The Zingara Project

Tag: #ZingaraPoetryReview

  • 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. 

     

  • 2019 Best of the Net Nominations

    Zingara Poetry Review is happy to announce 2019’s “Best of the Net” Nominees:
     
    A Flower Rests by Jerry Wemple, September 5, 2018
     
    Insomniac by Danielle Wong, October 3, 2018
     
     
    Poems must meet the following minimum qualifications for nomination:
    • Submissions must come from the editor of the publication (journal, chapbook, online press, etc), or, if the work is self-published, it must be sent by the author.
    • Submissions must have originally appeared online, though later print versions are acceptable.
    • The poem, story, or essay must have been first published or appeared on the web between July 1, 2018 and June 30, 2019.
    • Submissions must be sent between July 1st and September 30th, 2019.

    Best of luck to this year’s nominees!!

  • 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.

  • 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.

  • 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.

  • A Flower Rests by Jerry Wemple

    Daisy rose later in the morning each
    day until she barely rose at all. Ark
    was left to get his own breakfast: peanut
    butter smeared on doughy bread; a pale
    apple in a paper bag to take for school
    lunch. He would shuffle down the slate sidewalks
    parallel to the river street doing his
    best to slow time and the inevitable.
    After school, the return trip home and sometimes
    there deposited on the couch in front of
    a blurred television his mother
    like a monument to a forgotten
    whatever. Sometimes she would cook supper and
    sometimes not. And sometimes the old neighbor
    woman would stop by and say mind if I
    borrow you boy for a while and then sit
    him at her kitchen table and stuff him full
    on greasy hamburger and potatoes
    and sometimes apple pie that was not too bad.

    —

    Jerry Wemple is the author of three poetry collections: You Can See It from Here (winner of the Naomi Long Madgett Poetry Award), The Civil War in Baltimore, and The Artemas Poems. His poems and essays have been published in numerous journal and anthologies. He teaches in the creative writing program at Bloomsburg University of Pennsylvania.

     

     

  • Where Water Runs by Beth Politsch

    In the place
    where water runs,
    magic shivers and hums
    and shakes the trees
    with its incantations.

    The stream is a cauldron
    of leaves, moss and bark.
    It blooms with dark clouds
    of mud when rust-
    colored stones are lifted
    away from the creek bed
    by the toe of your boot.

    But it is your bare feet
    the water longs to touch.
    It asks
    for your fingers
    to try to interfere
    with its persistent flow.

    If you stay long enough,
    this place becomes a voice
    in your head.
    It whispers
    words you’ve heard
    in dreams. It tells birds
    to swoop down
    the brooky path beside you,
    because you are
    and always have been
    the same.

    And maybe
    if you’re very lucky,
    a toad will pause and look
    you in the eye from a bumpy rock.
    Maybe a crane will sweep down
    into your shade
    and almost anoint you
    with her wings.

    It will wait until you’re ready,
    this oracle,
    chanting spells softly,
    listening for your breath,
    offering vines and roots
    for a staircase,
    as you climb down
    from the usual path.

    —

    Beth Politsch is a storyteller, poet and copywriter based in Lawrence, Kansas. She currently creates content for Hyland Software and writes children’s books and poetry in her free time. 

     

  • Stillness by Martin Willits

    How do we still the stillness,
    making it less than a soft whisper of sleep?
    One more day no one can take problems anymore,
    and look at how badly it turned out
    as the sun sighed, going out
    behind the black-purple night sky background.

    How can we make it any more quiet
    than when the sun is a red flood
    disappearing under the weight of the setting
    and the pushing down of night?

    The large orange harvest moon
    sits on the horizon
    like it was a hard wooden park bench.
    It is so close we can see the pockmarks
    from eons of smashing asteroids,
    and we do not know what to say —

    how do we get more silence, less
    talking, less accidental noises
    than that? Less than an oar
    not moving in water, not dripping
    when lifted, not tipping into the row boat
    as it is tied onto a pier, and not
    the soundlessness of the wooden dock —
    how do we get less noise than that?

    Even the moth flaming after touching fire
    makes a subtle noise. Or the cat, padding
    on a thick rug, clawing and sharpening its nails,
    arching before circling into sleep,
    makes a curious noise, one that troubles
    the quiet. No matter how softly we proceed,
    noise follows us, makes sure we know it’s there.

    —

    Martin Willitts Jr has 20 chapbooks including the winner of the Turtle Island Quarterly Editor’s Choice Award, “The Wire Fence Holding Back the World” (Flowstone Press, 2017) plus 11 full-length collections including forthcoming full-lengths includes “The Uncertain Lover” (Dos Madres Press, 2018), and “Home Coming Celebration” (FutureCycle Press, 2018).

     

     

     

     

  • Between Us, the Moon by KB Ballentine

    The moon aches, belly full
    as dawn frays the edge of night.
    In the shallows, a blue heron peers
    into the lake, patient as Saint Francis.
    But a quick slash of beak, and nature
    reveals her unconcern.
    Barely awake, the town unshutters,
    signs turn in shop windows, blinds open.

    And here we lie, in this bed so wide
    we don’t have to touch. I can’t remember
    the last time I knew you,
    when you let me look in your eyes,
    lean on you. What happened to us?
    The heron unfolds its wings and lifts,
    casts a shadow over the shore.
    The moon pales, day empty and raw.

    ~“Between Us, the Moon” first appeared in The Mill, Issue 2.

    KB Ballentine has a M.A. in Writing and a M.F.A. in Creative Writing, Poetry. Her fifth collection of poems, Almost Everything, Almost Nothing, is forthcoming by Middle Creek Publishing.

  • Notes in the Night by Judith Bader Jones

    A summer breeze, sheer
    as bedroom curtains, floats
    through a screened window
    and joins us in our double bed.

    Evening slows the rhythm
    of your beating heart when I rest
    against your chest and nighttime music
    becomes a cover for body pain and sorrow.

    Livin’ in this murky world – the blues
    dilutes our hurts while brush-stroke lyrics,
    sung by survivors, saves souls as we fall
    asleep holding onto each other.

    —

    Judith Bader Jones, a poet in Fairway, Kansas, has recent publications in  CHEST- The American College of Chest Physicians, Nostalgia and i-70 Review. She is an avid organic gardener and bird photographer.

     

  • Sleeping in Bed Together by John Grey

    You’re from a world where seasons never varied their routine
    and construction workers waved from beams on high
    and a revelation could be as simple
    as a bucking trout pulled from a stream.

    And now you’re with a woman, in a bed
    her body barely a shiver away from yours,
    suddenly aware of how little touch is needed to identify the other
    while always imagining the worst that lies in store for you.

    You got from hatching to imago
    with the usual helpings of slime and ooze,
    to where you’re heel to heel with the desired one,
    and yet still can be startled by such close companionship.

    You’re from a place where so little flesh went into the making of you.
    And here being fully grown is not something you find comforting,
    Yet from lack of light, a strange cadence emerges.
    low-breathing, low-flying beings navigating their way through sleep.

    —

    John Grey is an Australian poet, US resident. Recently published in Examined Life Journal, Studio One and Columbia Review with work upcoming in Leading Edge, Poetry East and Midwest Quarterly.  

     

     

     

     

  • as dandelions popped by Nanette Rayman

    Tonight, from a distance, I saw my real life
    smiling and walking across the avenue with bells
    on, a sound sweet—for her—like the birds chirping
    at the last moment of Layla. And without a sound
    the blue-green brush strokes of sad altostratus
    clouds crosshatched the whole sky. A cassowary
    lost its quillish feathers in New Guinea, feet left
    to kick anyone in its path and a fortune-teller
    heavy with turquoise in a long flowing skirt looked
    at me for a long moment. On the other side
    of the Atlantic,  the Isle of Hebrides took
    on sun and people cried, weathered houses
    tilting in the wind, and eyes hooded by hands
    ready to caress wives and husbands as I sat
    down floppily on an old bench as dandelions
    popped, as pink pansies blossomed fuchsia,
    resigned and overwhelmed as the human soul.

    —

    Nanette Rayman, author of Shana Linda, Pretty Pretty and Project: Butterflies—Foothills Publishing. Winner of the Glass Woman Prize, included in Best of the Net 2007, DZANC Best of the Web 2010 is published in Stirring’s Steamiest Six, featured in Up the Staircase Quarterly. Other publications include: Sugar House Review, Worcester Review, Berkeley Fiction Review, Little Rose Magazine, Rain, Poetry & Disaster Society, Pedestal, DMQ, carte blanche, Oranges & Sardines, Sundog, and Melusine. 

  • Porch by Martina Reisz Newberry

    We cast curses at the moon,
    watch its face travel over     then behind     clouds,
    then come to the fore
    as if beckoned
    when it most certainly was not.
    Booze and blackberries on the front porch
    and the cries of dead beasts and warriors out there.

    Imagine it                     Hold it in your head
    as you do song lyrics and prayers.
    The strange scents of late nights
    call us to remember our weaknesses
    and the ill will we’ve encountered in others.
    We talk of these things     bring them closer.

    And oh the madness of this porch        how it dares to receive
    our complaints and our compliances             how it
    rests under our flip-flops and naked toes     how it
    shifts under spilled sweet tea     and dripped foam
    off cans of Bud Light

    Does it make you grin that I’ve said this?

    So, the moon hovers and we here below
    pull it over us, imagine it soft when            in truth
    it’s dense as a mango dum dum.

    Inside, we look for rest knowing our mendacity
    could pull down the stars                  knowing our joys
    are simple masks for grudges
    the way they jibe

    My God                     The way we consume bitterness
    fill our plates, pour on gravies
    and sauces of fear and then
    dare to sleep on that repletion.

    —

    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.

  • Wanting by Diana Raab

    Wanting
    I
    Rainbow

    The rain trickles
    down my paned window
    as I stand up to hunt the sky
    for the stripes of my childhood.
    The more I want to touch
    that rainbow, the more it drifts away.

    II

    Persuasion

    When you wonder about
    what you want anew
    try persuading yourself
    and the answer will come to you.

    III

    Wishing Well

    Yesterday I released a penny
    in that deepest tunnel
    of darkness, crossing my fingers
    and begging for wellness.

    —

    Diana Raab, Ph.D. is an award-winning poet, memoirist, blogger, essayist and speaker.  Her book, “Writing for Bliss: A Seven-Step Plan for Telling Your Story and Transforming Your Life” was published in 2017.  Raab is a regular blogger for Psychology Today, Huff50 (The Huffington Post), and PsychAlive. More at dianaraab.com.

     

  • Geode by Beth Politsch

    The news of your cancer
    began a fracture – a small crack
    we thought could be patched.

    But then it crept outward into the multicolored expanse of time
    and spread gray
    outward from its edges
    like the matte surface of a stone.

    I’ve tried drinking
    to stop my mind
    from trudging
    along that deepening fissure
    that spans from month one of your illness
    to month twenty when you died.

    But I never manage to dull the sharp edges
    of your truths:

    You were too young and too kind
    and so imperfect
    and complicated
    on your surface
    that you were everyone’s favorite
    sister and friend.

    The pain is unstoppable now,
    and in this strange middle phase
    of my life, I have accepted it
    as necessary.

    Now I am walking with purpose
    to break the gray veil
    of your sickness.
    I conjure spikes
    from my heels
    and push them down into the darkness.

    I fall to my knees
    and my hands become pick-axes.
    I claw into the fear until it smashes open,
    exposing its crystal center.

    And this is where I find you:

    In this precious cache
    of mineralized memories
    you sparkle with facets
    both jagged and smooth,
    your light and color

    reflecting
    into all dimensions.

    —

    Beth Politsch is a storyteller, poet and copywriter based in Lawrence, Kansas. She currently creates content for Hyland Software and writes children’s books and poetry in her free time.