Poetry
by Judith Harris.
“These lone fires will never die out. /
the roses still stagger in the embers; / Light is prolific, everywhere.”
by Floyd Skloot.
“Lost in the midnight stillness, my mother / rises to dress and begin another / chilly day. She crosses the moonlit floor.”
by Halvard Johnson.
“This restaurant has a fine ambulance.” /
What my friend, of course, must have /
meant was that this restoration / had a fine ambience…”
by Charles Bukowski.
“I order another drink and / decide not to kill them, even / in my imagination.”
by Eric Nelson.
“October, a woman and a boy, a tumor /
overtaking his brain, draw pictures /
in the waiting room.”
by Steven Cramer.
“Before my pupils gape oh in unison, /
I find a seat with the semi-sighted / like myself, becalmed / in our separate intermissions…”
by Elisavet Makridis.
“To straighten her spinal column, / Frida suspends nearly vertical / with sacks of sand tied to her feet.”
by Anne Pierson Wiese.
“Big leg bones / of cows sawed / into round sections / that when broiled / erupt thick burps of marrow…”
by Melissa Stein.
“You opened this door. Forced it back /
on its hinges, drove in the thin wedge, saying / ‘I may need to enter at a moment’s notice…'”