Muddy booted neighbor
The dapper old chap, with a sun faded cap,
worn-out bibs pinned where the snap
has failed
a thread-bare red flannel shirt
the cuffs unfastened, flap
with each step as he traipses
across the yard
without regard
for property lines or tender seedlings
of the grass I have recently sown.
His face wrinkled brown
with patches of whiskers
missed this morn
his gnarled hand
grasping a string of fish.
How can I wish
anything but good to this bearer
of gifts.
--Kay Middleton
ghosts
i don't believe in ghosts
just shadows on the wall
footfalls on familiar carpets
that shimmer through the hall
there are no restless spirits
just reflections in the mind
scents on clothes and closets
are all that's left behind
there is no hidden message
just words we should have said
and constant conversations
with the cold side of the bed
--Russell Berrisford
Holy
Holy, Holy, Holy
farmhouses at dusk
dark purple wet night upon us
The afterglow of quiet days well spent
quiet hibiscus days
days of marigolds and tulips
of dogs racing unleashed
taunting cats and cattle,
days of old tractors
plowing over last year’s crop
snapping straw against the stiff black earth
the end of toil
by tired, well trained muscles
yellow flowers raise their heads
in the near darkness
vying for twilight's last attention,
The soft purple haze puts me to sleep,
-makes me love all the right things
and none of the wrong ones
--Peg James
Tooth Less
It used to be you got a quarter
Reached under pillow to the cool spot
until fingers met something cooler
something round
Tooth gone fairy long gone
A shiny silver sun clutched close
Today my son pocketed
two bucks and grinned,
his wide gap gaping
a dark pink boasting
a tiny white bud
If he had quarters
he would be pulling them out
pushing them in
jangling them together
like the tooth
he twisted
rocked and coaxed
until he fell to sleep
tooth askew
He awoke in the dark
beside me, hoarse voice
threaded with import
The hushed pronouncement:
It's Out
Lying in the dark
he swallowed with pleasure
tonguing the phantom tooth,
knowing the tattery dollars
were eight quarters worth
of holding,
feeling, crinkling,
finally bartering
for the stuff
that teeth are worth
--Katherine Hauswirth
View From A Window
In winter the hills look so bleak.
Except for the sometimes it snows.
Today is one of those sometimes days.
The air cuts straight to the bone.
The weeping willow stands bare,
Looking embarrassed as we stare.
School friends dressed in winter coats,
Shiny red Wellingtons, gloves tied together,
Thick scarves around our throats,
Throwing snowballs and laughter into the air.
--Ben McNair
Dismay
You never compliment my sneezes.
I’m not asking for
a compliment for every one.
That would be gratuitous.
But, doesn’t a good one
deserve a
“Good sneeze, there.”
Yes, I get a
“God bless you,”
or sometimes a
“Gesundheit!”
But, now and then, how about a
“Good sneeze”?
I want credit for knowing when one is coming
and covering up.
Maybe not for just one, but certainly
for a trumpet in threes.
Nothing to sneeze at!
--Neal Whitman
Mrs. Wickham
( Elizabeth Bennett’s younger sister rethinks her marriage)
I will carefully measure out my mirth,
And consent to give it slow, bitter birth.
When it comes to lofty society,
Affairs, dinner, and thine propriety.
I shall bow my head piously and pray,
Then feign curiosity of thy day.
Mine ears are deaf to sounds and words from thee,
Yet delighted I am obliged to be.
I shall ask contemptuous questions none
About thy nighttime philandering fun.
I shall find no pleasures betwixt our sheets,
Instead I will ponder thy dismal feats.
In town, thy heroism I shan't hear,
Only snips of gossip and callous smear.
As I prep a feast for thine appetite,
I pepper the meat with abundant spite.
I shall bring my fresh smiles on a plate
Ruing that grievous day I chose my mate.
--Morgan Castillo
A MUFFLED FAMILY
A distant muffler hack
is the only sound
between him
and perpetual silence.
Thank God, he says,
that there's still
some people out there
who drive their cars into the ground.
The children left
to engines barely above a hum.
His wife took the one cab
that didn't sound like a tank at bay.
But that muffler's loud enough
to convince him that it's not just him,
and the beer, and sparsely furnished rooms
where all that echoes is the dust.
Next time around, that muffler
might even scrape against the pavement.
So much noise
to look forward to.
--John Grey
A Slow Turning Away
It’s not angry words.
It’s the words that we don’t have the energy to say.
It’s not hateful glances
across our salad and tea.
It’s a slow turning away.
It’s the comatose stare at the television
and the endless turning of a book’s pages.
Late night kisses,
unexpected touches,
playful smiles,
replaced by a quiet click
as you turn out your bedside light at twelve.
I leave mine on till two.
Somehow
we made an unspoken vow
to shroud the pain,
so that people wouldn’t ask questions.
We wouldn’t have to face the answers.
It doesn’t bruise arms or blacken eyes.
It doesn’t leave someone to blame in the morning.
A fortress is built with schedules
And bed pillows in between us.
Sometimes, an awkward touch,
tenderly tried and then ignored,
is quickly forgotten.
The ripples soon fade away
from a small pebble tossed into a vast sea.
The words we don’t have the energy to say
Have become a slow turning away.
--Trina Hendrixson
About the poets in this issue:
Kay Middleton lives on the edge of the sprawling Lake Smith in Virginia Beach. She keeps (or is kept by) a garden; she writes poetry, short stories and novels. How much influence she has over the writing is suspect. She reads omnivorously, and changes chairs on occasion.
Russell Berrisford lives in Vancouver, Canada. He has been published in Camroc Press Review, Inscribed, and Foundling Review.
Peg James lives in San Diego, California. She frequently reminisces about growing up in the beautiful Pennsylvania countryside.
Katherine Hauswirth has written creative nonfiction for 10 years, and over the last year or so she has delved into poetry. Her work has been published in The Writer, Byline, The Writer's Handbook, The Writer's Guide to Fiction, Pregnancy, Snowy Egret, Christian Science Monitor, and Pilgrimage. She is the author of the book Things My Mother Told Me: Reflections on Parenthood. Her recent accomplishments include a featured essay in Get Satisfied: How Twenty People Like You Found the Satisfaction of Enough, the authoring of its companion discussion guide, and a piece on her mom in Women of Spirit. Katherine lives with her husband and son in the shoreline area of Connecticut.
Ben Macnair was born in Nottingham, and now resides in Staffordshire U.K. His poetry has appeared in Purple Patch, Raw Edge, and various other small print publications, and was featured in the National Poetry Anthology for 2005, 2006, and 2008, 2009 and the forthcoming 2010. His short stories have appeared in Twisted Tongue, and in two Forward Press Anthologies. Journalism and reviews have appeared in Blues in Britain Magazine, Verbal Magazine, and various local newspapers and The Independent.
Neal Whitman lives in Pacific Grove, California, and is a volunteer docent at the Robinson Jeffers Tor House in nearby Carmel. A retired teacher, since 2006 he has published over 50 poems in print and online (edited journals only) and relishes recitals (gratis only) in search of public confirmation of a private labor.
Morgan Castillo lives in North Carolina and is an English major at Belmont Abbey College.
John Grey lives in Providence, Rhode Island. He has been published in Agni, Worcester Review, South Carolina Review and The Pedestal.
Trina Hendrixson lives in Pennsylvania with her husband and three teenagers. Her love of poetry began at the age of six when she began memorizing famous poems and reciting them in front of her first grade class. When she is not writing, she spends her time photographing the people and places of Chester County. More of her work can be found online in Rust and Moth (fall 2009 issue).