If you were Summer, born so rich your medians are filled with four kinds of wildflowers: blue sailors, Queen Anne’s lace, purple clover, yellow toadflax (wild snapdragons also called Butter & Eggs), then would you need a tattoo? Cut and bleed to heal in this humid heat? Born so rich no one to impress, how you dress the cynosure of all seasons. The others are either putting on or taking off, Winter’s poverty naked for all to see.
L. Shapley Bassen is a poet and author who has many published works to her name. Her “Portrait of a Giant Squid”was the First Place winner in the 2015 Austin Chronicle Short Story Contest. She was an editor at the Prick of the Spindle[archived], and is now an editor at Craft Literary. Bassen indie-published Summer of the Long Knives (Typhoon Media), Lives of Crime & Other Stories (Texture Press), and Showfolk & Stories [Inkception Books]; she was a finalist for the 2011 Flannery O’Connor Award, a first reader for Electric Literature, won the 2009 APP Drama Prize, a Mary Roberts Rinehart Fellowship, and was a poetry/fiction reviewer for The Rumpus, etc. Her first poetry collection, What Suits a Nudist? is forthcoming from Clare Songbirds Publishing House.
Moments dwindle in fragile isolation, a touch of doubt, fragile, as Dresden china, of past days
Strewn thoughts, lost in short sentences, the past scattered and forgotten. Fragile future, silent horizon, calm sea in the lee
Past days, fragile as morning dew. Presence opened in the book of silence, daydreams, forgotten in the afterglow
Gert W. Knop – pseudonym André Steinbach – was born in 1943. He lives, since 2009, in Zittau/Saxony/Germany. He studied Grafic Arts at the Free Academy and Werkkunstschule Mannheim, Germany. He was a teacher of lithography, wood, and linocut at the “Academia de Bellas Artes of the Universidad del Norte,” in Antofagasta, Chile. He studied Tropical Agriculture in Germany and in Scotland (University of Edinburgh). Longer work stays in Israel, Sri Lanka, Papua New Guinea, Vanuatu, and Chile. He writes poetry (German / English / Spanish), short stories, fairy tales, and plays.
We will wait for the tide to turn.
It will carry us away
wave after wave
gathering up the debris
which surrounds us
sucking it up like so much dust
getting rid of it all,
with the flow.
We must wait for the tide to turn.
It will bring us home
leaving new things
there with us.
Bits and pieces.
Leaving them for us to find
so that we can take
what we need
Or should we swim against the tide?
See where it takes us.
We could try.
It couldn’t be worse.
Lynn White lives in north Wales. Her work is influenced by issues of social justice and events, places and people she has known or imagined. She is especially interested in exploring the boundaries of dream, fantasy, and reality, and writes hoping to find an audience for her musings. She was shortlisted in the Theatre Cloud ‘War Poetry for Today’ competition and has been nominated for a Pushcart Prize and a Rhysling Award. Her poetry has appeared in many publications including: Apogee, Firewords, Peach Velvet, Light Journal and So It Goes.
In memory of Esther Lucille (Harris) Barrick. July 4th, 1923-January 14th, 2010
Folded neatly, decorated with embroidery and crochet, mom’s apron is a reminder of the many great meals she cooked on the old wood stove. Wearing her handmade apron, she would cook skillet cornbread, red beans and buttermilk biscuits made from scratch. She would add a pinch of this and a pinch of that making a gourmet meal, fit for a king. Her sweet southern tea would steep all morning on the back porch in the Oklahoma sun. I can still hear the screen door opening and mom would say, “Dinner’s Ready!”
Background for this Poem:
This is “a poem I wrote in memory of my mother, Esther Lucille (Harris) Barrick. She was a great mother to her eight children and a wonderful grandmother. Her birthday is on July 4th. She passed away in 2010 and left a great legacy behind. I wrote, “Mom’s Apron” in her memory.” ~ Mary Bone
Mary Bone’s Poetry can be found at Spillwords, Literary Librarian and other places. A short story entitled, “Koolaid Street” is currently posted at Literary Yard.
Back when the water was blue we told each other secrets. And we talked through all the days. But sometimes colors change, don’t they?
Background for this Poem:
This woman has experienced the loss of her spouse. She is now looking at the sun setting on her own life, hence the color change of the ocean and sky. The poem is inspired by the recent death of one of my neighbors. His wife is now alone. She is 99. He was 98.
Linda Imbler’s poetry collections include two self-published works, Big Questions, Little Sleep, and Lost and Found. Soma Publishing has published her two e-book collections, The Sea’s Secret Song, and Pairings, a hybrid of short fiction and poetry.
Mysterious purple white wisteria vines of flowery grapes gemmate on branches wrapping tree trunks wisteria enormous moonblooms delirious.
Wild mild wisteria wondrous aromas falling idly from ferns winding wandering through winds.
Wisteria purple white mysterious lisping whispering softly luminous as raindrops sparkle upon blossoms enormous wisteria starlights delirious.
Joan McNerney’s poetry has been included in numerous literary magazines such as Seven Circle Press, Dinner with the Muse, Warriors with Wings, Blueline, and Halcyon Days. Four Bright Hills Press Anthologies, several Poppy Road ReviewJournals, and numerous Kind ofA Hurricane Press Publications have accepted her work. Her latest title is “Having Lunch with the Sky” and she has four Best of the Net nominations.
Here’s dawn, in golden high heels, and sky pushing teal and ochre onto the early risers. I yawn before the uncurtained window. The colors take sides. Light blue above, a deeper hue, almost indigo, to the waters of the inlet.
Thank God, the nightmare’s behind me and boats bob, the fishermen unfold nets, at the wharf below. Beasts arose, men were slaughtered, and all because I ate late. But everything’s coming out of cold storage. And above, birds are in the ascendancy, mostly gulls but the one dark solemn crow that remains from my sleep.
No storm today. Not when the morning sings to me like this. Nothing ominous. A sparkle on the surface. A good catch out at sea. The demons would tell me that this is all outside of me and they’re the ones that have the inside running. But maybe on such a day, I am also outside of me. Find me there, not back in my brainwashed head. I inhale warm air. I exhale intentions made clear.
John Grey is an Australian poet, and U.S. resident. Recently published in That, Muse, Poetry East and North Dakota Quarterly with work upcoming in Haight-Ashbury Literary Journal, Hawaii Review and The Dunes Review.