by Kenneth Pobo our white sweet pea curls up and above the top. We don’t let the gate swing open for fear of breaking it, no longer use the back door until frost fells the vine. My cousin says we’re foolish—why cater to a vine? Oh well, we never did much like her anyway. A vine offers no opinions, makes no demands. Climb. That’s what it does— and so well….
by Kenneth Pobo our white sweet pea curls up and above the top. We don’t let the gate swing open for fear of breaking it, no longer use the back door until frost fells the vine. My cousin says we’re foolish—why cater to a vine? Oh well, we never did much like her anyway. A vine offers no opinions, makes no demands. Climb. That’s what it does— and so well….
by Jacqueline Hyatt He likes the smell of my perfume, How it sticks to the pillowcase Hours after I go. He likes the smell of my perfume; He craves reminders that He is not alone. He likes the smell of my perfume; He has no clue that It is discontinued.
by Jacqueline Hyatt Five minutes in line And a credit card swipe Of $9.99, my salad was Easily earned. Kale and spinach, Cherry tomatoes, And dried cranberries In a capped paper cup Took a tumble when I tripped In my too-big sandals And planted a vegetable garden On cement stairs.
by Dalia Davis Flames cooled by blue tones. Rushing foam faces burst into song groovesswinging past stones. A jazz band of water nymphsquell fire arrows aimed for my heart bones.
by Martin FitzPatrick I turned on the car radio in time to hear the last minute or so of “Sweet Emotion”; then the DJ came on and said, “Some Aerosmith here this morning . . . one of my favorite teachable moments of this year— I learned a few months ago that there’s an Aerosmith cover band in Europe called . . . wait for it . . . Eurosmith.” Now,…
by Martin FitzPatrick They stand on the porch calling goodbye to Mommy, wishing her a good day at work, a good journey to work. Goodbye. Goodbye. We love you. Have a good day. Have good luck. Don’t lose your beautiful dress. Don’t let any of your buttons come unbuttoned. Don’t lose your shoes. Or eyeglasses. Don’t lose your backpack. Or anything important out of it. Don’t forget your umbrella. I…
by Martin FitzPatrick If you were a songwriter, like with singing and guitars and everything, then every time you wanted to talk about being sad, you could say tears, and whenever you said tears, you could say they were falling, and then you could say they were doing it like rain. And if you wrote rock songs, with really loud guitars, you…
by Mike Solo-Thomson First, I had to make an offering. Instead of easing the cork out of the champagne bottle, I sent it through the air. It cleared the glass balcony and landed in the dry, crusted earth amongst the discarded grapes from today’s harvest, left to decay back into…
by Alexander Hurla Many years from now, when I’m old and gray and my joints hurt, I’ll climb into the dark attic and pull out a box from the corner— a moldy and moth-ridden one with faded words on the side. I’ll open it—almost reverently, almost scared— and wipe the dust from the picture of the crisp Marine uniform that used to…
by Alexander Hurla We’ve talked about dividing things. “Right down the middle,” we’ve said. “Fifty/fifty.” But how can we split things when you’ve touched everything that’s mine, and I’ve made my mark on everything that’s yours?