Because no matter the weather, the work of the birds
is to shine, like this morning’s five rusty gray sparrows
huddled in the overnight snow on the horn and handlebars
and along the horizon of the gleaming exhaust pipe
of the blue motorcycle that won’t start, $800 OBO, as is.
Jeanie Tomasko lives in Wisconsin with two overstuffed cats and a forthcoming dog.
His voice changes when
he talks to you.
Kim Ellingson, poet and activist, whose work has appeared in FIVE:2:ONE, is a writer in residence at Var Gallery in Milwaukee.
in the rain, just to hide
the tears streaming
down your face.
Uma Menon is a writer and student at Winter Park High School.
Peter C. Venable
In Blue Robe
In blue robe, fuzzy slippers, you sip coffee
wet hair hanging from morning sunbeams.
Peter C. Venable serves a life sentence, condemned to write poetry and hopes to flavor his with wit on wry.
J. R. Solonche
The House to Myself This Afternoon
The house to myself this afternoon,
I could go upstairs and lie on my back
in the spare room, on the sofa, my head
on two or three pillows, my legs folded up
with somebody’s book on my knees,
in the sun from my chest up, the book
between the sun and the window shadow,
turning the pages from dark to light,
from light to dark again, the poems passing
thus between my hands from light to dark,
from dark to light, and I could lie there
for two hours or for three hours until the sun
passed altogether out of the window and I was
chest up in cold shadow, but I have done that
already, and it served its purpose,
which was to ease the pain of life, which was
to make death, for two hours or for three hours,
seem no more than a passing of one page
into another page, an easing from light into dark,
from dark into light, a leaving, so I must think
of something else I could do, something other
than this that will likewise serve its purpose,
that will likewise be a passing of a page into a page,
that will likewise be an easing from light to dark
to light, that will likewise be a leaving, a leaving.
J. R. Solonche has been publishing in magazines, journals, and anthologies since the early 70s and is the author of six poetry collections.
is more than the quietude
following a relentless rain,
is a sandy-haired boy
standing steady in a splintered rowboat
pushing heels of callused hands to the sun
heaving a heavy stone into a swallowing stream,
is a soft spray of stars
sparkling across his freckled face,
is the obsidian water
rising and rising.
Moss Ingram enjoys reading and writing work that requires taut constraints, and he teaches this appreciation and practice at Grand Rapids Community College.
One winter in Korea
a violin went awry,
sound waves thin as
tracers or wires
snipped, cut loose
from redwood stain,
danced over snowfields,
up the mountain hold,
shattered wet air
with heart’s recovery,
tore stiletto quick
in snow’s embalmment,
feather down’s triple
blanketing and brawn
as some player played defilade,
urged deft hands and arms
into the spelling, matched
awed sounds in his head
to passage of fingertips,
as another finger squeezed
a trigger’s tantrum and
Billy Pigg died in my arms
just as one high note
froze on frigid air
visible forever, his
last eyes on my face.
song-less, hearing but
a single note.
Tom Sheehan is in his 91st year and has published 36 books, with 7 more submitted this year, whose cardiologist said just yesterday at his semi-annual check-up, “Keep moving.”
in the air,
Steve Klepetar has reached a plea agreement with Robert Mueller.