Contour drawing

by

Janet Butler

A grey path curves and angles
the creamy white of a rough grained surface
adding a subtle interest
to the purity of evolving form;
the paper’s bumps and gouges deviate
that hairline perfection
with a touch
of much desired
variation.

The pencil glides and grooves
the yielding surface,
excavations of thought
searching dots that float,
imaginary buoys
decoys that hold design
within the limits
shaped by line.

Janet Butler has been living in Berkeley, CA, for the last two years, after a long residence abroad in central Italy, where she developed her passion for both watercolor painting and poetry writing. For five years she worked with the Italian poet Romeo Giuli on a translation of his poems, many of which were published by Solveig Publishing House, Siena, Italy. Her own poems have been published both online and in print. Currently she has an online chapbook, Eden Fables at LanguageandCulture.net. Shadowline, a collection of 50 poems, was published by Gatto Publishing, Scotland, as an iBook in 2007. Recent and future publications include Ampersand, The Indented Pillow, and Cerulean Rains. For more about Janet, visit her website.

Cruise Control Memory on I-65

by

Megan Roth

I watched my truths unfold.
A baby hand wrapping a pinky finger.
Paper beating rock. Smashed lightning bug palm.
Tight plastic first grade pencil bag.
Bus Eight seat sheen from black girls' braids.
Plastic bluebird barrettes heaped in a
Junk drawer pile.

I saw the faded jumpers hanging in the beige closet.
Keds on the floor, black smudges on white rubber soles.
Watery red apples by Formica mail piles.
Smudged Boxcar Children staggered
High beside the paint dripped book case.
Fat chalk chipping on the black asphalt driveway.

The vanilla Keebler Elves sleeping in a blue coffee can.
Wax paper levels, tiers of smiling cookies,
Burnt Tollhouse pieces buried in the rubble.
Tumbleweed carpet balls on the scratchy den rug.
Grandma's batik butterflies in the yellow half bath,
Lemon Pledge on Mama's leaning chocolate brown piano,
Melting in heat of it all.

 

 

Armageddon Days

by

Jéanpaul Ferro

In the phone booth on 47th Street ,
the city steeped in bottle green/neon,
too weak to seek out what’s appropriate,
these legs, waterfalls, in her living memory,
in the paper—another war to wet our beaks;

Jesus, pick the phone, need to talk ASAP;

I see it all on the looks on each passing face,
secretly, eyes dreaming poetry out of the light,
living the life they got—right or wrong, perfect/not;
I’ve never heard singing so dark in a place,
horns blaring, air rushing by, cars splashing water,

Jesus, you there? maybe you can come—quick!

There is something to say for not saying anything,
right or wrong; solitary/strong; peace or fighting?
I’ll be who I am; I don’t know about you;
the wind in my veins getting colder every minute,
a million faces to see when I only need one:

hello? is anyone there? hello? hello? hello?

 

 

The Secret

by

Heather MacPherson

What if
I had kept that secret for you,
met you on slim, stone streets,
clutched hands, trusted your
unsettled eyes.

My loyalty lay elsewhere,
on jagged waves,
your brother’s thick hands
dispatching sand and

that shrewd, cruel boy, who
laid ashes so quick between us,
was not beautiful enough to
drown me first.

Seminal, ancient night:
me in flowered, synthetic fibers,
you clad in pubescent
confidence, in the shadows,

you did push-ups and gave me 
an equivocal compliment.

Then I left you both behind.

Now lines bracket my eyes and
my body, in decline since 6th grade,
is ever more offensive;

You two never would have
loved it then,
never honored me like he does now:
clearly, in the stunning sunlight,
on water slides, in laden boats,
with his big hands and
his inestimable heart.

 

 

Heather MacPherson was born in Newport, RI, but currently resides in East Providence. She has a BFA in Creative Writing from Roger Williams University. Her short story, “The Cigarette Rebellion” was recently published in The Toasted Cheese Literary Journal. She is an administrative assistant for a non-profit agency and a writer.

After “The Emperor’s New Clothes”

by

Peter McGuire

I love listening to bad poetry
Especially yours
The way you enunciate
Like a bus with cut brake lines
Veering for the bay
Every consonant a street sign
Bowled over by your voice
 
I knew we shouldn’t’ve let the metaphors play in the street
I will cry for weeks
 
I love listening to bad poetry
Especially mine
When you read it
Like you just found out
That the king’s robes weren’t invisible
They weren’t there
That my words weren’t the truth
Just what my brain can bare
 
Let’s hang the tailors
Let’s feed the rumors
Let’s sell the kingdom to corporate
And reinvest the funds
Let’s write bad poetry
Get worse eternally
Let’s live life flowing free
And wish that it could be

 

Et Tu Morning

by

John Grey

Dawn slices through                                                 
the cracks in curtains.                                              
The parting of
the dust motes,
even wedges between the notes
of snoring,
those anti-bird calls.
Dreams can't even
stand the warm,
let alone the heat.
They bum off like fog.
The radio alarm
kicks in,
the newspaper splats
onto the path.
News is here,
news of the world,
that bellicose gathering
of people, landscapes
and events,
of all that denies me sleep.
I rub the glaze from my eyes,
to let more light in.
By this, I may as well be
a secret agent in the pay of morning.
Before my first coffee,
I'm already inhaling the caffeine
of what's expected of me.
Work. Love. Duty. Feeling.
My watch circles my wrist
like it’s the war party
and I’m the wagons.
The first shot is fired.
6.30 A.M. pulls the trigger.