By Duane L. Herrmann
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Slowly
savoring each bite,
each page,
each chapter,
each paragraph.
Chew it thoughtfully,
carefully,
let the words sink,
deeply,
treasure them,
they are priceless,
and be grateful
for such contact
with another mind –
communion
with a kindred soul;
you are enriched
and continue on.
– Duane L. Herrmann…
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By Dara Kalima
Posted on
Mom grows stalagmites.
They’re made of toothpaste.
Drips from her cavern each morning
landing not quite into the bowl.
The basin isn’t out of reach,
but she’s forgotten to extend.
Or to spit. Just drip.
Mom used to be the neat one.
I was the messy one.
The eggshell stalagmite
matches the eggshell counter,
her myopic eyes seldom notices
the heightening mound.
It repulses my senses.
I don’t rush its removal
knowing it’ll eventually be missed.
– Dara Kalima…
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By Duane L. Herrmann
Posted on
A title:
when it comes
the poem will come too.
Where does he look?
Inside?
Outside?
All the world around?
Searching
for a title,
for a theme.
Desire is present
but no direction.
A poet in search of a title
is a sad, pathetic thing.
Does he search
through ancient tomes?
Or current fads?
Or some time in between?
dlh…
By Zachary Kluckman
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A diorama of function, all clockwork and organ.
……………Transparency means the light is bending.
Damn this gravity. Suspension is spirit’s legless shadow,
……………At least here in this hall. A woman, remembering
Something she cannot name, wanders as of seeking
……………Light. This is how shadow destroys itself.
Through an open window. As she falls, a silver spoon
……………Spins a web of light from her pocket. The trees
Do not understand this broken kite. This bitter copper
……………Water. Since the first time she fell, I have taken
The dead inside of me nightly. Spoken the transposed
……………Tongue of mirrors. She is not the first
Of the living to disappear. The first of my children, now
……………A blur of movement under water
Where there is no water.…
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By Peter Cavallaro
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The Wanted, always, envies the Needed,
regarding it bitterly
as the senior party between them.
It makes no secret of this fact:
How sweet a day must be,
it muses,
to bask in affections
without ever glancing over shoulder,
having no cause to dread
the turn of the wheel;
how sweet to shed the shame
of being marked a luxury.
Now, the Needed is more coy:
It fears not the ebbing of tides,
having settled well into a rhythmic life.
But, privately, the Needed longs, longs
for the thrill
of being a thing of covet.
There must be a certain grit
forged in the disquietude, it imagines,
a hard-won self-respect that banishes
any doubts as to one’s caliber;
for the Wanted thing must fight
to hold its keep,
always jockeying to charm a fickle appetite. …
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By Zachary Kluckman
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The faces behind the trees wither
……………With the radiance of will-o-the-wisps.
To the uninitiated eye this blood
……………As thin as moonlight ribbons loss.
For those who have lost more than life
……………There are rivers deeper than oceans
Ascending these hills and hollows.
……………Bone is a dull bell the winter rings
Into shapes of haunting, melodies
……………That compose your specific gravity.
Returning limb for limb the weight
……………Of absent children. The pregnant womb
Emptied by the callous moon. Eyes
……………Of bloodshot destiny, hands made cradle.
The flower of youth that will never bloom.
……………The earth turns away from such use.
Tell me, am I wrong to pull
……………The dead into conversation, seeking the name
She would have carried among
……………Their number?…
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By Brandyce Ingram
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She has one knee pulled to her chest,
Her face downcast.
My biological host stole the sun.
I can’t bring myself to call her mother,
But I’ve always had a good imagination and will try.
I understand now, I told her.
Hardened eyes kissed by time,
She’d seen it all.
My human mother raised a mirror.
Do you see me?
I asked the statue, but ivy armor muted her.
My mother’s heels stabbed into the dirt for the family Christmas photo.
It was winter; the stone was cold.
Come spring, chlorophyllic stains wept down her chest.
I’d feel her breasts and pretend
The blood pulsing in my palm was a real-life heartbeat.
Do you love me?…
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