JD DeHart… Ragged Moth

 

Ragged Moth

While we move and shuffle,
the moth watches from the wall.
Mold comes bleeding through
in patches.
This is the last time we will see
this place and we know it,
the last time we will say these
words in this place.
Our surroundings echo back to
us and remind us to move slowly
so that we can remember this.
Like gorging too quickly, our
escape from this place will only
exist in our minds if we taste
and take our time.

 

JD DeHart is a writer and teacher. His chapbook, The Truth About Snails, is available from Red Dashboard and he blogs on jddehartwritings.blogspot.com.

Copyright © 2016 by JD DeHart

 

 

 

 

 

 

David E. Howerton… –You’re what I scream about–

 

–You’re what I scream about–

——- ——-
—— — — —-‘- —-,
— —— —– —.
— —– —- ——-.
— —— ——-
—- —— — —–
— —- ———
—- ——.
—–. — —–‘- — ——–
—- —– —– — —- ——
—–‘- —- ——–
——- ——- — ——.
— — —- – —– —-
——– — — —
—- —— — —–
—— ——- —— —–
—— —.

 

Copyright © 2016 by David E. Howerton

 

 

 

 

 

 

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

 

 

 

 

 

 

A Chastised Child… by Keith Kennedy

 

A Chastised Child

And if that wasn’t enough,
he clings, as a
near oblique – some
pseudo-section of a dying art
or an art which uses dyes
or a game that casts die
– to the arm of a stuffed bear
as it hangs at his side, one eye
empty, the other loosed to one thread
and it depicts, sends
an alarming signal to the
world – for he is it and
it is he – strung up by
a limb and unable to see
a way out, while she,
giver of life, rants and
rants until his body can
feel not another ounce of fear.

 

Copyright © 2013 by Keith Kennedy