The anniversary of his death is the cruelest fishhook. Yanking us back, violently. When the days turn crisp, as they have now, when summer fades and autumn crawls into our tiny farming town—that’s when we most grieve our fallen classmate. One year we tried to ignore the date, but the hook came anyway and somehow was even more brutal. So now we meet it head on: we make a day of it. The downtown is strewn with somber-black ribbon. Coffee is shared and then, later, whiskey. We pass the yearbook, we muse, we moan. If a stranger such as you wanders by, the story is told in fullest detail.Read more "Our Danny Petoskey"
We only say it correctly when we’re learning to spell it, a hint of brew, this month more soft-spoken than the last, and short – though Valentine roses’ petals fall before ice melts. Oh, some whisper it as a synonym for claustrophobia, closing down or slamming doors so fast that cold lurks abandoned out there where invisibles moan and something smelly hides under the front steps.Read more "February"
I cradle an ornament that holds infinity in my hand a small blue angel carved out of wood meticulously painted in a life lived long ago. Scents of Bavarian pine, black forests that are silent, darkly deep with the residue of Rosstal.Read more "Lights"
For thrum of yellow through sycamores and slant of sunlight through milk jug’s rounded edges. For gold-ignited summer and star-spangled boneweed on the road.Read more "Thanksgiving in Hometowns"
The singing ingredient (two parts aria) is for the pumpkins, the gratitude moment when the seeds go in, the months cajoling vines up the pyramid of lath, celebrating bees in the fluted yellow flower, waiting for slow golding of the greenRead more "My Pumpkin Pie Recipe"
Impressions of the Sickhouse I watch in the world, amused by massacre and gin, homeland walls, holiday wars. Viewed from the barred gate darkened surveillance cars prowl, aimless under winter afternoon skies. Cold weather tramps straggle past construction generators, pavement gaps, work order water leaks. I take into consideration the symbolic and the sin. I […]Read more "Impressions of the Sickhouse"
The patio It’s Saturday. Easter weekend and I am up early. I am cleaning the greenhouse, bent down with holes in my knees, dragging out spiders from the dark places where my grandfather stored pots and sprouted succulents. on the lawn, you are wearing my shirt and carefully painting a bench and wooden chairs, flaked […]Read more "The patio"
St. Oswald’s Day Buying a ticket to ride the first ferry from Seattle to Bainbridge, the ticket seller’s window sign screams: “Leap Day!” I ask her. Then latte makers, the cigar-smoking pug walker, and the policeman with a bomb-sniffing beagle: “What is Leap Day to you? A holiday for card makers?” “If your birthday is […]Read more "St. Oswald’s Day"
The Little People Three little people hang out on the the edge of my bookshelves quietly reading the life history of corvids the courtship of red-tails light on yoga a book of Celtic legends and Anglo-Saxon riddles. They cross their feet in zazen, permission granted to enter the narrows, follow the ways of shelf elves. […]Read more "The Little People"
David Reuter is a New Jersey based poet. His work has been published in The Cape Rock, Existere Journal, Sanskrit Literary-Arts Magazine and Vox Poetica. He attended William Paterson University’s Writer’s Conference in 2018 and Rutgers Writers’ Conferences in 2017, 2018 and 2019. He has a bachelor’s degree from Caldwell College, works as a paralegal and enjoys practicing martial arts, playing […]Read more "Day of the Blackbirds"