writing

It Never Ends

The day so far: still searching for that epic.
Seafaring? Great mystery of the shadowy deep?
Cataclysm? The earth opening beneath my feet?

No, just the measured stillness that slides
out of my pencil one word at a time.
The vision of my old friend, fresh from cataract surgery,

saying he can once again enjoy looking
at the stars, “connecting the dots.”
A modest return to wonder, the windows washed,

the old universe swimming into view,
a moment of darkness and silence and the awe
of retracing an old riddle, finding north,

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The Poet at 45

My son winding up to hit a ball off a tee,
I was crawling out of older motherhood
the way you back out of the tent or debark from a canoe,
careful not to disturb the sides or stand up too soon.
Adding distance between myself and the scattered contents
of a diaper bag, trailing Cheerios, wipes, fruit roll-ups,
as gingerly as my son charged ahead exuberant in a growing body,
I stepped into my office, where I’d relocated everything that was mine
and that couldn’t be lost or torn or shredded,
shut behind me the door of the room from which I’d once sought escape,
carrying the notebook downstairs to the chair, outside to the sun

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the H.E.B.

that drunk man without a home is yelling
“happy new years” but it’s only the day
after Christmas. for him, what’s the difference?
automatic doors open for me, the security officer
does not bat an eye.

later,
while placing produce on the conveyor
I got distracted and
some little inkling of a poem slipped out
my mind, off my earlobe, and smacked
the ground. it flipped like a fish, wriggled
for some other undeserving wretch to receive.

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For Sylvia

Fixed and firm you pull out frames slice wax caps and dip into combs of liquid gold. You tug red cashmere over platinum waves then smooth a tight, white skirt.

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Along the Seine

Not doing much but composing a poem in my head—which might be somethingif the poem is consummated,turning out to be good. Sunlight steps easy on the waterall the way to Quay Bercyand a new first line—that’s better.Lush, green leaves on the trees, a cat chases plump birds,a couple on the roof of a houseboatkiss and […]

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A Master

A Master What if A Master could teach my son to fly over the cornfields of any countryside a person might wish or dream to see. This Master would dress like a carnival barker. My son, who long ago stopped minding my rules, would kick off his tennis shoes and take flight. People would see […]

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Deconstruction

Mir-Yashar is a graduate of Colorado State University’s MFA program in fiction. A recipient of two Honorable Mentions from Glimmer Train, his story, “Soon” was nominated for a Pushcart. Mir-Yashar’s stories are forthcoming or have been published in journals such as Fiction Kitchen Berlin, Johnny America, Silent Auctions, City. River. Tree. and Ariel Chart. Deconstruction […]

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Hello L’Hiver

Kristopher William Locke is a poet and artist born, raised and situated in the Canadian prairies with experience in various mediums including radio, print, web and stage. Readers are invited to join him on the peaks and valleys that exist within, and despite, the flat prairie landscape of his homeland. The result is part of his shared […]

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If No One Watches

David Boyer has been published in Adelaide Literary Magazine, Headway and haiku journals including Frogpond, Modern Haiku, The Heron’s Nest, Bones, is/let, and Roadrunner. If No One Watches something like urgency through October leaves don’t look away reach back the draft in the cool morning when nouns were on your side tell the coffee cup […]

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