Yvonne Zipter

Genius

At 3:30
in the A.M.,
I’m always
brilliant
as a torch
in a moonless
wood—a
brilliance
swallowed
by the light
of the sun.


Yvonne Zipter is the author of poetry collection Kissing the Long Face of the Greyhound, the novel Infraction, and countless insomnia-induced scraps of poetry.


 

 

Fredric Koeppel

November

The Jack-o-Lantern our neighbor threw
into the woods across the street,
caved in, gnawed by squirrels and possums —
I wish I had not seen that face at twilight,
under a half-moon’s faint-hearted gauze.


Fredric Koeppel has discovered that writing a one-sentence poem is harder than writing an epic.


 

 

Sarah Dickenson Snyder

Ars Poetica

As if a pipe burst inside, memory
a vast field, those warm strawberries
picked, fingers stained in a freshness
of all I’ve touched as I hold my breath
to stay in the blossoming
of what Rilke advised, Go into yourself,
your solitude will widen,
a whole life touchable—
the lemon tree in the backyard
and I am reaching for fruit,
like I own an orchard,
like I am an orchard.


Sarah Dickenson Snyder lives in Vermont, carves in stone, rides her bike, and has three poetry collections, The Human Contract, Notes from a Nomad, and With a Polaroid Camera.


 

 

Sarah Dickenson Snyder

Looking for Signs from My Dead Mother

Here I am again
at my own birthday party

where you’d spin
a blind-folded me,

the papery donkey tail
clutched in my hand

as I reach out for
what I can’t see.


Sarah Dickenson Snyder lives in Vermont, carves in stone, rides her bike, and has three poetry collections, The Human Contract, Notes from a Nomad, and With a Polaroid Camera.


 

 

Wayne Scheer

Carpe Diem

My granddaughter
takes control of the day,
grabs it by its neck
and won’t let go,
swings it over her head,
lassos a runaway hour
to make sure it doesn’t escape.


Wayne Scheer has been nominated for five Pushcart Prizes and two Best of the Nets.


 

 

Howie Good

Asleep in Class

I have heard it is bad luck to wake up
a student who is asleep in class, and so
I don’t, even though now he may never
know that Picasso dressed like a pauper
or that Bulgarians burn old used clothes
for heat and fuel or that in years to come
he will resemble a blurry photo of himself.


Author’s Bio

I could advertise the network
of scars I bear from a neurotic

upbringing, or say I live mostly
in my head, or even joke that

I am a noted writer of blurbs
for other people’s books, and

I could do it, just as required
by your submission guidelines,

in “50 words or less,” but it wouldn’t
be nearly the whole truth, more

like an article of clothing snuffled
by a search dog to learn the scent

of the person who has gone missing.


Whatever it is, Howie Good is against it.


Brett Warren

If I’m Lucky

the worst thing about dying will be
how I won’t be able to write about it

what I thought & felt
what I saw & smelt

the oh fuck! or what the hell…? of it
or the last contented breath of it

the regret or peace or relief of it
the whack or languid pull of it

the radiance or dimming or fire of it
the antiseptic or floral rot of it

the simple unraveling
or sensory overload of it—

how I won’t reveal if a colossal face
peers down through a hole in the clouds

if a massive hand scoops me up
like a cosmic Ferris wheel

& sets me back down as Cleopatra
or a dung beetle or crushes me

in a divine comment on insignificance.


Brett Warren shares her late mother’s utter disinterest in the idea of an afterlife and might prefer reincarnation, though perhaps not as a human.


 

 

Brett Warren

Mooncake in a Chinese Bakery

You came for this round wonder
on a paper plate

& found windows steamed
to invisibility

tables & chairs so close
you have to go sideways

to get the one seat left
at a rickety table by the wall

the bell on the door
an insistent message

from the world of the sidewalk
where gutters gutter over

& rain rains down
which you blissfully ignore

because you want to drown
in the refuge of voices

not one word you understand

not one face you know

not a soul who knows you

this happiness a measure
for all happiness

a lotus mooncake
the least of it.


Brett Warren shares her late mother’s utter disinterest in the idea of an afterlife and might prefer reincarnation, though perhaps not as a human.