Issue 03
October 2019
poetry
visual art
Farm
It will be a long long time before we see
these cumulations again, these birds again, Carolina
conure wafting westward with the smell of
cockleburs, noise plummeting
It will be a long long time before we see
these peatlands again, compress burn decay store
again: Bog, Fen,
brackish plummeting
Watch now these stiff men, pale
dim faces like the ground we pasture
skillful with sickle and the tearing and the grazing
Watch now these sick men, shale
as the ground cutting farmlands to sudden boundary,
selfish, it seems, to the battle of
worms in the ground,
for their gnawing, smothered soon
with the interests in their ichor,
their silver, their plenty,
will birth old problems, old illness, old
borrowers, will dam like this soil clogged
in the sediments by which this bog coalesces
to new niches, new soils, new
gardens, the salt of the water minced
with the fire and the vegetation
the mosquitos and marrow, the green and the
nausea of motion in this eroded and rooted place.
Gari Eberly
this leaf
I paint this page with words
So eloquent each stroke. Precise.
Strategic in exposing the hidden dirt.
And in the darkest of corners, shine this light.
I fill this page with words
In hopes to empty this heart—
Of mine. So resilient to the hurts,
the crimes, leaving the toughest stains and marks.
I pack this page with words; in
love, onto leaf I transfer these transgressions
When pen kisses paper, I deliver these burdens
Released repression, pain provoked obsessions, my confessions.
I burn this page of words
Smile as smoke rises, goodbye caresses me
Only now am I able to move forward
No longer my pains but yours. I am free.
Waves
Bethany Johnson
Wonderlies
White Rabbit’s pocket watch murmurs tick tock.
Entering the playful realm of beauty, truth and premonition.
Frolicking in friendly fields, trailing White Rabbit.
No, twas not heel to warm, rich soil –
Ground bare, crisp, quenched.
Tumbling down, mystical rabbit hole.
No, twas not magical mess of a stumble –
Nosedive, plummet, dusty disorder.
Wandering the whispers of wooden doorways.
No, twas not liberating, optional –
Tapped, locked, narrow.
Beyond doorway: lay luscious garden greens, buzzing beauty.
No, twas bare, lifeless, soundless –
Dead, shivering, untouched antique.
Longing to undo doorway, tempating gadgets gaze down.
No, twas not sweet alteration –
“DrinkMe”, “Eat Me”: instantly irreversible, nausea, sour swallows.
Hasty, honest alarm clock chimes: tick tock.
Instantly escaping the playful realm of beauty, truth and premonition.
Back to the wild wonderland of beauty, lies, and repetition.
Christine Capobianco
In Wanderlust
I see a trail of stars, sharpened arrows,
freeway lines and stop signs and street lights near,
the open road sings a song of sorrow.
I’d swim across the Atlantic you know,
oh the salt serpents and tritons I’d spear,
trailing sea stars with my sharpened arrow.
I’d crawl across the desert for you so
I’ll climb every mountain top without fear,
every still road sings a song of sorrow.
I envy the pilots and plane audio,
and red–eyed–luggage that sits in the rear.
Follow the trail of stars, cabin arrow.
I am wanderlust in your afterglow,
the world around us, just a spinning sphere.
Without, the road sings a song of sorrow.
My heart you stole, no one else could borrow
and yours I will hold, from far away dear,
for your eyes hold a trail of stars, arrows
pointing to the open road, sing us home.