Sir Isaac Newton's First Law of Metaphor

Am I an object at rest or in motion?

Newton proposes "an object 
at rest remains at rest" but by
remains, does he mean dead body 
or just unmoving item--of course 
that's metaphorical ground, no? But, 
to read, write, or comprehend that phrase 
one must be a flesh-coated polygon 
that breathes, heart beating mainly 
seventy-two times a minute--
an object, anything but at rest.


Debits and Credits

I'm ambivalent about space 
exploration the way I'm 
ambivalent about scrambled 

eggs. They both exist and 
always will, but they twist 
my lips  

downward. I admit to admiration:
moon landings, then a gap,
then landscapes from

Mars, looking like the Painted 
Desert only with a sky 
the color of Dijon

mustard. Explorers all, we
salute the singular, but what 
is the 

cost. When hurricanes spawn floods, 
tornadoes unzip homes, crush cars,
and forests

torch? Climate change reigns and
we bicker over warming oceans
and Mars Rover and scrambled

eggs. It's not really a zero 
sum game. Or is it? 

Gary Grossman, Professor Emeritus of Animal Ecology, University of Georgia, has poems, short fiction and essays in over 50 literary reviews. His poetry and short fiction have been nominated for a Pushcart, Best Small Fictions, and Best of the Net (nomination pending). Gary enjoys running, music, fishing, and gardening. His poetry books Lyrical Years (2023, Kelsay), What I Meant to Say Was… (2023, Impspired Press), and graphic memoir My Life in Fish—One Scientist’s Journey…(2023, Impspired) all are available from Amazon or the author. Visit his website.

Featured Image: “Tumba de Isaac Newton” by Javier Otero licensed under the Creative Commons Attribution 3.0 Unported.

vixen’s scream

splintering shriek in the dark      too late for nighthawk       too early for crow
neighbors offer theories--teenagers in the park        screech owl--but no     a 
red fox      her vixen’s scream calling       for her mate      here       in the city     
and who would blame her       she       driven by instinct           pawing sterile
sidewalk      she       evicted from her eden      of thicket       beech and creek     
loose earth      now paved and porched       so she wails       in our snowdrops     
then she’ll make a den for her kits      under a shed in the alley      and forage
in a yard after dark     and she’s not     the only one 

Spectator
         —After Mark Rothko, No. 9, 1948

                 I wake up  	 to an orange sherbet morning 
                 and I'm floating 	
	                     in the bassinet of nature 	
                  among melon beaches     and rosy corpuscles 	

	                     that drip self into each other 
					              and run off the edges 	
                  blueprints to blue spruce 
	                   organisms     pulsating     from     canvas
	   
                radiant with fertility 
	                    and fluent in five languages 	
                I blink to clear the haze and understand 		
                but can’t remove the veil 	
	
			                           I'm spectator to a world
				                          quite content without me

Karla Daly lives, writes, and edits in Washington, D.C. Her poems appear in SWWIM, Rust + Moth, Unbroken Journal, MER: Mom Egg Review, and elsewhere. She is a recipient of DC Commission on the Arts and Humanities fellowships and a midlife graduate of American University’s MFA Creative Writing program.

Image: Rural Red Fox Vixen by Caroline Legg under the Creative Commons Attribution 2.0 Generic license.

sirenia

[cy-re-nee-ah] n.  the sirens, half bird and half woman, were “dangerous” maidens, who lured nearby sailors with their enchanting voices to shipwreck on the rocky coast of their isle

sooner or later
most of us will be forced to live a double life,
hide what was once meaningful
and reveal what has now become meaningless,
but which half note should i sing about,
which half will liberate and make me whole?

                                plummeting	
							    silence			
			        from the sky					
							    and then			
				my pilot half					
							    shrieks	
				feathers	
							    suffocating
				through clouds
  						            obstructed		
				before                   
                                                            gills				
				crashing		
                                                            my seafarer half		
				into rocks			
							    pulled                 
                                below
                                                            forever.

Michele Evans, a fifth-generation Washingtonian (D.C.), is a writer, high school English teacher, and adviser for her school’s literary magazine, Unbound. Despite always wearing the color black, she exhibits a certain fondness for blueberries, blue hydrangeas, blues musicians, and Blue Mountain coffee. This 2023 Pushcart Prize nominee and winner of the ASP Bulletin poetry contest has been published in Artemis, Maryland Literary Review, Sky Island Journal, The Write Launch, and elsewhere. purl, her debut collection of poetry, is forthcoming from Finishing Line Press in 2025. You can find her at awordsmithie.com or @awordsmithie on Instagram.

Image: Sirens of TI by Rojer under the Creative Commons Attribution 2.0 Generic license via Wikimedia Commons.