The Zingara Project

Tag: Gargoyle

  • Things to Be Grateful for During the American Winter by Michael Brockley

    ~For K.D.

    The portrait of Harriet Tubman burbling in the ink of a twenty-dollar bill. The way hands can be cupped to form eagles and bison when the shadows on bedroom walls slip through the jet stream of your imagination. The way women’s boots never go out of style. The way wallets are cluttered with unclaimed lottery tickets and Chinese fortune scripts. Take pleasure knowing chaos theory honors the wisdom of Japanese butterflies. Cherish this year of lunar wonders. October’s Hunter’s Moon. The November moon so close a heroine could step off of her hometown street into zero gravity. Hold your memory of a president racing his puppy through the White House halls at Christmas. Celebrate the happy accident of the newest blue and the oldest cherished songs. Sing Hallelujah! Thank the fog. Thank the way persimmons ripen during hard frosts. The taste of haiku lingering on your tongue. Take comfort in the assurance that scarves will always fit. Be grateful for the circle of light dancing above your head. It guardians the secrets in your eyes. Be grateful for the photographs of your most embarrassing moments. Be grateful for the impossible challenges before you. Be grateful knowing that, for this hour, gratitude is enough.

    —

    Michael Brockley is a 68-year old semi-retired school psychologist who still works in rural northeast Indiana. His poems have appeared in Atticus Review, Gargoyle, Tattoo Highway and Tipton Poetry Journal. Poems are forthcoming in 3Elements Review, Clementine Unbound, Riddled with Arrows and Flying Island. 

     

  • On the Eve of Roberto Clemente’s Third Miracle by Michael Brockley

    He knows he could still drive Warren Spahn’s curveball into the right centerfield power alley. But he has moved beyond batting crowns and Hall of Fame inductions. Beyond the pleas of hospitalized boys who have read too many comic-book biographies. His intercessions restored a cloud forest in Costa Rica. Brought water to those who thirsted in Haiti. Still the earth is heavy with its old grief. Clemente knows there are brown men and women adrift in a sea where slave ships once disappeared. Knows the desperation of lives lived on the cusp of earthquakes. His miracles are burdened by the evil that creeps through chastened villages in limousines. His supplicants no longer pray in the language of the blessed. Their fears pulverized beneath churches crushed into shell-game stones and homes replaced by ghosts. The Great One has always known the ground rules. Purposeful in the face of another sacrifice, Clemente rubs pine tar into the handle of his Adirondack bat. He knows the plane is overloaded with mercy, and climbs aboard again. 
    —
    Michael Brockley is a 68-year old semi-retired school psychologist who still works in rural northeast Indiana. His poems have appeared in Atticus Review, Gargoyle, Tattoo Highway and Tipton Poetry Journal. Poems are forthcoming in 3Elements Review, Clementine Unbound, Riddled with Arrows and Flying Island.

  • The Last Massacre in My Lonely Notebook by David Spicer

    Solitude isn’t a gate that opens.
     –Norman Dubie

    I volunteered for the nightshift,
    so don’t surprise me, Emma,
    with your tribe of goats.
    I can’t sleep, and if I could,
    I’d dream of standing
    on a snow-topped mountain
    to view the valley below.
    Emma, I need solitude,
    not couriers from Eros
    or a copper cup
    filled with black coffee.
    I’d rather watch reruns
    of Alfalfa and his gang
    chasing geese or wait
    for angels to hold umbrellas
    for me—I doubt if I’d
    leave with them: my soul
    has too many scars,
    and gunshots on the beach
    don’t help. God, I miss
    the lack of terror now.
    Windmills circle in my ears,
    and I need to call a shrink,
    but my throat is a cipher.
    No, I want my black bones
    to heal, ice to drop from the sky
    like frozen tears, and a vase filled
    with scarlet pimpernel adorning
    the window sill. Then I could
    savor a slice of pumpkin pie
    before I write of the last Indian
    massacre in my lonely notebook.

    —

    David Spicer has had poems in Alcatraz, Gargoyle, Third Wednesday, Reed Magazine,  Ploughshares, The American Poetry Review, and elsewhere. The author of Everybody Has a Story and four chapbooks, he is scheduled to have From the Limbs of a Pear Tree (Flutter Press) released in the Fall of 2017.