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| Jim Edwards, Composition in Blues |
I am looking
at the horn, not from abandoned delight or quiver.
Could have
been the blue as it caught me right up front,
Maybe just
the simplicity – is this a cardboard stunt?
That little
thing we often refer to that lives in you – me,
Way down-
tests you to look! Stop! See!
Screaming –
take me, take me.
When you
play your soul from a piece of brass
You share
your heart be it bop or jazz -
When your
carriage rises to the blow from you
The victors
are shared by all –what is his follow through?
Reflections
on curling his sleeves-- just so,
Bucks or
saddles “stand your collar”-- You want to go?
Milano’s, a
second street jam, a Sunday treat.
He was 15
–He never missed a beat.
As the blues
penetrated his being, he got his game.
I recall
when I asked him what tunes to blame.
“Want to’
bring some passion to the session,
What is the vinyl choice, brother?”
Would you
imagine Herb Albert or pick another?
He blew his
horn and blew it well
The
equalizer -- the music, not fear of hell.
He grew with
a pucker mark on his lip.
He grew, he
become-he left the pip.
My brother
blew a horn and blew it well.
His heart
never put away that gel,
He quit
blowing -- arranged his music surround,
Protecting
from his Langley den, underground.
Barbara McDonald
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| Mary Ellen Strack, Into the Allerton |
For the anniversary of your husband’s death we drove
not to a church, but to all the roads we could think of
where trees canopied the pavement like naves.
Our trek through foliaged tunnels, highlighted by day
glittering through leaves.
We shared a love of nature and treasures hidden
in plain sight, strived not to miss the rapture or roar
of life – a host of 22 Fu dogs lined a
garden
concealed by cornfields and farms; knobby apples,
sculptures hung on an
installation of tangled arms.
Now seven years since your spouse suddenly died
I am in mourning for you dear, sweet friend.
A Caledonian forest fills the glades in my head
when in reality, the giants have almost all been slain to ash.
Your porch sits empty where we once journeyed
on rocking chairs across painted planks,
laughter accented our song of conversation.
You joked that your veranda was a womb, and now
I wonder if we’re always seeking re-entry into sanctuaries such as
these.
Death can whittle away even the tallest oak to twig
disturb steadfast bark
off-kilter from its trunk.
Somewhere I heard that trees don’t ache or cry
but here today, returning to our cathedral in the woods,
we are all bent over in the most solemn pain and prayer.
Anita Stienstra
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| Kathy Pauley, Sunday on La Grande Jatte |
1880s Petite
Critque
‘Though sport and fun are legal on Grand Jatte,
Madame and child, like paper dolls they stand,
while down the years French freedom would expand.
She says, “Shall I not run and play a lot?”
“Whilst thou release me from this bonnet knot?”
“Mais oui, Monsieur, you are the master grand.”
At center, in sun, they pose with ease.
“Oh, George, of bonnets I have grown weary.”
“Just loosen up that brush stroke. Ple-e-eze?”
“Your genius trumps Monet’s couleur theory.”
“Unbonnet your mind; Just paint me a breeze.”
Whisper
What
We Cannot Ask
First-year English major,
Shawna Mayer
Bird Boy
And to feel the air. He hops
Lindsey Buis
Redtail
The Lepidopterist
october sunset
a monarch rests her silk wings
Stillborn
Trees bleed leaves around me.
Remembering Summer
Some things I see clearly about summer,
Pam Miller
Awake at Dawn
The
sullen child must take her mother’s hand,
as
shapes and lines are formed from optic dots.‘Though sport and fun are legal on Grand Jatte,
Madame and child, like paper dolls they stand,
while down the years French freedom would expand.
She says, “Shall I not run and play a lot?”
“Whilst thou release me from this bonnet knot?”
“Mais oui, Monsieur, you are the master grand.”
At center, in sun, they pose with ease.
“Oh, George, of bonnets I have grown weary.”
“Just loosen up that brush stroke. Ple-e-eze?”
“Your genius trumps Monet’s couleur theory.”
“Unbonnet your mind; Just paint me a breeze.”
Pam Miller
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| Emerald Whisper, Tracey Maras |
She whispers his name
when no one can hear
when no one can hear
wishes he was still here
he has been taken away
She remembers their time
his smell
his touch
his caress
as time passes his voice is fading
Daydreams begin but
are quickly chased
she only wants the memories
She continues with daily life
the garden is planted
house is vacuumed
tasks are completed
list is shortened
Only in the darkness
in the quiet of the night
when no one can hear
does she whisper his name
K.A.T.
Corrigan
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| What We Cannot Ask, Lynn Hotes |
First-year English major,
intimidated by Shakespeare,
I finally raised my hand
to ask why no one waded in
after Ophelia.
Surely, if the Queen
could catalog crow-flowers,
nettles, daisies, and long purples
even recounting how the girl’s
skirts
became saturated and sunk her--
then there was time.
The Professor, a patient man,
told me, “That is not a question
we can ask of this piece.”
They trained me to parse words,
become intimate with the unknowable,
infinite mirrors reflecting back
upon me.
Floating on the tide of post-modern
feminism
I allowed those drowned women their
symbols,
Ophelia, Edna, even Virginia
as they ordained.
Then a sacred text came to my
unlikely hand,
written at the moment of extinction,
in an envelope sealed at every seam
by blood red tape that will never
fade to brown
or be scrubbed away.
Insomnia is the worst part of grief
I wanted to drown—
forcing my face under
only to break the surface
worrying the words
I disappoint you.
imagining
It hurts too much to care.
another conclusion.
All I have done is brought pain.
Full of questions I cannot ask.
Shawna Mayer
Bird boy, scared of steel cages
Needs freedom to love life
 |
| Robin Girl, Felicia Olin |
Away again leaving
Her with a bloody beak.
But that’s not what she loves
About him. He’s brief— a
Mystery. She sees
Towers of gold in his eyes,
Towers he’s still discovering,
Upturning soil, digging for
Worms— while Robin girl
Bleeds—waiting for her lover
Man to catch up to her.
But he just might not, and she’ll
Follow eagles, sparrows, and
Be up in the trees. While her
Bird boy digs ditches
And hops from one hole to another,
Dirty, bleeding onto another
Robin girl that will learn to fly
Above him also.
 |
| Red Tail, Teri Zucksworth |
Along the grassline dark and shifting,
Static for a moment in the crosswind,
Then boldly changing course, but never lifting
His shadow from the heart — the hunter drifting.
The rabbit stiffening in brindled shade
Is warning to the quail to drop their chatter.
In common fear an obeisance is made —
The hunter is alert above the glade.
He passes noiselessly and then
Is gone. To his passing each small eye is pinned.
They live today and that is all that matters,
For when tomorrow comes, he comes again.
Hugh
Moore
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| The Ledpidopterist, Dennis Morris |
1.
Pheromone
flakes were dropped from a plane
This
week to fool the gypsy moths,
Scattering
scent so widely they’ll be confused,
An
aromatic birth control.
She
says they’re pests, not pollinators
Like
her carefully nourished caterpillars.
Waiting
for each pupa to break open
In
winged glory, she wants to know, why
Do
the butterflies get all the good press?
2.
I
think of her as she might look
Caught
in a photo flash,
Her
arm extended like Isadora Duncan
As
she reaches up to snatch
A
luna moth from the evening sky.
3.
She
has a cage on her back porch
Where
females call with their scent:
A
male sometimes travels miles
Attracted
by a single molecule.
These
are rare species she’s breeding,
Arranging
introductions, Miss Moth, meet
Mr.
Moth. She’s even been known to
Take
a hand and help matters along
When
cobwebbed antennae blinded
A
suitor to his ladylove
Now
scant inches away.
4.
I
tease the Moth Madame about pimping
But
the truth is I admire
A
woman who sets her clock for 3 a.m.,
To
keep the dance of life moving.
Lola Lucas
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| October Sunset, Rebecca DuPont |
a monarch rests her silk wings
preparing
to hitch a ride
on
a southern current ripe seeds
yield
sprinkling yellow fields
of
billowing prairie grass
in
the center the mother tree
her
mahogany bark ignited
by
the setting sun clings to clusters
of
orange leaves a doe passes
beneath
guiding her younglings
south
toward warmth
and
a remembered salt lick
evening’s
long fingers begin
to
weave light through thinning
boughs
opening the way to
winter’s
starlight fierce as scripture
Pat Martin
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| Stillborn, Mary Tumulty |
Trees bleed leaves around me.
A stain
marks my shirt.
In
pours sunset—
a wash
of blood.
The
cold catches my breath.
My
legs freeze.
It’s
the same ole meadow.
It’s
the same ole breeze
cut
from another year
where
I’ve forgotten how to forget.
Lend
me your voice.
I
want to put it in my mouth—
breathe
in light and heat
heal
up cracks with kisses.
It
is in your lips
that
summer lives.
It
is in your eyes
where
love frees me from the chains of living.
Hold
me so yesterday can
spoon
tomorrow.
Touch
me where things cannot be born and die
in
a single push of time.
Anita Stienstra
 |
| Remembering Summer, Rebecca DuPont |
Some things I see clearly about summer,
where
I sat by the window with Aunt A.
A
Greyhound bus, when you are only eight,
in
hours of two, travels all day.
Expanse
of farm land stretched before me,
much
larger than the park or the Sears Roebuck.
I
climbed a fence, topped by barbed wire that scratched,
and
beyond the bull, a green apple I plucked.
Add salt to
green apples and pucker.
Drink lemonade
to lower August heat.
Walk the pail
from the barn and make ice cream,
vanilla
velvet—eat!
The
morning was for mud-pie cookies
with
bits of corn left baking in the sun.
Late
afternoon I held my nose and ventured
past
the pig pen and back ‘fore supper’s done.
Last
summer I traveled farther and paid more,
while
talking to people I didn’t even know,
and
with just a few relatives I hold dear,
I
dined on something—I can’t recall as clear.
Pam Miller
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| Awake at Dawn, Liz Drake |
after reading Li Ho
once we too were coils
let out
to be rearranged
amid lilacs and petrichor
our young bodies
bared thick the fitful drowse
of twined fingers
cerulean bands on a nightstand
glinting threshold of dawn
so when I leave you
your cool curtains
air a restless billow
half gone toward noon
I won’t wake you
our mirrors
two petal faces
in somnolent sheen
or ask you to drop
your posy of dreams
we each require
such different attentions
heat ascendant to swell
of finch and bunting
how strong our summering
we need no longer speak
of what we grow
toward that final harvest
so well arrayed our clouds
against open sky
Lisa Higgs
