NOVEMBER 15 by jeremy ball
When I was your age, son, two of them killed my father. From amongst the trees, their arms threw loud fire into his strong neck. I darted away and hid behind a pine, but I still saw them slice him with their sharp-looking stick. When they tore out his entrails I pissed on the ground. Their eyes looked hungry. They slapped each other, said “wow” and “beaut.” I darted toward the black rock stream where the fire-throwers ride in their large, fast animals. I stopped in the middle of that loud rock stream and tensed up my body to fight a faster, stronger creature. My eyes locked with its bright glowing eyes. The fast animal swerved and squealed into the woods hitting its large face against a tree. Two fire-throwers crumpled inside.
When I was your age, son, two of them killed my father. From amongst the trees, their arms threw loud fire into his strong neck. I darted away and hid behind a pine, but I still saw them slice him with their sharp-looking stick. When they tore out his entrails I pissed on the ground. Their eyes looked hungry. They slapped each other, said “wow” and “beaut.” I darted toward the black rock stream where the fire-throwers ride in their large, fast animals. I stopped in the middle of that loud rock stream and tensed up my body to fight a faster, stronger creature. My eyes locked with its bright glowing eyes. The fast animal swerved and squealed into the woods hitting its large face against a tree. Two fire-throwers crumpled inside.
FORESIGHT by justin hamm
The winter of my
thirtieth year
is a winter
for all the ages.
On the coldest night
I turn the faucets
to a slow drip
against the cold
curtain of wind
and sleep uneasy
and feel a thing
like pure elation
when the hot water
indeed pours forth
giving me that
deeper warmth
in the shower
early next morning.
My mind floats
out beyond the safety
of the shower steam
finds the old men I’ll
soon see along the highway
on my commute
the flannelled farmers
out to make
all the winter repairs
their hands gloved
their feet booted
their every-Sunday-shaved
faces now bearded
heavily to beat back
the painful chill
and it comes to me
suddenly
they must have begun
these beards
weeks in advance
to be ready.
My god the ceaseless
cold can make
a man’s mind so black.
For weeks I’ve been
dreaming the same
apocalyptic dream.
But in moments
like this one
I can almost believe
the new year will be
the year I discover
wisdoms I can swear
to my children.
The winter of my
thirtieth year
is a winter
for all the ages.
On the coldest night
I turn the faucets
to a slow drip
against the cold
curtain of wind
and sleep uneasy
and feel a thing
like pure elation
when the hot water
indeed pours forth
giving me that
deeper warmth
in the shower
early next morning.
My mind floats
out beyond the safety
of the shower steam
finds the old men I’ll
soon see along the highway
on my commute
the flannelled farmers
out to make
all the winter repairs
their hands gloved
their feet booted
their every-Sunday-shaved
faces now bearded
heavily to beat back
the painful chill
and it comes to me
suddenly
they must have begun
these beards
weeks in advance
to be ready.
My god the ceaseless
cold can make
a man’s mind so black.
For weeks I’ve been
dreaming the same
apocalyptic dream.
But in moments
like this one
I can almost believe
the new year will be
the year I discover
wisdoms I can swear
to my children.
M-25 by seth marlin
a different light is found here
than seen in the heat
or in the faces water reflects.
grass and stands of maples,
endless ditches, guileless roadways
rolling on forever with tori playing
as on the shoulderside the jimsonweed
sings songs of dark pastoral dreams,
whipping past, far too fast to see.
dawn and pole-barns collapsing;
sweet cherry-red ruin,
while from the north roll in the waves,
an ever landfall.
a different light is found here
than seen in the heat
or in the faces water reflects.
grass and stands of maples,
endless ditches, guileless roadways
rolling on forever with tori playing
as on the shoulderside the jimsonweed
sings songs of dark pastoral dreams,
whipping past, far too fast to see.
dawn and pole-barns collapsing;
sweet cherry-red ruin,
while from the north roll in the waves,
an ever landfall.
BREAKER by seth marlin
ten years old and a windowpane shaking
from the lashes of a huron summer storm.
a flogger’s strokes from which the
very eldest roots retreat. an oldtime keelhaul.
my sister and I. beneath a quilt. telling stories to a sob.
telling stories. to the endless air-raid choirs of the siren.
the waters shake and in their scullings
even sturgeons thank the shelter
of the deep. quiet deep and quiet cold. the waves. wait out the silence.
morning then and green. a pregnant heat. the
power out and rotting fish. a crowded dock
and at the shore a sailboat.
anchor dragged and mast aloft. a sodden preacher
come ashore with knotted seaweed in his beard. crying the dawn.
crying reborning. and on the walks a weathered seagull keens the sighing.
three times to shame a book. three times
to shame an empty word. three times to
show this mystery alive. alleluia. alleluia. alleluia.
ten years old and a windowpane shaking
from the lashes of a huron summer storm.
a flogger’s strokes from which the
very eldest roots retreat. an oldtime keelhaul.
my sister and I. beneath a quilt. telling stories to a sob.
telling stories. to the endless air-raid choirs of the siren.
the waters shake and in their scullings
even sturgeons thank the shelter
of the deep. quiet deep and quiet cold. the waves. wait out the silence.
morning then and green. a pregnant heat. the
power out and rotting fish. a crowded dock
and at the shore a sailboat.
anchor dragged and mast aloft. a sodden preacher
come ashore with knotted seaweed in his beard. crying the dawn.
crying reborning. and on the walks a weathered seagull keens the sighing.
three times to shame a book. three times
to shame an empty word. three times to
show this mystery alive. alleluia. alleluia. alleluia.
SENEY by seth marlin
Ev’ry night this time o’ year, ‘round sunset,
them jack-pine seem t’swell up, grow taller.
Wood gets all dark, like the daylight were just
hidin’ the truth about it, like a damned veil.
That darkness, that’s all’s real out here, y’know?
Loggers all know it. Miners all know it.
Crew o’ the Fitzgerald damned well knew it,
bet your ass they know now still, in the deep.
Damned wind’ll turn a man’s mind on the gun,
- see in the headlines now’n again! Inkspots
remind you o’ blood, and soon ol’ Angie’s
naggin’ you t’ get your ass into church.
Ol’ Roddy went ev’ry Sunday, I says,
look’t him, eh? His dead’s as dead as ours.
Ev’ry night this time o’ year, ‘round sunset,
them jack-pine seem t’swell up, grow taller.
Wood gets all dark, like the daylight were just
hidin’ the truth about it, like a damned veil.
That darkness, that’s all’s real out here, y’know?
Loggers all know it. Miners all know it.
Crew o’ the Fitzgerald damned well knew it,
bet your ass they know now still, in the deep.
Damned wind’ll turn a man’s mind on the gun,
- see in the headlines now’n again! Inkspots
remind you o’ blood, and soon ol’ Angie’s
naggin’ you t’ get your ass into church.
Ol’ Roddy went ev’ry Sunday, I says,
look’t him, eh? His dead’s as dead as ours.
I AM NOT AN ARTIST by g david schwartz
I am not an artist
I can't draw a straight line
But look at this thing
all remincent of
fragmentation of brooch
I am not an artist
I can't draw a straight line
But look at this thing
all remincent of
fragmentation of brooch
THIS FORGOTTEN HOUR by m j iuppa
Downstream, the creek
grows heavy in moonlight.
Islands of yellow iris
swell with candled light.
Shadows slink across still
water, hesitating in
the steady trill of frogs–
heeding the warning of
what they’ll become.
I fade into this forgotten
hour, knowing I can’t name
what lives an inch below
the water’s surface–
unwavering hunger lasts
the night.
O milk moon,
lift me out of myself–
my intricate desire
to be in a place
where anything
can happen.
Downstream, the creek
grows heavy in moonlight.
Islands of yellow iris
swell with candled light.
Shadows slink across still
water, hesitating in
the steady trill of frogs–
heeding the warning of
what they’ll become.
I fade into this forgotten
hour, knowing I can’t name
what lives an inch below
the water’s surface–
unwavering hunger lasts
the night.
O milk moon,
lift me out of myself–
my intricate desire
to be in a place
where anything
can happen.
DAYS WERE GREAT AS LAKES by john paul calavitta
this is the wind
in the form of a ship
but there is no port
no step upon the gangway
nothing but the salt deposits
of the open
willows that clarify a lake
found Lake Michigan a fatal potion
drank Atlantis to the dregs, and left
like a lake in storm
return me to a water oak
I will ship my oars
six hundred dark feet from
the sea cliffs
sea is the Aegean Sea
which goes beyond Alicante
our city has sunk to the bottom of the sea
that day your head
like a ship with full freight
pushing a green roll-away bed over
pack your bags
or just send for your things
it’s too late for the ark
this is the wind
in the form of a ship
but there is no port
no step upon the gangway
nothing but the salt deposits
of the open
willows that clarify a lake
found Lake Michigan a fatal potion
drank Atlantis to the dregs, and left
like a lake in storm
return me to a water oak
I will ship my oars
six hundred dark feet from
the sea cliffs
sea is the Aegean Sea
which goes beyond Alicante
our city has sunk to the bottom of the sea
that day your head
like a ship with full freight
pushing a green roll-away bed over
pack your bags
or just send for your things
it’s too late for the ark
