Home Blog Page 99

Interstate-10 by Craig E. Flaherty

0

prelude: a small fire along the banks started with
the crumpled pages from the great american
poetry 19th century anthology
esquire magazine covers
placemats from memorable restaurants
diploma certificate from the fast food academy
and institute of corporate culinary
achievement letters of recommendation
the blessing from the pope after the ninth
child graduated parochial school
the fire melts the plastic st. christopher
mounted on the pressed wood base
the death certificate for baby john doe my
child my baby my infant
blurred on the covered gurney swiftly
trotted past the delivery room door
but the dam broke and swept it all charred
unresolved black ragged
pasted at the high water mark on spillway
walls inside storm drains
the melted plastic attracted bottom feeders
swollen paper was eaten by roaches at the
end of time the dam broke
the heavy metals spewed into the water tables
profits poured into offshore accounts
promises of ” ’till death do us part” drowned
the kids learned that up was never there
after vietnam everything was in and out to mars
promised contracts hid the lead laced water
politicians passed the buck

allemande: after the long flight he sleeps in his
sister’s bed
downstairs her awareness slowly melts
she had said “come” but he waited a week
a day and a half left of her knowing eyes
3000 miles from his home grown tomato garden
three varieties for salads sauce and stuffing
black plastic over the soil
mail-order fertilizer from a midwest co-op
root feeding through five foot pvc pipes sunk
next to each stalk and wooden pole
in a bed laid along the sunniest side of his house
we talk on the phone “not much is working”
the twenty four hour nursing care
the three approaches to his sister’s needs
water no water ice chips water soaked towels
for the lips but “death prefers dryness”

courante: twenty years ago from his mother’s
dying the drone buzz
the plane that never arrives approaches
just beyond the regular focus
of the ear but leaps to mind when
reminded of the predestined crash
he held her hand he asked what needed asking
precious freeing words
does she remember that he left?
has she done something for herself?

gigue: his sister’s friends jockey for control come by
tell him to take care of this and that but
his sister has made it clear that she does not
want his hand on anything when he shows
her the five photos from home joy

sarabande: the weekend caregiver knocks because
her daughter can take care of the kids friday
saturday and sunday nights
the family’s from Botswana and he cooks her
corn on the cob in the microwave which she
thought impossible and they eat two buttered
ears apiece “please stay we’ll cook more”
his sister remembers him for a day and a half
the rest taken up with sleep and the gathering
whimpers of coma

fugue: “no can’t get a god damn map from the gas
station because the attendant speaks korean”
the dam breaks
intimacy has no patience with words
“yes saw an ad for new balance at big five
my computer is broken
the air conditioner does not cool
grocery stores? japanese specialty outlets”
I tell him “devoted to my new balance shoes
fifteen years the all leather edition which they
stopped making” what follows
“I ordered the same model number wrote
it down they had it but skimped ” always
a gotcha
“I soaked the shoes inserted trees they still
pinched where they skimped”
my friend says “had the same at LL bean
wore out working the garden hope the toms
get water while I’m away”

bouree: I tell him “I can find a big five store” near him
off I-10 just go north to exit 7B because I’m
at my computer and I do find it around the
corner with the numbers he gives me I warn him
“do not confuse the shopping mall with the strip
mall across the street where the big five is located”
he comes home with new shoes garden shoes snow
plowing shoes wash the car shoes new balance shoes

badinerie: my dead mother of 95 years abrupt dismissive
slips breaks in on the line to say again “I’m going away”
then the silence not to be broken everyone’s bridge
to pass over

the controlling angels gather outside the door to argue
about water

Craig E. Flaherty, writer of poems, reader at poetry groups, publisher of Coastline Window Poems, The Nature of Light, The Glossy Family, presenter at the Takoma Park Thursday Poetry Reading,  poetry group leader, member of Writing a Village. His poetry has appeared in Viator and The Raven’s Perch. A lifelong  performer of church music, organist, carilloneur, pianist with Dotke Piano Trio, husband, father, grandfather and accompanist to Jordyn Flaherty.


Image: https://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/3/33/Tonkin_Highway_from_Great_Eastern_Highway_bridge_second.jpg

Two Poems by Anneliese Donstad

0

all we have is desperate hope and astrology charts

I want to capture this moment where we interlace our arms around each other
standing beneath ursa minor hearing the gentle movement of the Missouri River.

I want to capture the magic of a first touch
when feeling another human body close to yours is once again electrifying but petrifying.

I could feel your eyes wander my body when you thought touch was forbidden for us.
Now that you’ve touched me, do I still feel forbidden?
If I’m not forbidden, will you still want to touch me?

I fear the collapse of this newness will be like a dying star,
caving in on ourselves in magnificent explosion
for I know we only get one first touch, one moment like this.

The voices in the distance remind us of our connection to humanity
like how the constellations let us know we are a part of the universe.

I swear I can see our names spelled next to each other in the stars
like we are our own constellation.

This moment is a star that we hold in our palms until it inevitably supernovas.

Ash Wednesday

You cross ashes onto my forehead
and say Remember you are dust.

I am not dust, nor am I the dirt
beneath your feet.

You are not my god
and I will not get down on my knees
to pour oil on your feet
and wipe it with my hair
while weeping for you.

I rebuke you
like demons that harbor
inside of swine
throwing themselves
over cliffs.

You do not deserve my tears.
You do not deserve my dust.
I am not dust. Not yet.

Anneliese Donstad is a genderqueer lesbian writer in their second year of the MA program at the University of South Dakota. Their work explores the intersection of religion, trauma, and lesbianism.


Image: Dmitry Brant, CC BY-SA 4.0 https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/4.0, via Wikimedia Commons

Three Poems by Michele Keane-Moore

0

The Parabolic Flight of the Hummingbird

I will hypnotize you

With my ecstatic flight,

Back and forth,

Flashing ruby red.

Casting my spell to declare

All of this mine–

The flowers, the nectar, and you.

Reigning over my green kingdom,

 Tiny but supreme,

From the bare branch of a dead tree.

My wings have carried me

Miles too numerous to count

To prepare for this moment.

I drink deeply,

The sweetness of life

Filling my tongue.

The Assumption of the Geese

I hope that when my time comes,

Like the geese gathered on the river at dawn,

I will hear the call,

Spread my wings,

Lift my heart,

And rise with those around me

As one unified voice.

Casting my soul above me,

Following it into the sun’s light,

Joined wing tip to wing tip,

Lighter than the surrounding air.

Rising above the water

That protected us through the night,

In that one glorious instant

When all that has weighed us down disappears.



Walk with Me

Under foot, the ground is softening,

The ice turning to mush,

The mud starting to pull at my boots.

Water in the atmosphere

Catches the first rays of the rising sun

and fractures into a piece of rainbow,

Making color visible like believing in

The best outcome.

The red-winged blackbirds

Are singing from the tree tops

As if they can claim the future

Through their song.

The river that was bound

By ice is flowing again and rising.

In the renewed warmth of the sun’s embrace

My heart beats a little faster

And squeezes harder,

Expanding blood into my gloveless hands

Like an expression of joy.

Michele Keane-Moore is an avid birder and photographer who takes her inspiration from the natural world.  She teaches biology as an adjunct at Western New England University and tries to get outside every day.  


Photographs courtesy of the author.


Two Poems by Ryan Quinn Flanagan

0

The Dissolving Man

It is good to disappear.
Incognito fires extinguished.

And the dissolving man
in a liquid beaker.

As some faraway youth-to-death
occurs in direct proportion.

No knowledge of the other.
Connective tissue long unseen.

A black rubber stop for spillage.
Skyward gazers hand-in-hand.

The falling of a star observed in one place,
is the end of a life in another.

Have You Seen the Ants Carry the Dead Back into the woods?

There is a reason the arsonist is always looking for that spark
the lovers can never seem to find, that least clinical of inducements –
have you seen the ants carry the dead back into the woods?
Like the top half of a chocolate Eclair with all the filling missing,
working in teams like shift work done in miniature;
distance overcome by numbers, father mathematics would be proud;
sweet beard Archimedes rigging up a pulley system
at the University of Syracuse, go Orange!
Or you falling into my arms like a failed land bridge,
these many whirling dervish children
of enduring sweet-toothed minds.

Ryan Quinn Flanagan is a Canadian-born author residing in Elliot Lake, Ontario, Canada with his wife and many bears that rifle through his garbage.  His work can be found both in print and online in such places as: Evergreen Review, The New York Quarterly, Bourgeon, TheSongIs.., Cultural Weekly, Red Fez, and The Oklahoma Review.


Image: Judgefloro, CC0, via Wikimedia Commons

Two Poems by Lilly Hallock

0

You Told Me You Loved Me

I wish I knew
What you meant when
You showed up at my room
And you told me you loved me.
It has been raining
All day, classic dark and
Stormy night, and your
T-shirt was soaked
Through, and your hair was
Wet, and I wanted to offer
You a towel, but you
Told me you loved me.

You stood on my
Carpet as not to get my limited
Furniture wet, and I asked
You why you were
Here, and you told me
You loved me.

I was wearing sweatpants and
A sweater, and my eyeliner
Was smeared, and my
Shoes were off, and you told
Me you loved me.

My day had been long, and I
Was behind on
Work, and it was raining, and
You told me you loved me.

It was far too
Late at night for me
To be up, and for you
To be out but you told me you
Loved me.

I threw a lamp
At your head
But I missed and you told
Me you loved me I yelled
And you told me you loved me
I cried and you told me
You loved me I beat my fists
Against your chest and you
Told me you loved me I
Pushed you out of
The door and you told
Me you loved me I watched
You walk away and wondered
What you meant when
You told me you loved me.

Believer

Sit down next to me.
Ignore the blood seeping out
your side, a bullet wound caused by
Something less volatile, more
Sadness than madness, a stinging
Bee or the words of the
Prophet of whatever you want
To believe. Let my shirt help
Sop up the water pouring from
Inside you. Not tears, of
Course, that is far too obvious
And far less oblivious. I was speaking about
More of a Water-to
-Wine kind of thing, like you’re
The sacrificial sheep and I’m the
One holding the knife. Or gun,
In your case. But it’s always
Your case, right?
Come sit with me.

Lillian Hallock (she/they) is a young adult writer from Richmond, Virginia, and a current student at the University of Virginia. Lilly has been writing since she was a young child, as a way to let out her vast imagination. In her free time, and is always creating, whether that be through poetry, prose, music, art, or the occasional game of dungeons and dragons. You can find her on Instagram @lchallock.


Image:unbekannt270, CC BY-SA 3.0 <https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0>, via Wikimedia Commons