A poem by Richard King Perkins II
It’s not a dream
but a slightly bygone world
covered in frozen mist.
Sparrows alight on the small shoreline
of an astounding perimeter—
a sanctum whispering in white.
I study the icebound bracken and reeds,
gazing past the embankment
to this vacancy of snow where your car once slept.
In the old meeting place, I still look for you—
where our conversations spilled upon gentle light;
simple confessions of twigs and soul.
But we’re left with only a few desperate sentences;
having spoken of things to deny or embrace,
the evergreen ghosts of our endless north country.
Now you’re stranded on a bridge in St. Louis
with no money and no credit cards
and your passenger side window broken out.
I’m in the bristling pines laced ivory
where someone once wrote a song about you;
how your eyes extinguished sensibility,
how your eyes painted light into every corner of darkness.
Can you recall how desperately we believed
that the return of robins and sharp shadows
could change everything;
that crocuses would ignite life in themselves?
Richard King Perkins II is a state-sponsored advocate for residents in long-term care facilities. He lives in Crystal Lake, Illinois with his wife, Vickie, and daughter, Sage. He is a three-time Pushcart, Best of the Net and Best of the Web nominee whose work has appeared in more than a thousand publications.
A poem by Jack D. Harvey
Something there was about
Martin the glutton,
killed by too many suppers,
too many paddles of gravy
carried him on like
a south sea chieftain;
disordered his pouch was,
chaos marched over
his midguard like Attila.
He stammered like Demosthenes
before he puked and puked,
pissed and shat,
to the end of reckoning,
till chilly Christmas came onto the field,
till the Rockies slid into the gulf.
Something there was
about him, though he died
blowing at both ends;
those shadows of pain and surfeit
rolled him on
to greatness, to unattainable
braveness; for he ate
until he was dead,
miserly mean-spirited enemies.
in their nightmares
they behold him, an angel
a mighty Nimrod,
hunting the stinters and
Jack D. Harvey’s poetry has appeared in Scrivener, Mind In Motion, The Comstock Review, The Antioch Review, Bay Area Poets Coalition, the University of Texas Review, the Beloit Poetry Journal, and a number of other on-line and in print poetry magazines over the years, many of which are probably kaput by now, given the high mortality rate of poetry magazines.
The author has been writing poetry since he was sixteen and lives in a small town near Albany, New York. He was born and worked in upstate New York. He is retired from doing whatever he was doing before he retired. He once owned a cat that could whistle “Sweet Adeline”, use a knife and fork, and killed a postman.
A poem by Joan McNerney
Sneaks under shadows lurking
in corners ready to rear its head
folded in neat lab reports charting
white blood cells over edge running wild.
Or hiding along icy roads when
day ends with sea gulls squalling
through steel grey skies.
Brake belts wheeze and whine
snapping apart careening us
against the long cold night.
Official white envelopes stuffed with
subpoenas wait at the mailbox.
Memories of hot words burning
razor blades slash across our faces.
Fires leap from rooms where twisted
wires dance like miniature skeletons.
We stand apart inhaling this mean
air choking on our own breath.
Joan McNerney’s poetry has been included in numerous literary magazines, such as Seven Circle Press, Dinner with the Muse, Moonlight Dreamers of Yellow Haze, Blueline, and Halcyon Days. Three Bright Hills Press anthologies, several Poppy Road Review journals, and numerous Kind of A Hurricane Press publications have accepted her work. Her latest title is Having Lunch with the Sky (ISBN-10: 0971463158) and she has received four “Best of the Net” nominations.