    that way, knowing even your
    kids don’t believe your
    sorrow. I am thankful he
    was not an a magician,
    just imagine that poor girl
    sliced in half.

    —

    Leslie Anne Mcilroy won the 1997 Slipstream Poetry Chapbook Prize, the 2001 Word Press Poetry Prize and the 1997 Chicago Literary Awards. Her second book was published by Word Press in 2008, and third, by Main Street Rag in 2014. Leslie’s poems appear in Grist, Jubilat, The Mississippi Review, PANK, Pearl, Poetry Magazine, the New Ohio Review, The Chiron Review and more.

  • Haunted Exchange by artist Nancy Ramsey and poet Channie Greenberg

     

    The memory of
    That which hasn’t happened yet
    Haunts more than spirits.

  • Please Help This Vet by Gianna Russo

    Red light at the corner of Hillsborough and Florida Avenues

    His sign’s propped by his VFW cap.
    I’m muttering at the red light.
    Clouds are grey bellies slung over the belt
    of cityscape and wind swipes the street,
    riffling his long grey hair, pages of his paperback.
    It might be Going After Cacciato or Catch 22.
    A face that battered, he may have seen Saigon that last day,
    Americans swooped from the hotel roof,
    copters returning like jittery swallows.

    I was too young for sit-ins, the Washington march.
    I drew peace signs on my cheeks, teased my hair to a ‘fro.
    But the first poet I knew humped Hamburger Hill,
    sliced though bamboo like so many wrists.
    His poems were gristled with jungle beauty.
    He drank himself numb before every reading.

    Here, at the light,
    this vet sets back up his blown-down sign,
    hunches on the curb, glasses slipping down his nose.
    Should I believe the surrender of his tee?
    So hard to know about folks on the street,
    the broken sandals.
    What if I held out a dollar?

    Why do I ignore the wind-thrashed sky,
    his book pages flailing as I drive on by?

    —

    Gianna Russo is the author of the full-length poetry collection, Moonflower (Kitsune Books), winner of a Florida Book Awards bronze medal, and two chapbooks, including one based on the art work of Vermeer, The Companion of Joy (Green Rabbit Press). Russo is founding editor of YellowJacket Press, (www.yellowjacketpress.org ), Florida’s publisher of poetry chapbook manuscripts. A Pushcart Prize nominee, she has published poems in Ekphrasis, Crab Orchard Review, Apalachee Review, Florida Review, Florida Humanities Council Forum, Karamu, The Bloomsbury Review, The Sun, Poet Lore, saw palm, Kestrel, Tampa Review, Water-Stone, The MacGuffin, and Calyx, among others. In 2017, she was named Best of the Bay Local Poet by Creative Loafing. She is assistant professor of English and Creative Writing at Saint Leo University, where she is editor-in-chief of Sandhill Review and director of the Sandhill Writers Retreat. 

  • Courting Wonder by Martina Reisz Newberry

    You have to be amenable to Wonder.
    You have to read the spaces between the words
    as well as the text and you have to see that
    where you step may be earth scattered over with
    a magic loess.

    You have to believe that hands as well as eyes
    let you see souls; lips as well as fingertips
    heal. You have to believe that the God of the
    White Tiger is the God of you, that demons
    live in every lie ever told, in every
    day of loneliness come to any living creature.

    You have to discern that a voice is a bin
    that holds, folds and releases tears, fury, glee.
    When you have faith in these things, astonishment
    will visit your doorstep and there will be an
    unstinting flight to your days, burning stars
    in your dreams.

    —

    ​Martina Reisz Newberry’s recent books: Never Completely Awake (Deerbrook Editions), and Take the Long Way Home (Unsolicited Press). Widely published, she was awarded residencies at Yaddo Colony for the Arts, Djerassi Colony for the Arts, and Anderson Center for Disciplinary Arts.

     

    Martina lives in Los Angeles with her husband, Brian.

  • The Last Train by Will Reger

    Sister, we are in an ancient place, that last
    station where the living change trains.
    Everyone comes here, tired of living,
    ready to lay it all down, ready to be done,
    or confused how they came here so soon.
    It is you with the transfer ticket, dear, not me.
    After you board I will travel on alone,
    swing back this way some other time.
    Your body jerks and rumbles with shut down.
    The train you need picks up speed.
    Everyone on the platform feels the power
    and starts to gather up their things,
    unaware — no baggage car on this train.
    I would gather you once more if I could.
    Your eyes are two pools of puddle water.
    A last light reflects in each, like hope,
    like the promise of Science or God, or like
    a star falling across the sky, sparking love.

    —

    Will Reger is a founding member of the CU (Champaign-Urbana) Poetry Group (cupoetry.com), has a Ph.D. from UIUC, teaches at Illinois State University in Normal, and has published most recently with Front Porch Review, Chiron Review, and the Paterson Literary Review. His first chapbook is Cruel with Eagles. He is found at https://twitter.com/wmreger — or wandering in the woods playing his flute.

     

  • Dia de los Muertos by Mel Goldberg

    Think of death
    as an old friend who will provide
    a place for your shriveled body

    Think of death
    as a sidewalk taco stand
    serving agua fresca in paper cups

    Think of death
    as the Iquitos airport,
    the open-air thatched roof lean-to.

    Think of death
    as a lover who whispers
    as you turn and look away

    Every relationship contains loss,
    every touch holds pain
    of death’s exquisite dreadful moment

    The words of death’s
    exquisite dreadful moment are contained
    in all the poetry in the world 

    *Also known as Día de Muertos, the celebration originated in central and southern Mexico. Those who celebrate it believe that at midnight on October 31, the souls of all deceased children come down from heaven and reunite with their families on November 1, and the souls of deceased adults come visit on November 2.

    —

    Mel Goldberg taught literature and writing in California, Illinois, and Arizona. He and artist, Bev Kephart traveled throughout the U.S., Canada, and Mexico for seven years, settling in Ajijic, Jalisco. Mel has published on line and in print in The UK, The US, Mexico, and Australia.

  • Elegy for Shura by Diane G. Martin

    “What is that beautiful game?”
    “It’s not important.
    All those who knew how to play
    are either dead, or have
    long since forgotten.” “Even you?”

    “Especially me.”
    “Is it ivory?” “Only bone.
    The ivory game
    was sold during hard times. Too
    bad, yes, but it matters

    not if no one plays.” “Teach me,
    Shura.” “I do not remember.
    And anyway, what is the point?
    Then with whom shall you play?”
    “I’ll teach someone else.”

    “Did you ever hear the one
    about the old Odessan
    Jew who drove to town…”
    “You can’t divert me so cheaply.
    Now back to the game. Shame

    on you for using such a ruse!
    I expected better,” I grin.
    “You ask too much; I’m dying.
    I’ve no energy
    for whims. So, join me at the sea

    again this year and then we’ll see.”

    —

    Diane G. Martin, Russian literature specialist, Willamette University graduate, has published work in numerous literary journals including New London Writers, Vine Leaves Literary Review, Poetry Circle, Open: JAL, Pentimento, Twisted Vine Leaves, The Examined Life, Wordgathering, Dodging the Rain, Antiphon, Dark Ink, Gyroscope, Poor Yorick, Rhino, Conclave, Slipstream, and Stonecoast Review.

  • Teeth by Sara Eddy

    The neighbors’ child wanders into my yard
    unannounced to play on the old swing set.
    I know her mama will be along, but I go out
    with a sigh to make sure she doesn’t
    break her head or wander further.
    I say hello.
    She doesn’t answer; she is full of beans
    and evil intent–she is like Loki’s best girl
    and she needs watching carefully.
    I say whatcha doin today
    and she sucks her lips into her mouth
    around her teeth
    preparing for something, sparking
    her eyes at me like she’s ready
    to leap at my throat
    I take a step back as
    she pulls those lips apart and holds
    them gaping with her fingers
    exposing her fangs
    so she can threaten me with the real reason
    she has ventured to my yard:
    a loose tooth.
    She puts her tongue against it and pops
    it toward me, letting it hang on a thread
    dangling like a dead mouse by its tail.
    With a wave of nausea I leave her
    to her trickster god’s care
    and scurry to the house
    feeling curious distress. Why,
    why are teeth so upsetting when
    they aren’t in our mouths? Fallen out
    teeth and punched out teeth
    pulled teeth and rotted teeth
    the roots of nerve and blood
    going back perhaps ages and ages
    to when this would be a death sentence:
    You lose your teeth, you cannot eat, you die.

    —

    Sara Eddy is a writing instructor and tutoring mentor at Smith College, in Northampton, Massachusetts.  Her poems have appeared recently in Forage, Parks & Points, and Damfino, along with Terrapin Press’ anthology The Donut Book.  She lives in Amherst, Mass., with three teenagers, a black cat, and a blind hedgehog.