Category: Poetry

The Hawthorne Speaks

By Mary Buchinger

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Of course   I’ve    noticed
how  you’re   drawn     to
what    you    call         my
wounds            symmetry
doesn’t beckon the    eye 
no—       disruption       &
disorder  a lopsidedness
reminding  you  you  are
dreaming   the   rest    of
your     life     asleep     in

expectation   until         a
patch    of   bark    shows
you a           swirl       &  a
swelling   about a      gap       
that       once              was
wholeness                   my
surface  wavy  like     old     
glass          the           slow
assemblage     of      cells 
moving in   to  cover    & 
protect  rippling  up  the
roughened  river      new
growth      a     whirlpool
whose  center    narrows
by season    &     I  know

you     want         nothing 
more  than to stick your
hand    into    this    soft-
edged  opening  to    feel  
reparation     what     we
trees  are     go      ahead 
touch  me    &     awaken  
to doubt

– Mary Buchinger

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This Is Why You Need Them

By William Soldan

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Names. You’ve got this thing with them. The names of plants, rocks, native species. Concrete details have become a favorite pastime.

Vehicles, clouds, chemical compounds.

You file names away in no particular order but know right where they are when you need them. And you will. Need them.

Architecture, muscles, functions.

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Life without Parole

By Karen Wolf

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Hope slips through fingers
like time spent waiting
often just a tick ahead,
visible, but elusive.
Or it hangs back like a stopped clock
no longer viable.

Hope survives fire, preserved
beneath blackened structures
housing every possession.
It resides beneath blankets
of the terminally ill until handfuls of dirt
hit casket lids.
It drips down the sides of chilled
liquor bottles and heroine needles
passing through moments, days, years of addiction.


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Penitentes

By Carol Barrett

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             Abiquiu, New Mexico

I return to Leopoldo Garcia’s home gallery
where, this damp morning-glory morning,
he wears overalls and one tennis shoe.

Yesterday his litany of augurs, acrylic and clay
flowed like red nectar.  Hummingbird
in his studio, I bring a gift of poems. 

Leopoldo paints with a hole in his heart
pierced by a priest darker than a cassock.
He grieves for the children gone forever,

mica tears grafted on flat masks, tiny
eyes, round mouths. Nearby his studio
a weathered red and white figure

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Winter Solstice

By Bruce Levine

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12/21/16 @ 11:28 a.m.

I walk my dog
Through liquid air
Miniscule droplets
Pelt my forehead
As I make my rounds
Of the parking lot

The winter solstice
Less than a day old                                                     Only yesterday
The morning sky
Not quite fulfilling
Wakefulness                                                                Yesterday
…………………………………………………………………………..The shortest
The sky                                                                         Of the year
Blue-gray
With a tinge of white
At the border                                                               At the horizon
Like an artist’s canvass
Not quite ready
Prepared
Flat
Waiting


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At the Crossroads

By Mark A. Murphy

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In search of light and love and lost time,
the months are flying by
faster than either of us imagined.

 Loneliness speeds us to the grave
more surely than
disease,
yet we remain impotent in the face of it.

 Try as we might to cling to the past
and each other, the present
has a proclivity for mass murder.

 Wind swept and shell-shocked, we stand
on different
shore lines
ineluctably alone, defying the odds.

 Our fates inextricably bound, written
by fear and solitude,
unerringly devoted, waiting around to die.

Mark A. Murphy

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That Time . . .

By Larry Thacker

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. . . you burnt your lip on the coffee mug, distracted by the pretty crow eating french-fries in the parking lot, thrown out by a litterer during a conversation with a potential lover who wanted to impress with callousness, the girl who was only in the car by virtue of a blind date agreement, trusting another’s word, who hadn’t noticed the bird or the fries, her window rolled up since she was chilly, her mother’s advice unheeded as to the need for a sweater for the evening, the lights still on at home, that mother sitting, not really watching the television, wondering if the daughter will do what she did on blind dates, the worry turning to fantasizing about lost years and chances, the husband, separated from the worried wife, prone in a downtown apartment – cars passing loudly along the avenue – intently watching a rented DVD, absently murmuring on the phone with an old girlfriend, that woman, at work in the restaurant on a break where the fries originated, having just dropped some more for the giddy teenagers idling in line at the drive-thru, which is visible from the table where you sat when, instead of being in the moment of coffee and conversational enjoyment, you were entertained by a frolicking bird in the innocent evening sun in a littered parking lot – of which you blamed – mentally – for causing you to burn your lips, which would later tempt me but were ultimately kept at bay due to the pain.

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