(3)… by Rusty Kjarvik

 

(3)

empty Blown mind

towed current
        pulled slow

        drifted away

hand

        fingers following new lines

a purveyance through wood and metal
                traced rhythmically
                        moving away
                        from paper’s raw form

                        in touching the soft grain of a graphite pen

the resonant breath
        cold and worn thought
        strained to perfect the blue must of why

        expressed through thick unworn time

virgin thorn brush
        frame lilting strong above
of artistic madness & the careless face

in the jokester’s foam and rust

upbringing up mathematical ladder-works

        pierced with a sorry and frayed built-in lung

the pulse breaking off the tops of widow’s peak waves

        blushing high over the coastal horizon

a piercing thought
that boiled in the mind’s own brain
an intuitive question

        with an answer as certain as death in the next step

and raised thoughtless to the thickening deep
        an abysmal pace precedes the broken wife
                staring fast beyond the wild break
                forcing herself to see Love break
over the celestial mast
        and its foreign page

        burned as it were by the son’s inglorious risen haze

casting tears into a bewildered day
drying the dew-frosted snout of a log cabin deer
        faintly seen through the savage brush
                formed out of clear beaming space
                        in a second’s timeless gesture
                        upwards from the leaf
                        poking sure from soil’s infamous grasp
                                human souls prying with sheer might
                        and the imaginative will of the heavens
                                to escape from the tomb
                a living corpse
                        bruised and swollen with light

                        and the golden icicle flesh of a new species

needing to supersede man’s greatest guess
throughout history
                that the timeless prevails
                archaic wisdom thrives
                        in rocks inflamed
                        with the only sacred ardor
                        stabilizing our footstep ground
                                over the inner turnings
                                        of a worshiped Earth
                                                whose center remains
                                                an unresolved cleft

in the rights
        and passionate longing
                given to a miracle
                        lying between animal disease
                        and human sex

 

Rusty Kjarvik is a writer, musician and artist. Poetry publications include Poydras Review (August 2012), Danse Macabre, (July 2012). With short fiction in Haggard & Halloo (May 2012), and visual art for the cover of Eskimo Pie (July, August, September 2012), Kjarvik also blogs (www.rkjarvik.blogspot.com) and performs world music.

Copyright © 2013 by Rusty Kjarvik

 
 

 
 

 
 

 
 

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Thumbelina… by Holly Day

 

Thumbelina

I once was a woman who
prayed for just one little baby
someone to love and call my own
I didn’t care if it was

a little boy, a little

girl. but the only baby
that ever came was too
small, too quiet, curled tiny
in my palm. it would not move

it did not cry. morning came

and I
sat by the windowsill, imagining
walnut shell cradles
singing songs of the places
my child would never see.

 

Holly Day is a housewife and mother of two living in Minneapolis, Minnesota who teaches needlepoint classes in the Minneapolis school district. Her poetry has recently appeared in The Worcester Review, Broken Pencil, and Slipstream, and she is the recipient of the 2011 Sam Ragan Poetry Prize from Barton College. Her most recent published book is “Notenlesen für Dummies Das Pocketbuch,” while her novel, “The Trouble With Clare,” is due out from Hydra Publications in 2013.

Copyright © 2013 by Holly Day

 
 

 
 

 
 

 
 

House of Vanishing Doors… by Stanley Morris Noah

 

House of Vanishing Doors

A breeze came through the window
In a small vacant farm house very far
From town as the soft transparent
Cloth curtains danced. A chair and
Table nearby held an open book; pages
Turning themselves as if alone by the

Force of what was searching from the

Outside coming inside, intermittently,
At my reading pace. You see, I once
Lived here in the flesh of events with
Passion like others had done so when
Our fields were full of cotton and trees
Had deep water wells for their leaves
To grow cool shades. And the back bed
Room at times became silent as things
Stood still for moments. Again, just now,
I can recall one summer day like a dream
Written down, the long letting go, a closing
That haunts me since, as I was the one
Who died here; and people were walking,
Leaving like in slow motion while the
Landscape dried up as the seasons moved
On. Still, I remain looking out the stark
Window of migrating birds and dirt roads.
Watching them going, changing, disappearing
Into some kind of a lonely series, never ending.

 

Stanley Morris Noah has a BGS degree from The University of Texas at Dallas. He has been published in the following: Wisconsin Review, Nexus, Main Street Rag, South Carolina Review, Poetry Nottingham and other publications in the U.S.A., Britain, Canada and New Zealand.

Copyright © 2013 by Stanley Morris Noah

 

 
 

 
 

 
 

 
 

Heaven’s Mockery; O Star… by Canaan Massie

 

Heaven’s Mockery; O Star…

How you mock me.
Away from earthly oppressions.
Safe, is thee,

Hung home in heaven.

I envy your distance,
From this place we call earth.
You feel no resistance,

No pain, and no hurt.

For your father, an immortal,
And your mother owns all.
You feel no torture,

Only wished upon when you fall.

O star,

How you mock me.

How dost thee shine so bright?
And if thou art blue,
You still emulate light.

 

Canaan Massie is an eighteen year old who desires to make writing a lifetime vocation. For Canaan, writing is a spiritual experience. The very act of drawing the pen down the page is an encounter with the unseen other.

Copyright © 2013 by Canaan Massie