A Poem by J.K. Durick

Rubbish Day

It's one of the few rituals we have left
In this neighborhood; it's a matter of
Timing, of course, then placement and
Movement play their roles, rolling our
Offerings to the curb, line the street

One for our trash and garbage and
One for our better selves, recycling
As if bits and pieces will return to us
As if the refuse we produce lives on
Reincarnated versions for further use

On Thursday morning, quite early on
We wheel our plastic bins to the curbs
If by chance a neighbor appears on
The same mission we might bow our
Heads in recognition of the ritual's
Communal nature and then move on

Some of us to work, some back into
Their days of watching and waiting for
Around ten they arrive to a fanfare
Of noise worthy of the place they fill
In our lives; roaring, clanking, beeping

An array of colors and logos; in my
Neighborhood we don't all subscribe
To the same server, we're diverse in
This area at least, different companies
The same service, salvation in one of

Its many disguises, our offerings
Accepted once more, God or the gods
Fulfilled and we begin anew, go on
With our lives of not quite so quiet
Desperation, the purr and hum of our
Time spent as the litter builds up again
Builds inevitably toward next Thursday.



J.K. Durick is a writing teacher at the Community College of Vermont and an online writing tutor.  His recent poems have appeared in Shot Glass Journal, Black Mirror, Third Wednesday, Thrush Poetry Journal, and Leaves of Ink.

A Poem by Leland Seese

Until Next Time

I feel safest when I am held
by the corner of the kitchen counter
where I tuck myself in
with the sink at my left
and the stovetop at my back.

It feels like warmth,
like coffee brewing and bread toasting,
clean like plates just out of the dishwasher,
like onions sweetening on the hot skillet.

I stare at the broken door
of the refrigerator.  My hands
still shake with adrenaline
from pulling him away
before he tore off the whole door.

I stand in the corner
calming down and girding up
for next time.


Leland Seese is a pastor in Seattle, Washington, and, along with his wife, Lisa Konick, a foster/adoptive/biological parent of six children.  He has previously published poetry in The Christian Century Magazine.

A Poem from M.J. Iuppa

At Arm’s Length

 

My arm has fallen asleep.  It doesn’t know I’m still awake.

Lying beside me, strangely detached, its fingers think

to move.

                                                       Tremor of electricity—

little by little, in the dark, my arm rises up & shakes off

a dream--- its hand waves in small circles. It wants to be

a purple finch.                          

                                                    Come down from there.

It flies out of reach  . . . What else have I lost in the casualty

of sleep?

 

 

 

M.J.Iuppa lives on a small farm near the shores of Lake Ontario. For the past ten years, she and her husband Peter Tonery have been committed to food sustainability. She has numerous publications (poetry, fiction, nonfiction and plays) in national and international journals as well as two full length poetry collections Night Traveler (Foothills, 2003) and Within Reach (Cherry Grove Collection, 2010) and five chapbooks; her latest prose chapbook Between Worlds (Foothills, 2013). She served as the poetry adviser (2007-2012) for the New York Foundation for the Arts, and since 1986, has worked as a teaching artist in the schools, K-12 for a variety of agencies (RCSD, BOCES 2, Young Audiences, Genesee Valley BOCES, Project U.N.I.Q.U.E. and V.I.T.A.L. Writers & Books, and others) Currently she is Writer-in-Residence and Director of Arts Minor Program at St. John Fisher College.

A Poem by Linda Bearss

Quitting is Not an Option

 

He shakes his head in disbelief

he scuffles toward the cement block wall

pulls on his team sweats, sliding

down the shoulders of the tight singlet

tugging on his hat, eyes hidden, face

shadowed—anonymity in another loss.

 

He sits crouched, knees up

on the bleacher’s narrow step

face buried in his hands

every time, every match

he darts out faster

strains harder

strives longer

yet the moment arrives—

the referee slaps the rubber mat

and steps back to raise the other

boy’s arm, again and again.

 

He has grown four inches since summer

the baby fat is melting over  his

growing muscles—girls notice

 

He still has that boyish face

and innocent hazel eyes at 16.

 

Patience is a hard win

growing and leaving

is exhausting work.

 

A foot taller than her

he’s the youngest of

many brothers . . . warriors.

 

She settles in again

perched high in the bleachers

joining the loud crowd

shouting and breathless.

 

This is not the moment for hugs and comfort

mothers learn as sons grow and leave.

 

His anger is necessary

it mocks and drives him

to learn to press longer

to stare down what he cannot yet see.

 

She waits and prays:

“God, give him what he needs.”

 

They learn in silence and sweat

he faces his own demons and

designs his next match alone

quitting cannot be an option.

 

She watches silently as he

pulls up the yellow straps

shakes his muscles loose

and bounces on the polished

gymnasium floor, ready

for another turn to win

weighing moves and choices

beneath the crowd’s cheers and taunts

he waits to prove himself.

 

 

 

Linda Bearss has published poetry as well as articles on Theodore Roethke and Paul Laurence Dunbar. Her poetry and literary analysis have appeared in several anthologies, including: The Midwest Miscellany XXXV, Midwest Miscellany XXXIV, Midwest Miscellany XXVI, Temenos: Special Roethke Edition, Of Sun and Sand, Poised in Flight, and Tic Toc (anthologies published by Kind of a Hurricane Press). She is in the process of compiling two chapbooks, Steppin’on the Cracks and Taming a Tightrope. Linda Bearss is a long term fellow of the National Writing Project and member of the Academy of American Poets. 

 

A Poem by Sy Roth

Shrinking World

 

Espied a shrinking world

loath to participate on it

its circumference half-radii

so small I would eventually

find my feet entwined

around  my head

 

Buttressed by air

Proximate distance from my body

A wordless composition- paper’s thickness

Rustles close to the rank smells of being.

 

Pushing desires--

To push away from the others

Spring clean and shove it all into plastic sheets,

shrink-wrap the flotsam

and leave them unprotected from winter winds

and a scalding summer sun.

 

Met myself in a zone of silence

Where it all shrank to a pencil nub

pink eraser the only monument plopped at its summit

an effervescent bubble pops mid-air

showering a nasal spray of dis-ease

smelly big toe waggles serpentine by my nose

curling up into the venomous air.

 

I with it

Infectious weevil.

 

 

 

Sy Roth comes riding in and then canters out. He resides in Mount Sinai , far from Moses and the tablets. This has led him to find words for solace.   He spends his time writing and playing his guitar. He has published in many online publications. One of his poems, Forsaken Man, was selected for Best of 2012 poems in Storm Cycle.  Twice selected Poet of the Month in Poetry Super Highway .  He was named Poet of the Month for the month of February in BlogNostics. Included in Poised in Flight anthology.  A Murder of Crows named Poem of the Week in Toucan.

 

A Poem by Chad W. Lutz

 

Summer Sore 

 

Shriek bang! Shriek bang!

 

A few persons clap.

Children chase each other in stir-crazy games of tag

under a mid-summer drizzle.

 

Shriek bang!

A couple of the kids stop to watch

and then continue their merciless quest of tagging each other “it.”

           

A young writer, alone,

leans against a public restroom; cold beer

warming in his left hand with his other in his pocket.

 

He’s beginning to feel a little inebriated,

perhaps a bit too drunk.

 

His legs begin to numb, finally.

The previous days' runs through the Smokies,

up and over Rich Mountain through a series of storms and bridle trails,

still reminding him with each leaden step.

 

His clothes are still drying on the line.

A mist sees to it they won't.

But the night is clearing.

His legs are numbing.

 

He flexes his quads,

and then his hamstrings,

gives them both a rub,

and then returns to nursing

his beer and gazing up

at the free show of

pop and sizzle

against the

backdrop

of the

evening.

It feels good. Perhaps it will last, despite the ebb of seasons.

 

 

 

Chad W. Lutz was born in 1986 in Akron, Ohio, and raised in the neighboring suburb of Stow. His works have been featured in Diverse Voices Quarterly, The Dying Goose, Haunted Waters Press, and prominently on AltOhio.com, of which he serves managing editor. Chad currently works in North Canton writing web content for an online job resource website. An avid athlete, Chad runs competitively for a Northeast Ohio running club and swims in his spare time. He aspires to run the Olympic marathon at the 2016 games.

Two Poems by David Chorlton

The Fading

 

The paint flakes away from the letters

spelling Christ is the Answer

along the tall white side on a trailer

left in a yard beside the Interstate

to stand before all weathers

while traffic on its way to Tucson

passes by. The message is paler

at each journey taken; in winter

when a chill runs inside the metal,

and in summer when the heat

burns right through it. Years ago

the words stood out, their letters

had crisp edges, and the black was blacker

than any black before it. Nobody

could pretend not to have seen it;

there was no way around

considering the possibility that here

was the truth. Now the bold assertion

has become shabby as graffiti

after too much exposure

to merciless light.

 

 

 

Along the Interstate

 

It’s a clear day for the Swainson’s hawks

coming home to summer

on the flyway north, and for the turkey vultures

circling the sun

while mountains crumble

into the sky where it touches the desert.

 

It’s a clear light that shines on the billboards

selling lies to the open space

surrounding them, and on

the disused water tower the freight trains pass

going east, west, and east again

 

to where the wind blows ill across the blooming

ocotillo, toward the wreckage

blocking the highway for the next

ten hours they say

at the truck stop stocked with souvenir coyotes

made in China, but one driver

 

swaying gently with the country music

that plays in the urinals

says nothing will stop him

from leaving right now; he knows

the roads only birds can see.

 

 

 

David Chorlton was born in Austria, grew up in Manchester, England, and went to live for several years in Vienna before moving to Phoenix in 1978. Arizona’s landscapes and wildlife have become increasingly important to him and a significant part of his poetry. His most recent collection is The Devil’s Sonata from FutureCycle Press. The shadow side of Vienna provides the core of The Taste of Fog, a work of fiction published by Rain Mountain Press.