Steve Klepetar

The Quantum Poet

If a tree falls in the forest
and you write a poem about it

that gets taken by two journals,
does it count as one publication or two?

Steve Klepetar believes that the answer to the conundrum his poem describes is “Yes and no.”

Jason Heroux

21st Century Translated by Robert Bly

When I look up at the night sky, I am
a cricket in the dark grass of heaven,
hearing trees carry the wind’s coffin
through woods that are no longer there.

Jason Heroux lives in a house on a street in a city on Earth, loving every minute of it.

 

Sarah White

If You Need An Idiom To Describe Events Of 2016

Try I SWALLOWED A RAT
while I was making shepherd’s pie, or HE
SWALLOWED A RAT while he was
working out with weights, or SHE
SWALLOWED A RAT while she hung
undies on the line, or,

while he studied Torah and she, Portuguese
THEY SWALLOWED A RAT and she
yelled “socorro!” but there was no noise
because the claws had compromised
her vocal chords and all the claws,
plus thrashing tails we saw
between her open jaws, were him,
THE RAT OF INFINITE MAYHEM.

Sarah White, since retiring from college French teaching, has studied art and published four collections of poetry and has a fifth, to one who bends my time, forthcoming from Deerbrook Editions.

Elizabeth Alford

I Had My Wisdom Teeth Out Last Week

The last thing I remember is saying
“This nitrous smells like Froot Loops”
once the unnerving mask was anchored
to my face, the sweet gas filling my lungs
and veins with a rare flirtatious happiness,

and how the surgeon—whose frosted
stubble hit just below the mountain peaks
of his cheek bones—cracked a crescent smile,
bent low like a lover looking for a kiss,
and in his winter-soft accent breathed lightly
into my ear: “Just follow your nose.”

Elizabeth Alford (Hayward, CA) is a voracious carbnivore who has also been known to eat her own words. See more of her work @ Facebook.com/ElizabethAlfordPoetry

Elizabeth Alford

Heaven is My Mother’s Apple Pie

Once a year
(and only under the best
possible circumstances)
my mother makes
her apple pie, and that first
bite—oh! how buttery
and crumbly the crust, how
spicy the forbidden fruit
filling still warm from the oven
and swirls of cinnamon,
sweet and tang waltzing to flavor
on the ballroom floor
of my tongue—is almost enough
to make me sing praise
to a god I don’t believe in,
even though I know
deep in my heart
and in my stomach
that if there is an afterlife,
it is after Thanksgiving dinner
and that my mother
is a god of gods
who can bake the whole
of the universe
into a pie.

Elizabeth Alford (Hayward, CA) is a voracious carbnivore who has also been known to eat her own words. See more of her work @ Facebook.com/ElizabethAlfordPoetry

Luigi Coppola

Coasters

How we fled
across a field
filled with snow,
feet bare, the need to
crush the white
outweighing the
need for socks,
shoes, shows more
about ourselves
than how, once
ice, our faces
have melted,
we use coasters
under lukewarm
tea or weak,
off-white coffee.

Luigi Coppola reads poetry, teaches poetry, writes poetry and drinks rum and coke. www.luigicoppolapoetry.blogspot.co.uk

 

Melissa Fite Johnson

As a Child, Dylan Klebold Loved Origami

His mother sat with him at the kitchen table,
lifted the coffee mug, heard
through all the closed windows of her house
a plane somewhere in the distance,

marveled at her son’s concentration—
his quiet, his small pink tongue
burrowing out the corner of his closed mouth.

Melissa Fite Johnson’s first poetry collection, While the Kettle’s On, is a Kansas Notable Book. https://melissafitejohnson.com/

Melissa Fite Johnson

Saturday Night Conversation

When I asked Mom why
Dad didn’t go to church, she stopped
chopping onions but didn’t
set down her knife, said
her dad hadn’t gone to church either,
like that answered the question.
 

Melissa Fite Johnson’s first poetry collection, While the Kettle’s On, is a Kansas Notable Book. https://melissafitejohnson.com/