For Jill Clayburgh, In Memoriam By Diane Elayne Dees

For Jill Clayburgh, In Memoriam
By Diane Elayne Dees

The image we will always remember:
You, swirling and spinning
throught the streets of New York,
becoming the blue and yellow and orange.
You looked excited, not afraid, not caring
that strangers gawked at you. You learned
to move with the wind, to stay grounded
while fate turned you round and round.
At one with the blue and yellow and orange,
at one with the streak of fiery red,
standing straight and filled with awe,
you let yourself be carried by art, by wind.

Diane Elayne Dees’s poetry has been published in many journals and anthologies. Diane lives in Louisiana. She publishes Women Who Serve, a blog about women’s professional tennis.

Last Dance with Mary Jane by Nina Bennett

Last Dance with Mary Jane
by Nina Bennett

Miguel shows me his bag of dope
at every counseling session.
I keep my expression neutral,
refuse to be drawn in when he asks
if it looks like good shit.
We then spend 30 of his 50 minutes
discussing his paranoia. He worries
that he is being ripped off, that his dealer
thinks he is stupid because his English
is poor. I use every maneuver I know
to redirect the session, but each week
we end up gazing at the baggie
he pulls from his backpack.

This week Miguel doesn’t show up,
doesn’t call to cancel, doesn’t answer his phone.
Today I see the article, buried
in the crime section of the newspaper. Shot
in the back, he bled out on the sidewalk,
died alone, three doors from his home.
Outside my window, daffodils bow their heads
as a spring shower cleanses the street.

Nina Bennett is the author of Forgotten Tears A Grandmother’s Journey Through Grief. Her poetry has appeared in numerous journals including Requiem, Tipton Poetry Journal, San Pedro River Review, The Summerset Review, Bryant Literary Review, Yale Journal for Humanities in Medicine, The Broadkill Review, and anthologies such as Spaces Between Us: Poetry, Prose and Art on HIV/AIDS. Nina is a contributing author to the Open to Hope Foundation. www.transcanalwriters.com

Forecasting Hemlines by M.R. Smith

Forecasting Hemlines
by M.R. Smith

Weather will come
in its own fashion. Dark
evening dress, sharp jewelry
meant to kill,
sometimes light and blousy.
Today it is straight-legged
and lined out clean, a casual
bearing trying to portray
confidence and control
of a situation that could
change at the drop
of a barometer.

M.R. Smith lives in Boise, ID and will have work appearing in the fall in The Red River Review.

Resurrection by Nina Bennett

Resurrection
by Nina Bennett

The first Easter after Dad died
I waited for him to come back to life.
I sat at dinner, silence broken
by klink of fork against china,
swish and crackle of ice
as I stirred sugar into my tea.
I tried to ignore the whispered hypocrite,
you don’t believe in the resurrection.

I am responsible for my father’s
death. I’m the one who implored
the ICU doctors to convince my brother
it was time to forgo life-sustaining treatment,
to explain that our father now existed
in a realm we could not access.

First child, oldest daughter,
I’m the one who rested my head
on Dad’s chest, strained to hear
his fading heartbeat, pressed my fingers
against the once-pulsing artery in his neck,
pushed the call button and told the nurse
his final exhale was at 5 p.m.

Nina Bennett is the author of Forgotten Tears A Grandmother’s Journey Through Grief. Her poetry has appeared in numerous journals including Requiem, Tipton Poetry Journal, San Pedro River Review, The Summerset Review, Bryant Literary Review, Yale Journal for Humanities in Medicine, The Broadkill Review, and anthologies such as Spaces Between Us: Poetry, Prose and Art on HIV/AIDS. Nina is a contributing author to the Open to Hope Foundation. www.transcanalwriters.com

Dear Park Ave. by Gary F. Iorio

Dear Park Ave.
by Gary F. Iorio

She bought a dog to have
someone
to walk with. But the dog never walked.
He ran, and stopped, sprinted, circled, peed, barked,
pooped (shat), yawned and slept.
Really! He
never walked with her – at her side, like
she dreamed.

The town was waiting for her
and her dog.
Outside the bakery, there was a water bowl on an aluminum stand.
Inside, the doggie treats were free.

The guy who owned the franchise-sandwich-shop had
pictures of a Boxer-mix taped to the register. But behind the counter
there was always a sleeping Husky
lying close to a wall papered with black and white images of the
Subway station at Stillwell Avenue,
Coney Island!

She chased and shouted as
he knocked over the clean, aluminum stand; pleaded with him as
he refused and barked loudly at the doggie treats that were offered and free.

Once, while she waited for her small “Veggie-Local,” he cleared the counter
and landed on the sleeping Husky.

She’d walked past my window carrying the huge, heavy, happy beast.
We all knew she whispered his name each night, last thing, before
she dreamed.

GARY F. IORIO was raised in Brooklyn and Massapequa, NY; he has an MFA from The University of Iowa Writers’ Workshop. Mr. Iorio works as a real estate attorney. His fiction, poetry and memoirs have been published in various publications including SAN PEDRO RIVER REVIEW, FICTION AT WORK, THE EAST HAMPTON STAR, THE WISCONSIN REVIEW, THE MISSISSIPPI REVIEW, FRONT&CENTRE MAGAZINE, ECHO INK REVIEW, BLACK WORDS ON WHITE PAPER, CRACK THE SPINE and MUSED.

City Pool by M.R. Smith

City Pool
by M.R. Smith

I exit the city dripping,
sagging like hip-hop pants,
equally useless; my arms
clutched from my risk-on day.

On the train I think
I must be a sight
with my eyes wide and
leaving a trail like a slug.

My night will consist
of vigorous motion,
pacing, tossing, turning;
trying to dry off

before tomorrow when
I must make another
ill-advised steep dive
into the shallow end.

M.R. Smith lives in Boise, ID and will have work appearing in the fall in The Red River Review.

Jeppesen Terminal West, Denver International Airport by Nina Bennett

Jeppesen Terminal West, Denver International Airport
by Nina Bennett

From the top of the escalator,
the security line below resembles
a cattle chute, people lowing
as they herd through.

I glance at the bins on the belt.
Dusty name brand hiking shoes, local.
Unscuffed cowboy boots, tourist.

TSA agent smirks, motions
me to the advanced imaging
booth. I spread my legs, raise
my hands over my head, resist
thoughts of agents snickering
as my petite frame is revealed.
I am in the junior high locker
room again, without a towel.

Nina Bennett is the author of Forgotten Tears A Grandmother’s Journey Through Grief. Her poetry has appeared in numerous journals including Requiem, Tipton Poetry Journal, San Pedro River Review, The Summerset Review, Bryant Literary Review, Yale Journal for Humanities in Medicine, The Broadkill Review, and anthologies such as Spaces Between Us: Poetry, Prose and Art on HIV/AIDS. Nina is a contributing author to the Open to Hope Foundation. www.transcanalwriters.com

Skin Elasticity by Robert Strickland

Skin Elasticity
by Robert Strickland

I lost my birth somewhere
in all this shit I’ve been doing
for the last fifty-seven years.

Mother called Sunday.
I asked her but she couldn’t
remember. Friends

I gathered around
like goose down
became recluses

who stock pile canned goods
instead of cleaning the carpet
then walk off the edge

of the world.
So why ask them?
I made money

because there’s no money
in poetry then confirmed
there is no poetry in money either

just like Graves said. It’s true
I lost my birth but, strange
as it seems, eyes get
clearer every day
on where death
is hiding.

Robert Strickland is a bassist, composer, singer, multi-instrumentalist, and poet. His family hails from the American Deep South, with originally English and Dutch roots. Splitting his time between Colorado and Florida, he pursues his interest in the intersection of poetry, music, photography, painting and other art forms. His work has appeared, or is scheduled to appear, in The Pale Horse Review, A Handful Of Stones, and Houseboat, where he was recently a featured poet.

Oral Tradition by Jean McLeod

Oral Tradition
by Jean McLeod

Earth sundered and shook
slipped rock under boulder,
sludge over land,
burned water to waste
blasted life from earth.

Bruised heavens screamed
against sky, against shore,
words, borne on a current of pain
disappeared along with the people.

The few who survived,
who couldn’t quite forget,
plucked stories strung
along moon, among stars
before continents shattered.
The few cradled
words in their mouths
fed them to children
nurtured at breasts,
carried them on the hunt
sang words wherever they traveled
treasured them as food

and that was enough.

Ms. McLeod delights in the surprises in life of which one is good poetry. She lives on the edge of the Chesapeake Bay in Virginia. In the last year, her work was published in Vox Poetica, Greensilk, Red River Review, Four x Twenty, Forces Poetry, and other literary journals.

Mercy by Kelly Eastlund

Mercy
by Kelly Eastlund

This is not a poem about angels
though they gather like dusk
around this wrecked planet.

It’s about boxing and dogfights (forgive us)
but also Mozart and Penicillin
and walking on the moon.

This is not a poem about angels
or why they pick and choose,
swooping in randomly.

It’s about the baby who survived
being tossed down a garbage chute
because the compactor was jammed.

This is not a poem about angels
though perhaps they’re just like us,
capable of heroics and blunders.

It’s about humans—
hungry, beautiful creatures
wearing death like invisible crowns.

Kelly Eastlund currently lives in the Pacific Northwest. Her poetry has appeared in Shot Glass Journal, Four and Twenty, A Handful of Stones, and The Queen Bee Collective, as well as the anthology Pay Attention: A River of Stones. You can see more of her work on her blog, www.starsandwillows.com.