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11/28/2023 Poetry By M F Drummy r. nial bradshaw CC
Bitterroot An herb, a river, wilderness. Combine all three for an intoxicating tea. This line gets us from there to here: A cool August morning, vestigial crickets, the song of an American robin – of America. Where r we again? Bitterroot. Think it through, through to the end. Upon awakening I imagine when I can return to bed again. At day’s end, I tell myself, the end of days, my days filled with nothing other than thoughts of me as yr young – now grown-up – son, from birth to this, to this day today, in Bitterroot. Double t, double r, double o. Easy to remember for one who once surveyed the empty sageland of Wyoming with u, marveling at the rose-colored blooms that appeared as though scattered by an unseen hand across the barren earth. Easy for me to recall, still, but not for u, whose feet, like mine, cannot be felt, just sensed, like virga, the rain that does not fall from darkened clouds: these many little deaths of memory u’ve buried deep within yr worn-out soul that flutters lifelessly above the sandy banks of the river known as Bitterroot. M F Drummy holds a PhD in historical theology from Fordham University. He is the author of numerous haiku, articles, essays, reviews, poems, and a monograph on religion and ecology (Being and Earth). His work has appeared, or will appear, in Allium, Amethyst Review, Feral, Frogpond, Main Street Rag, and many others. He and his wife of nearly 20 years enjoy splitting their time between the Colorado Rockies and the rest of the planet. He can be found at: X @mdrummy56 Instagram @miguelito.drummalino Website https://bespoke-poet.com 11/28/2023 Poetry By Tim Peeler Mike Fritcher CC
Hoe Boy Just Wants to be Left Along The yellow field devolved to long skeins of poison oak, sapling and briar-- Then the green gray inkblot of the mountain beyond, all of it empty-- Except the trespassing Appaloosa Philly and her fat boy lamb chop sideburn rider-- Rabbit scatter, rusted barrels sunk in the moss by the pine bluff-- The last stretch of banjo fencing, barbs gnawed into locust posts-- Hoe Boy comes here to think about God and the impossible way that stories travel through time-- How Wolfe meant the French Broad when he said Get on the boat that sways to the black rhythm-- He prefers the morning light that breaks over the pines above the Henry Fork-- Where time is a hollow seeming, an endless liquid bull tongue plow-- After feed, he listens to the barn’s rippling tin, clinging to bowed rafters-- And worries because the nights are a rotisserie of second guesses nursing regrets-- Wobbly relations, the pinhole hiss of water sprinkling from ruined copper fittings-- Sleepless, he sits on the gray pine bench by the crackling bonfire-- The stars hang like barnacles wedged in the black hull of Heaven-- Tim Peeler is a retired educator from Western North Carolina who has written twenty-one books of poetry, short stories, and regional histories. Most recently he has collaborated with the Appalachian photographer Clayton Young on books that combine verse narratives and rural images. 11/28/2023 Poetry By James Reitter r. nial bradshaw CC
Cards on the Table Two loves lost sit at a kitchen table of a world forgotten in time. Wood paneling scales the walls, rust carpet creeps along the floor under foot, chair, and table leg. Smiling tomato potholders flank an outdated calendar on either side, a faux Tiffany shell lamp dangles overhead. Hope hides her face behind a waterfall of auburn hair Nor closes his eyes, veiling thoughts Vitamins on the countertop below wall-mounted crank pencil sharpener. Old E 800, three cans of Bud, a bottle of lime juice, shotglass of tequila. Double pelican silver ash tray. Much at stake for this hand. Nor holds Hope’s cards flat face down. I lost this round twenty or so years later and am left to hold the deck with just a memory of when we all had winning hands. James Reitter currently teaches English, Creative Writing, Folklore, and Film Studies at Dominican University, New York. He is editor-in-chief of the online literature and arts journal, Masque and Spectacle and has published his own poetry for over three decades. His ekphrastic collection of poetry and art, Scratched Records, was published in 2019 (Alien Buddha Press), and has co-authored two books, Speculative Modernism (2021) and The Spark of Modernism (2023) through McFarland. 11/28/2023 Poetry By Leah Mueller Matthew Bellemare CC
Scorpio Moon If my adversaries disappeared, my life would not be easier, because I’d be deprived of Growth Experiences. I tell myself all manner of bullshit to keep my mind from detonation. What do I learn from trauma? How to attract more trauma, so I can learn some more. Like paying bills and housecleaning, there is no end to it. Eventually, I will expire in my sleep, if I’m lucky. If not, I’ll fight like hell to hold on a little while longer to my trauma, since I have never known anything else. Leah Mueller's work appears in Rattle, NonBinary Review, Brilliant Flash Fiction, Citron Review, The Spectacle, New Flash Fiction Review, Atticus Review, Your Impossible Voice, etc. She is a 2022 nominee for both Pushcart and Best of the Net. Leah's flash piece, "Land of Eternal Thirst" appears in the 2022 edition of Best Small Fictions. Her two newest books are "The Failure of Photography" (Garden Party Press, 2023) and "Widow's Fire" (Alien Buddha Press, 2023). Website: http://www.leahmueller.org. 11/28/2023 Poetry By Meagan Chandler Flickr CC
After a Night Out The clouds refuse to part Enough for me to believe It is six in the morning. Cleveland’s Terminal Tower Still shines blue and white. The pad of my finger grows cold On the glass as it cuts Paths through condensation. Starting at the bottom, I trace a trail of clarity But pause near the top When I can’t decide If I should finish with a loop Or on a straight line. The drone of the highway fades As we drive past A neon hand not yet lit From the tarot reading room. Retracting my own, I face my palm And try to discern its creases. One looks like The semicircle sun From a picture I drew as a little girl. Meagan Chandler holds a bachelor’s degree in creative writing from Baldwin Wallace University. She currently attends the Poetry MFA program at Bowling Green University. Her works have been previously published in Baldwin Wallace’s student-run literary journal, The Mill. She placed as a finalist and runner-up in the 2023 competitions for the Hollin’s University Literary Festival. When she’s not writing, she enjoys spending time with her family and six dogs. 11/28/2023 Poetry By Lynne Schmidt Flickr CC
Direction Show me how we don’t need words We don’t need direction to say This, this is the path that will keep You and me safe. Instead we just need this - Our hands interlaced Near a busy street, Steady stream of headlights pouring over us. When the ground breaks ahead of us, The road is dangerous, And so we listen to each others pulse, The soft tangle of finger tips that whispers Trust me Follow me I’ll keep you safe. Lynne Schmidt is the queer, neurodivergent grandchild of a Holocaust survivor. Their latest chapbook, The Unaccounted for Circles of Hell will be published with Stanchion in January 2024, while their chapbook SexyTime was a winner of the 2021 The Poetry Question Chapbook Contest, and Dead Dog Poems was the 2020 New Women's Voices Contest. In 2012 they started the project, AbortionChat, which aims to lessen the stigma around abortion. When given the choice, Lynne prefers her pack of dogs and one cat to humans. 11/28/2023 Poetry By Annick Yerem mnem CC
A. is now a deconstructed Phoenix She once was all bird, all colour and flight and then- bright yellow shirts, dark blue crochet dresses, green dungarees She was flowers and waves, she was sex turned girl breathing fire into grey Everything that was wrong was right with her She once was a girl in a fox in a tree, climbing She once was her own shadow, a sliver of herself, a nose-bleeding, spider-fingered, run-drenched, carrot-counting wisp who thought she would break in two, who shattered, who sparked, who cried and cried who told herself she could choose, who told herself she could die anytime should she choose to like a door, like an opening, like a glimpse, a way out, soft, like a spell she went over the edge, came back like a yo-yo, a boomerang, became her own comfort zone, both arms stretched out She is what was left of me. She is what is left. Annick Yerem is a German/ Scottish poet and EIC of Sídhe Press. She has published some things in wonderful places, among them iamb, Anti-Heroin-Chic, The Storms, the Dirigible Ballon and Feral. You can find her at the bird place and on Bluesky @missyerem 11/28/2023 Poetry By Roger W. Hecht Donald Lee Pardue CC
Driving out of Oneonta west toward the sun already sunk below the hills, not dark enough to be dusk but getting there. The Susquehanna lies just beyond a short patch of pasture & a future corn fields, barely bigger than a creek at this point. This divided highway makes a much bigger footprint, though the floodplain is substantially wider-- every dozen years or so the river reminds us of who owns what. Spring is rushing ahead of itself, the steep foothills rapidly greening, the deft lacework of branches will soon be sewn solid & shut. Snow a distant memory we'll brag to our grandkids about. The seasons are so out of whack. In the open space of the empty lanes before me a bald eagle slowly coasts across the highway toward the mountain, wings stretched flat, eyes level, an effortless low glide. I had to do a double take to catch the white tail feathers to confirm what I'd seen. I know they nest nearby. Their presence discreet. A heroic return. Deer were once like that. When I was a kid, deer appearing at the edge of my school's ballfield sent everyone to the window gawking at these ghosts haunting our clean suburban woods. Even the woods were once a rarity, cleared for crops that wouldn't grow and dairy cows that did. All it took was a calamity to resurrect the forests-- depression, capital flight, jobs outsourced to the lowest bidder-- & the deer in abundance & the foxes & the ticks they carry with them all came clambering back, so confident of themselves they don't startle when I walk my dog at night. They stand their ground on the neighbor's lawn watching warily. The eagle owned the air I drove through. I hold the wheel with both hands. I swear it turned its golden eye toward me as it passed, or maybe it just looked ahead. Sadly, there was no way I could take a picture to hold onto that for a while. Land for sale signs along the highway delude us into thinking we can have it all. We're not even renters. Daily we think we're destroying the earth, & we are, but the earth is just waiting us out, just waiting on a calamity, like the one we all anticipate, like the one that's right around the corner. Or that other one. Or the one we can't foresee yet. Who knows what will come clambering back? Roger W. Hecht's books include Talking Pictures (Cervena Barva Press) and Witness Report (Finishing Line Press). His work has appeared in Gargoyle, Boot of Matches, Redactions, A-Minor, Puerto del Sol, and other journals. When he's not playing drums with his band, Off the Rails, he teaches literature and creative writing at SUNY, Oneonta. He lives in Ithaca, NY. 11/28/2023 Poetry By nat raum David Hudson CC
affirmations for your borderline personality disorder After China Rain i have control over my emotions i am not afraid of abandonment i am capable of healing. i love myself for who i am. i am not what others think of me. i share my feelings with honesty & courage. i have control over my emotions i can see the ways people love me i am enough. i am not angry. i am not empty. i sit with my impulses before acting on them. i am doing my best. i am a changed person. i bring positivity to my relationships. i am loveable. i am allowed to struggle. i am allowed to cry. i have control over my emotions. i persevere through great difficulties. i have survived the worst days of my life. i am more than my trauma. i challenge my negative thoughts with positive ones. i am calm & confident. i have control over my emotions. holistic guide to being agender in public find yourself at an intersection of two things you can’t quite name, but trust me, neither can anyone else. no one can seem to fathom this thing & yet it will never be a source of wonder, only something else to forget about. we’re talking about your transness, or maybe the way you are still rapt with that word, unsure it really should apply to you, that you are really afforded these divine sort of laurels. but don’t sit in the splendor for too long-- you are likely the only person on this street corner who can see it. & honestly? fuck ‘em. if they want to look at the kind of sunset you get to witness maybe ten times a year & only see the body of a woman, they don’t deserve you. nat raum (b. 1996) is a disabled artist, writer, and genderless disaster based on unceded Piscataway land in Baltimore. They’re an MFA candidate and also the editor-in-chief of fifth wheel press. Past publishers of their work include Delicate Friend, Corporeal Lit, and ANMLY. Find them online: natraum.com/links 11/28/2023 Poetry By Kristy Snedden Paul van de Velde CC
The Voice of God This is a summer of such desolation that her body wakes on an August night and buckles itself into the old ford, drives ten hours to Jackson Square and drops dollars in the trombone player’s jar just to shimmy up the slide, around the turn into the bell, wait patiently for the monophonic voice, its heavy, dense, weight. Things I Didn’t Do To Heal The World & Things I Did after Amanda Gunn I didn’t heal the boy next door paralyzed by a motorcycle or befriend the pimple-ridden girl in seventh grade, could not console my best friend, pregnant at fifteen, didn’t look at the homeless mothers lined up on Peachtree Street or steal the medicine in the crow’s nest at the top of the tree when I was eight, never told my ninth grade English teacher how she saved my life. Missed opportunities: I couldn’t get the sleep out of my eyes when the pilot woke us to the brightest northern lights he’d ever seen, I lay paralyzed with the legless while I watched the nightly death counts out of Viet Nam, left Baldwin’s Collected Essays under my bed for twelve years, to be honest, couldn’t bear it, that yawning ache inside my dead brother, didn’t welcome him in time even though in the year before he died I sent him playlists and burnt CDs, he wasn’t keen on technology, I even rode on the back of his Harley looking for home in Chino Valley, didn’t know where excitement ended and panic began 2 after he died I missed him, paid homage on the eighteenth of each month and kept my job as a therapist, held a teenager whose favorite sister was killed by a stray bullet, let foster children look into my eyes and order me around. I was a dinosaur and a rabbit, once a shark in the bathtub. I paid my dues to NPR and to the crippled, on auto-debit, threw my Italian ice cartons in the right bin. Every full moon my breath was a blanket to the addicts who found me, a balm to their yearning. I was educated by their claimed sobriety and nightly doses of Delta 8, how else to sleep, and where others turned away I slid into the silence of Paris after the train bombs, fed the street urchin croissants and coke, and just this year I watched someone’s daughter go backwards in time, her slow decline, held hands when the mother muted herself and on the eighteenth of each month, I sit under any night sky with my brother in his black t-shirt, cigarette pack rolled in the sleeve, lighter in the front pocket, that broken tooth, that blue tattoo. Kristy Snedden (she/her) has been a trauma psychotherapist for forty-plus years and writing poetry since 2020. Her work received her an Honorable Mention in the 90th Annual Writer’s Digest Writing Competition and has been nominated for a Pushcart Prize. She is a recent recipient of the Small Orange Press Emerging Woman Poet prize. Her poetry appears or is forthcoming in various print and electronic journals and anthologies, including Contemporary Verse 2, storySouth, Door Is A Jar, Pensive, Anti-Heroin Chic, Power of the Pause Anthology, Green Ink Poetry, and Snapdragon. In her free time, she loves hiking in the Appalachian Mountains near her home in Georgia or hanging out with her husband listening to their dogs tell tall tales. |
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