Erin J. Jones… Once More An End

 

Once More An End

Once more an end
Once more a beginning
A loving hand has turned away
The spirit, though saddened, moves forward
Love’s hope still dreams
The sun will rise again
A new day shall dawn

 

Erin Jones was born in Wisconsin and raised in Arkansas. After high school he served in the U.S. Army as a cavalry scout before returning to school to earn B.As in communication and economics. He is now a mild mannered salesperson by day and a struggling writer by night.

Copyright © 2015 by Erin Jones

 

 

 

 

 

 

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John McKernan… Twilight

 

Twilight

I must be confused if this is my body

I remember planting the nine rows of corn

Down on my knees in the mud after returning from
      Vermont

Snow was still piled high inside the curves of my
      skull

Here it is September & a blue plate is piled high with
      steaming white corn in a mirror of oozy yellow
butter

I wonder if that’s only a picture of a machine gun the
      sundial on the patio has aimed at my right eye

The candy striper told everyone in nine rooms how
      she CPR revived a 98-year-old woman who had
fallen on the Big Bear parking lot

She regretted ripping the old woman’s wig &
      breaking her dentures

If this is my body I must be somewhere else

What we are all afraid to say is probably the truth

Even though it sounds like the wind sharpening
      a squadron of icicles

This is not a family newspaper so you can report
      anything and use any kind of language

Even the silence hiding beneath the Atlantic
      Ocean

I plan to decipher & translate it

It is not a rune & has almost no rhyme

The corn does taste delicious

The tomatoes – yellow & red – suggest this patio
should be renamed Mount Olympus

I don’t care if my language lacks the aorist
      & the optative

You just think it is a big red razor blade up there
      in the sky-scythe scraping some more sundial
shadow into the granite ocean

I always enjoy looking backwards – At Dawn
especially – Rosy Fingered Dawn

 

John McKernan – who grew up in Omaha Nebraska – is now a retired comma herder / Phonics Coach after teaching 41 years at Marshall University. He lives – mostly – in West Virginia where he edits ABZ Press. His most recent book is a selected poems Resurrection of the Dust. He has published poems in The Atlantic Monthly, The Paris Review, The New Yorker, Virginia Quarterly Review, The Journal, Antioch Review, Guernica, Field and many other magazines

Copyright © 2015 by John McKernan

 

 

 

 

 

 

Joanna Conom… Everything is Lovely

 

Everything is Lovely

the gone dream
the essence ran
out the right eye
slow but constant
loosing sharp edges
quality of light
flat yellow california
blinding at 4:00 pm
the children that are not
gather to chop vegetables
for slumglion guaranteed
to spread and destroy
seasonal malaise beginning
with the erection of
the tin christmas tree
sparkling with aqua lights
was that a dream
and under it the icon
that was a gift
for the last lost baby
deep lapis of
the wondering eye
and value undetermined
until it was lost
everything disappears
of course she did not
last long just dream
ending in blood
looking out at infinite
sky the favorite fuschia
silk blouse sunset
neatly packed somewhere
should have been burned
what happens to the
lost loved soul
does it ascend
as wish hanging on lost
balloons or spread into
fine morning mist
noticeable only to eyes
brightened by a glimpse
into the abyss
the whole world can exist
in a drop of water clinging
to a green thing
hungering life what was
there is nothing to hang onto
but everything and
everything is lovely
with a check of
angle and filter
of the eye

everything is lovely

will always be
lovely

 

Joanna Conom was born into the gray mist of Seattle and continues to reside there. Poetry was a love of her young life that was lost in the fog of adulthood. Three years ago during an acupuncture treatment Dr. Wu inserted needles in the top of her head which freed her trapped poems. She has been writing ever since.

Copyright © 2015 by Joanna Conom

 

 

 

 

 

 

Scott Montgomery… In Fear of Technicolor

 

In Fear of Technicolor

Rise up alone. I am stealing these words. Rise up in tone.
I am standing, desert-like, moon-like, mars-like,
red stalagmites, pillars, a shortcut, a song,
where she does not want to become
a voice raising in pitch that warbles

with each footprint a shatter.

I spilled my favorite drink,
puffing a cigarette and speaking cupidely, smoking hot,
while Courtney, irresponsibly reporting

her one-of-a-kind pieces as another ornate frock.

She has dazzled every viewer.

Trimming after and trimming after
both vintage finds: lopped off
while the other Britney shows a baby on board,
Einstein-like dissertation,
what the 20th century releases now and again:
aimed at your face,
associations and parallels,
the mysticism of a cheetah at rest.

 

I live in the isolated heights of the Andes in a region known as The Potato Park. It is here that I spend my time in the community, learning the Quechua language, and holding workshops for children on themes related to self-expression and sustainability. I am at work on a book of creative nonfiction, which has been funded through Kickstarter. To follow the project as it takes place, please visit the project blog at http://www.footstepsandvoices.com. I received my MFA in creative writing (poetry) from Arizona State University, where I served as poetry editor for Hayden’s Ferry Review.

Copyright © 2015 by Scott Montgomery