Howie Good

Turning Japanese

We were born into an idiotic age,
given only clichés to speak growing up,
warned not to change the words around
or otherwise stray from the script,
and we meekly obeyed, but today
a bird in the pine outside our window
piped a string of discordant notes
once, twice, three times, waking me
just before light with its haiku.


Howie Good dislikes author bios.


 

 

Amy Snodgrass

Three Miracles

The water that has since washed them away

-those structures built by my daughter, carefully or with abandon depending on the day-

leaves patterns in the dirt,

waves and trails and hiccups that become, after a sincere but brief mourning period,

landscapes for new adventures

in this extra fine dirt with an inexplicable sparkle, fairy dust as she dances through it-

a deserted construction site miracle, this dancing- and

then yesterday, she said, “Mom! My mountain. It’s still there” and I see that

it had survived a downpour and I,

well, I

let her think it was another miracle

instead of swiping on my phone to teach her how cement hardens under water,

trusting

that years from now,

she will forgive me.


Amy Snodgrass eats a lot of Dove dark chocolate.


 

 

Mike Cole

There is
this morning
snow
on the ridge
out our kitchen window

and we are glad
for the cold
and the brightness.


Mike Cole lives and writes and waits on the arrival of poems in the mountains of Central California near Yosemite.


 

 

María Castro Domínguez

Llenar un espacio en blanco en un formulario

Viuda, huérfana, viudo, sin padres
sin palabras
para una madre que ha perdido su hija
para un padre que ha perdido su hijo
cómo llenar el formulario
tan vasto
tan vacío.

Filling a blank space in a form

Widow, orphan, widower, unparented
no word
for a parent who has lost a child
how to fill a form in
so vast
so empty.


María Castro Domínguez has been born many times. She has three poetry collections out in the world, two are co-authored. Her tweet handle is @marcasdom.


 

 

María Castro Domínguez

Madre

Reflejo su rostro
mandíbulas fuertes, pómulos que duelen pero
ella huele a especies,
más morena más alta más ancha que yo,
ella trata de convertirme en una miniatura
el verticilo, la pepita que perdió al nacer
cuando yo empecé.

Mother

I mirror her face,
strong jaws cheek bones that hurt but
she smells of spice
darker taller broader than me,
she tries to make me into a miniature
the whorl the pip she lost at birth
when I began.


María Castro Domínguez has been born many times. She has three poetry collections out in the world, two are co-authored. Her tweet handle is @marcasdom.


 

 

from the Editors

Natalie Wolf has joined the editorial team at One Sentence Poems. In addition to  reading and voting on submissions,  Natalie is posting the poems on the website.

Natalie  is from Kansas, where she enjoys writing poetry and fiction and thinking about cats. Her poetry has appeared in Right Hand PointingI-70 Review, and Live Ideas. For more of her stuff and things, see here.

Our thanks and welcome to Natalie!

Dale, Tony, & Liz