Joanna Conom… The Cigar Box

 

The Cigar Box

that he bragged held enough of thing
to take him around the world twice
was found years later under his bed
in it the expired able bodied seaman
identification box checked cook
 
a picture of a small boy in shorts
holding the hand of his mother
who bought him a hot cinnamon roll
to eat on the bus trip home
from their weekly trip to market
 
a small card with an icon of
the virgin mary on one side
the 23rd psalm on the other
birth and death dates of his father
whose face he had a difficult time
putting into memory
 
four glass marbles of various color
a slingshot carved of bone
another picture well handled
of a young man in shorts wavy hair thick
grinning each arm around a south sea
island woman with belly ready to birth
 
a glossy of another bride
standing at the altar dressed with
a huge smile and yards of white satin
a dried red rose from her casket
documents showing baby names tiny footprints
 
a mugshot of indeterminate alleged crime
from unknown place assorted coins
clippings from newspapers
announcing the death of old friends relatives
an origami ring made with a dollar bill
union book local 8 miscellaneous cards
 
all fit into the cigar box cheap pine
worn shiny by touch and travel
and life in times forgotten
 

Copyright © 2017 by Joanna Conom

 

 
 
 
 
 
 
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Joanna Conom… Salish Sea

 

Salish sea

crusted with black glass
speckled with color
of distant running lights
tonight cracks only
to accept their burden
easy going appendage
of the world wet
reacts to insults of earth or sky
so rarely gently
it gives no hint
of changing season
or reason it does
not warm or long caress
human flesh
will cool a person
fast back to its maker
as fast in july as
on a merry christmas
a cold and quiet sea
my home
 

Copyright © 2017 by Joanna Conom

 

 
 
 
 
 
 

Carrie Albert… Frog Artifact, named “Beatrice”

 

beatrice_amphivbiaremnantslab

 
 
Frog Artifact, named “Beatrice”
(3016 Analysis)
 
Mass and Materials:
Of blue petrochemicals, spots intact.
Palm size with “China 1” underbelly
found on earth under far-Eastern
impact of Asteroid Zabo
 
Dated:
Early Plastic Age, before World War 3
on the eve of Meltdown Z when
memories were buried
all religious faiths annihilated
100 years prior to extinction
of living amphibians
 
Explanation:
Goddess Anura, likely a fertility charm used
in Laboratory Zigmar’s early attempts
to procreate human/frog beings
 
Stunning survival, but needs bath and shining
 
Hold in Goddess Vaults 100z456890000//
 

Carrie Albert is poet and visual artist and sometimes the two merge. Her poetry has appeared in diverse journals and anthologies – recently – the Bullies and Bystanders Project: “Changing Harm to Harmony”, HEArt online and upcoming (with photo) in Gray Sparrow, both print and online. Collage, photo and poem pairings have been featured in a number of publications. Here are a few links: Carrie Albert | The Far Field, Carrie Albert — The Monarch Review, Spiritual & Healing Practices – all things healing, qarrtsiluni.com/tag/c-albert. She is also Artist in Residence at inksweatandtears.co.uk. online.

Copyright © 2016 by Carrie Albert

 
 
 
 
 
 
 

Margaret Roncone… I’m Going to Moscow

 

I’m Going to Moscow

 

to trudge through snow

I will continue until

steeple clocks

stop chiming

I will wear

scratchy shirts

read Tolstoy

find his orchard

take a bite of a wormy apple

offer the rest to a sleigh driver

in a topcoat

his red worn hands

at the reins of a
horse
I will steal.

 

Margaret Roncone was born in Rochester N.Y., found her hearthome in Seattle. Wrote poetry in high school and was encouraged by a lay teacher surrounded by a swarm of nuns. Finds inspiration in frequent bus rides; hosts an open mic in Uptown.

Copyright © 2016 by Margaret Roncone

 

 

 

 

 

 

Margaret Roncone… I’m Still Dreaming of your Birthday

 

I’m Still Dreaming of your Birthday

empty flower vases,
burnt cake,
useless gifts wrapped in old

newsprint

I could have done so much better

have no excuse,

except for childhood memories
hanging like rat traps

from my fingers,

we are heavy souls
made heavier

with the past;

I walk through cold streams
trying to wake myself.

 

Margaret Roncone was born in Rochester N.Y., found her hearthome in Seattle. Wrote poetry in high school and was encouraged by a lay teacher surrounded by a swarm of nuns. Finds inspiration in frequent bus rides; hosts an open mic in Uptown.

Copyright © 2016 by Margaret Roncone