The German in Me

By Mary Brown

 

german poem

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Mary M. Brown is a retired creative writing professor, a Hoosier, not by birth, but by residence and temperament. You can read her work on the Poetry Foundation website, in American Life in Poetry, Quiddity, Four Chambers, and Third Wednesday.

 

Recall

By Chad Lutz

 

I’m not falling asleep.
I’m waking into memories;
of my childhood, my teenage
years, my twenties; in a dream
that lasts forever.

 

I’m kissing girls on the lips,
hugging turns, trading smiles,
lying still on sandy beaches to
listen for the sounds of my heartbeat.

 

And after the school dances are over,
the rich meals are through;
the fleeting images caught
in the miraculous patchwork
webbing of my mind
illuminated like reels of sacred film,

 

that’s when I’ll fall asleep.
I’ll be thirty and write content,
avoid caffeine, floss, flush and wash,
hope no one approaches me at the gym,
and always take my medicine.

 

I’ll fall asleep into life
because the present moment
is never quite the same as what I
intentionally remember
in my dreams.

 

Chad Lutz was born in Akron, Ohio, in 1986 and raised in the neighboring suburb of Stow. A 2008 graduate of Kent State University’s English program, his writing has been featured in Diverse Voices Quarterly, Kind of a Hurricane Press, Haunted Waters Press, and Sheepshead Review. Chad still balls hard in his hometown of Stow and currently works in North Canton writing content for an online job resource site. He also manages an online magazine called AltOhio.com. Chad runs competitively and won the Lake Wobegon Marathon in May 2015, setting the course record by nearly three minutes in a time of 2:33:59. He aspires to qualify for the Olympic Trials.

KLAMATH RIVER AUGUST

By Marc Janssen

 

Kalmath new

 

Marc Janssen would like to be a poet full time, but he also likes to eat. His work is scattered around the internet and in print at such periodicals as Sediments Literary-Arts Journal, Vine Leaves Literary Journal, Off the Coast, Cirque Journal, and The Ottawa Arts Review as well as the anthologies Manifest West, Green is the Color of Winter and The Northern California Perspective. You can find him toiling for the State of Oregon and occasionally eating on the job.

Rebecca Morgan: Raising the Hammer

By George Perreault

 

Sure, I raised it up there in the south pasture, that sign
how love will break the hardest heart, an it weren’t a week,
six days, since my boy Jacob drove hisself head-first
into that railroad bridge over toward Fort Sumner.
An I put it up where that little bitch would see it
ever time she drove from Elida or slipped in through Bethel.
Ain’t no way she could miss it, comin north or west either,
kitty-corner like it is an facin both roads, an it’d be
in the rearview headin back, if’n she ever looked back, like
maybe she does now, thinkin what’s come her way.

 

Lord, that poor boy – well, no, I guess he warn’t a
boy no longer, was he?  Not after what he went through
over in the desert – all them kids, cuz they weren’t no more’n
kids, mosta them, least when they got shipped out, an they
sure as shit weren’t kids coming back.  Not men neither, I spoze,
not whole men anyways, their folks tellin how they’d
wake up screamin, then drinkin an shakin in the sunlight
over what they seen, and, dear Lord, what they had to do.
Hardly one of ‘em aright after that, not completely.
Well, the Parish boy, he don’t seem no different, but then
he was, what, 12, 13, that day he walked in on his momma
doin it with the football coach, his daddy off buildin fence?
Hard to be right after something like that, but the desert,
the desert didn’t seem to bend him much.

 

Acourse the old days, that’s who you sent, folks that needed
a place to be or the ones done somethin pretty bad,
an the judge’d say Army or jail, son?  An if they was
young enough, they’d give the service a shot.
That ball player, the one over Portales – that Joey Moyer? –
oh, Lord, he was some player, wasn’t he?  An he did okay
when he had license to hit folks, just when the season’s done…
you recall how he beat that other feller near to death?

 

An that was his momma too, you know, bringin a different
uncle home ever night from the bar, an Joey sleepin
out in his truck or in the laundromat if it got too cold.
That was earlier, acourse, Viet Nam, but war is war an I guess
he had his fill of it after a couple tours.   Kinda straightened out
when he got back.  Well, he got real quiet, maybe scary quiet,
but still, he ain’t been any major trouble, far as I know.

 

Boys like my Jacob, though, it was a real rough patch, an then
he come home to that little tramp, hearin bout everbody she done
while he was over there gettin his ass shot at, an then the way
she put his face in it somethin awful…wonder he didn’t kill her instead.
He’d just sit up nights long as he could, fightin sleep, tryin to
write them songs as if they’d see him through.  Seems like
in the quiet now, cattle all asleep, I still hear that mournful tune:
                     She’s out all night just running round
                     what used to be, dammit, my home town. 

 

Well, Dermot, the state cop, he wrote it like an accident,
sand on the road an Jacob skiddin off, but, hell,
that’s how mosta them do for a local, you know, just to help
with the insurance an all, but Jake he was clockin 80 an sure as shit
that’s what he meant to do.  An he ain’t the only one, you know that.
Up Alaska, they’d just crawl out on the ice.

 

Speakin of, she’s got a cold ride now, her own self.
But her poor little girl, you sure hate seein someone go through that.
Anyone, really, but a kid…it’s just pitiful.  Saw them over to the
Town an Country t’other day…. You could count her bones an her
skin all white an waxy, big ol’ eyes starin like some soldier
just shipped home.  An there’s no doubt she loves her baby,
bitch that she is, an I’ve wondered – does she study upon that sign,
her own heart broken to bits, like maybe I put a curse on her?
Well, I surely would’ve, you know I would, but not like that.
Lordy, Lordy, I’d never do her like that.

 

George Perreault has a new collection of poetry, Bodark County, featuring poems in the voices of characters living on the Llano Estacado due out Fall 2016 from Grayson Books.  He has previously published three books of poetry, including All the Verbs for Knowing (Black Rock Press).  He has received a fellowship from the Nevada Arts Council and an award from the Washington Poets Association, and has served as a visiting writer in New Mexico, Montana, and Utah.  His poems have been selected for nine anthologies and dozens of magazines; recent work can be found in High Desert Journal, Wildcat Review, Literature Today, Twisted Vine, and Sleet.

Bury Me Face Down

By Jim Richards

 

Back to the world,
eyes to the fiery core,
hand at the curtain of clay,
and ear to the door.

 

A slow journey, dark.
A seeping, really, slow.
Not step by frozen step,
but drip by drip I go.

 

No box to nail me in.
No balm to keep me fresh.
A faster, fetid form
to speed my running rest.

 

May enemies discover,
if they disturb my land,
a vanished soul’s impression,
a shadow made of sand.

 

Jim Richards poems have been nominated for Best New Poets 2015, two Pushcart Prizes, and have appeared recently in Prairie Schooner, South Carolina Review, Juked, Comstock Review, Poet Lore, Texas Review, among others. He lives in eastern Idaho’s Snake River valley, and in 2013 he received a fellowship from the Idaho Commission on the Arts.

To read more of his work visit www.jim-richards.com.

 

Mad Marie Magdalene

By Sofia Lago

 

At the fringes of Cour des miracles,
a man shouts for God, for His
select few chosen, and
all those sinners, amen.

 

Inside, there’s a mad woman
who kneels in prayer,
dressed in unwashed rags, and says,

 

“Dear Mother,
I should have been a nun.”

 

Mother’s dead, and Mary gives no answer.
Not Mother Mary, but Marie.
A graceless Magdalene.

 

Mad Marie, with her dress torn ragged,
accepts a rich man’s coin,
and strips until she’s naught but skin.

 

All the while,
a man shouts for God in aristocratic French,
and Mad Marie’s lowly prayer
is pressed hard against tightly shut lips.

 

The brothel is her parish,
and smells thickly of the human body,
and masculine completion.

 

Outside, a man speaks of predestination and sin,
and Mad Marie thinks,

 

“Damn you, sir, and all your words of wisdom.”

 

He exhausts himself by night, as priests do,
but rich men’s appetites are insatiable.

 

Jesus and God have a list of sins to last for days, but
one can never claim that the residents of
Cour des miracles have succumbed to sloth.

 

Morning breaks pale and bleak
over the streets of Cour des miracles,
where Mad Marie Magdalene
sleeps away the sunrise.

 

Sofia Lago recently graduated from Stockton University with a B.A. in historical studies. She previously published her poem “Yard Sale for Dreams” in Folio, and intends to name her future cat Toulouse.

Taking Over

By A.D. Hurley

 

A.D. Hurley lives the mountains of North Georgia with her husband, five children, and dog. She takes inspiration for her photography from the gorgeous landscape and local foliage. When she isn’t snapping pictures, she can be found tapping away at her keyboard working on the next great American novel.  Her photography has been published in Under the Hat magazine, *82 Review’s December 2014 and March 2015 issues, Sonder Review, Brain of Forgetting, Vine Leaves Literary Journal Issue #14, and their “Best of 2015” Anthology.

 

 

 

whimsical animals

Suzanne Edmonson is a California based artist and a native of Texas. Her interest in art was sparked at an early age and she started taking art & painting lessons to unleash her creativity on canvas.  Her early work was recognized and led to several art honors in high school.  She continued to study art in college at the University of Texas at Arlington, where she earned a BFA, and Southern Methodist University in Dallas.  Her art education and expertise led her to a professional and successful career in advertising as an Art Director where her artistic sensibilities and vision were critical to creating ad campaigns for major brands. 

During her advertising career, she never abandoned her love of painting and always found time to create, finding inspiration in the art of Claes Oldenburg, Andy Warhol & Jasper Johns.  Their visions of ordinary things, scenes, etc. in life were transformed into extraordinary works of art and Suzanne’s work reflects that inspiration as it looks at objects, scenes, and animals, and gives them an important statement in life, sometimes with just a whirl of whimsy. 

A Forensic Forage

By William Crawford

 

William C. Crawford is a writer & photographer living in Winston-Salem, NC. He was a a combat photojournalist in Vietnam. He later enjoyed a long career in social work. Crawdaddy also taught at UNC Chapel Hill. He photographs the trite, trivial, and the mundane. Crawford developed the forensic foraging technique of photography with his colleague, Sydney lensman, Jim Provencher.

His photo here embodies this approach. They feature extensive shooting of everything encountered. The images are then selectively presented with heavy contrast & saturation.Their technique borrows heavily from Stephen Shore and his color post cards from Amarillo. Main Street Americana (and elsewhere!) comes alive in its most base, everyday state. The photographic DNA of Walker Evans on the move (foraging?) also leaves its indelible mark. The genre uses minimal computer manipulation. Forensic foraging also accentuates funk which is easily identified  because it just looks funky.
Crawdaddy’s writing for decades focused on hard hitting editorials on behalf of the powerless. His written advocacy tracked his long career in social work. More recently, he branched out into fiction and memoirs. His first book is due out in May, 2016. The working title is: ” Just Like Sunday On The Farm: Crawdaddy Remembers The Nam After 50 Years”. 

Man Profiled

By Richard Vyse

 

Richard Vyse Internationally collected artist Richard Vyse has shown in galleries in Manhattan and Honolulu. He has studied at the School of Visual Arts in New York City and taught at Pratt Institute in Brooklyn. His art has been featured in the Art of Man #19, Noisy Rain magazine Winter 2015,Assaracus magazine #21 and Mascular magazine #15UK to name a few.
Visit – manartbyvyse.blogspot.com“Celebrating modern man with an edge in line and spontaneous brush strokes to
create an imagined moment and mood.”

 

Back to top