A Poem by James B. Nicola

History of a Page

I grew up in snow country, where my best
friend was, after my cat, a certain oak.
Broad-shouldered as a varsity upperclassman,
he gave rides to many of us at once.

But he didn't look like an oak for a whole year.
In summer he stood symmetrical, supportive, flush
with green life--almost virile, the kind of creature
you might choose for a friend, but would have you for one

whether you wanted him or not, or wouldn't care.  He took
all the kicks and stomps we doled out, and didn't mind.
Lolling, we could be quiet, in his arms,
whatever the fracas below.

But he turned into a barren frail thing come winter,
shivering and naked so that even when the paths
were not snow-laden, I'd walk around his woods
so as not to embarrass him in his senescence.

But I'd come right back to him each spring, dependable
as--spring, and tell him all the news of what
had happened to me over the winter (which was never much,
since it was winter) and ask him, How are you?

Now as I write, I have learned that our woods
have been chopped down by the paper mills.
And as I hold this leaf, white, cool, and open,
I feel that oak gripped gladly in my hands.

James B. Nicola follows poets Frank O'Hara and Stanley Kunitz and humorist Robert Benchley with his first collection of poetry, Manhattan Plaza,  as a New York author originally from Worcester, Massachusetts.  His second collection, Stage to Page:  Poems from the Theater, will be out in 2016.  James has been widely published in periodicals including Kind of a Hurricane Press (several times), Rattle, and The Southwest and Atlanta Reviews,  and has won several poetry awards.

A Poem by Anca Vlasopolos

A Lot More than Half Way

          in our dark woods
notches on trees        aluminum tabs nailed
tell us

          from here on
you're on the path of the orphan
          here
you lose your best love
a leg    a knee               one or more of your senses

          as we crawl on
we grow thankful
          for the small mercies
half a day's
sun

Anca Vlasopolos published the award-winning novel The New Bedford Samurai; the award-winning memoir No Return Address:  A Memoir of Displacement; three collections of Poems, Cartographies of Scale (and Wing) (2015); Walking Toward Solstice (2012); and Penguins in a Warming World (2007); three poetry chapbooks, a detective novel, Missing Members, and over two hundred poems and short stories.  She was nominated several times for the Pushcart Award in poetry and fiction.

A Poem by Dayna Patterson

Jessica

     My daughter! O my ducats! O my daughter!

                                          -- Merchant of Venice

Rumor has it I traded my mother's turquoise ring
for a monkey.  Truth is I would never trade it,
the only memento I have of her.  I remember her body
bent over a counter, preparing dough for matzah,
in the days before we could afford servants,
the soup of her smell warming me.  Her illness
was slick, stole her with shadow hands too quick.
My father's lukewarm care for me grew cold
from counting all his coins, ducats for daughters.
All the gold could not bring her back.  Poor ghost.
Would he miss me--or the money--most?

Dayna Patterson is an MFA candidate at Western Washington University.  Her poetry has appeared or is forthcoming in North American Review, REAL, and Weave, among others.  She is Poetry Editor for Psaltery & Lyre, and her chapbooks, Loose Threads and Mothering, are available from Flutter Press.  She lives in the Pacific Northwest with her husband and two daughters.

A Poem by Erren Geraud Kelly

Poet Diva Chick

who has coffeehouse
or whole foods market
running through her
veins
scan her dna and you'll see
thrift shoop
swimming
in it
hear her open her mouth
and you'll hear alternative music or
hip hop living in it

she gives kids on the street m&ms or
now and laters

she sees you
gives you a kiss now
and promises another one,
later

maya angelou, amber tamblyn
and jill scott
are some of her sisters
dauxrianne laux, wanda coleman
nikki giovanni and nicole blackman
you can't resist her

she can give her love freely like
edna millay, floating like a feather
or like sylvia plath, a thunderstorm
no matter the weather

her body may be a temple
or she may look like a
buddah

she's not out to impress
as she's blowing bubbles
but she'll school ya

words ride the hem of her dress
her love is a hymn she gives to
him

when she opens her mouth
like a bell, she's always heard

she chews licorice like a communion
wafer

a high priestess of words

Erren Geraud Kelly is a pushcart nominated poet based in Los Angeles, has been writing for 25 years and has over 100 publication in print and online in such publications as Hiram Poetry Review, Mudfish, Poetry Magazine (online), Ceremony, Cactus Heart, Similar Peaks, Gloom Cupboard, Poetry Salzburg and other publications.  Most recently, Erren was in "In Our Own Words," a Generation X poetry anthology, and has also been published in other anthologies such as "Fertile Ground," "Beyond the Frontier," and others.  Erren's work can also be seen on YouTube under the "Gallery Cabaret" links.

A Poem by Michael Lee Johnson

I Regret Grinder, But, No Remorse

I have no regret, no grinder of remorse, nor memory of the dental chair.
I have no feeler of sins lost in sand dust with golden teeth, diamond overlay of lies.
Do not dance, play checkers, between the lines of memory-black/white.
I am a sinner wild with elbow muscle, flex right to left.
Dental floss is my Jesus, purple robe, violent-victim.
The cheeks of God whisper fools of toy tot decay, hanger on a cross-victim.
I was an outcast of hell with flames hanging from my behind.
What age of flowers is a whisper into the colors, fool enamel solid white.
I wild elbows flex from right to left, dental floss violent-victim.
I am owner of the cheeks of sunken bones.
What left is decay open space, mouth, tongue, cavities.
Christ never liked the sound of a drill, only aging of flowers, whispers from toy toots.
Lost in the blur of the blue heron I toss my gambling cards, fold.
Back to the farm fields forever and the sounds of wheat in the wind.
Jesus is the stop point, remorse, joy, where the sounds end.
I am an abstract artist, setting black outline in a dental chair,
false teeth pending white, waiting for second coming.



Michael Lee Johnson lived ten years in Canada during the Vietnam era.  he is a Canadian and US citizen.  Today he is a poet, a freelance writer, amateur photographer, small business owner in Itasca, Illinois.  He has been published in more than 880 small press magazines in 27 countries, and he edits 10 poetry sites.  Author's website:  http://poetryman.mysite.com/  Michael is the author of The Lost American:  From Exile to Freedom (136 page book) ISBN:  978-0-595-46091-5, several chapbooks of poetry, including From Which Place the Morning Rises and Challenge of Night and Day, and Chicago Poems.  He also has over 83 poetry videos on YouTube as of 2015:  https://www.youtube.com/user/poetrymanusa/videos  Michael Lee Johnson has been nominated for 2 Pushcart Prize awards for poetry in 2015.

A Poem by H. Edgar Hix

Julie & Ginny

Born to each other:
you rested your lips against her breasts;
she rested her lips against your forehead.
You have been against each other ever since.

Who can blame you, her nailing you
into this body without your choice,
mother of blood but not of soul.

Who can blame her, you forcing yourself
out of her body, breaking umbilical blood,
drinking her milk but not her mind.

Born to each other.
The bond is quantum elastic:
blame without guilt, guilt without crime.
Perhaps it is all the father's fault.

H. Edgar Hix is a Minneapolis poet with a variety of employment backgrounds, including legal secretary (mainly in Legal Aid offices), computer helpdesk, analyst, library clerk, and warehouseman.  Recent publications include Right Hand Pointing and Time of Singing.

A Poem from Joyce Kessel

Eritrean Refugees

On a frail wooden vessel, barely a ship,
369 migrants were left
upon a darkening sea
from Africa to destination unclear.
None with life jackets
nor sea-worthy clothing,
called migrants now,
not refugees,
swept in fearsome waves.
Eight were pregnant women,
many were orphaning children,
including one 13 year old
chasing dreams,
escaping nightmares.

Joyce Kessel has come to understand too well that the reactions to losses and detours can help define a person's character.  She is a member of the Earth's Daughters writing collective and teaches writing & literature in Buffalo, NY, a city with no illusions.