Founder’s Favourites Issue 4-Aug 2018 Anna Ciummo
Mark Hudson
Aloe Vera
Haiku
Barbara A. Meier
Melanie Wilcox
The Wave
R.I.P
Debbie Richard
R. Gerry Fabian
Rapunzel
Soul Secrets
Dee Aubert
Richard Sampson
In Motion
Courting Sunset in Castile
Donna Davis
Richard Weaver
Cat’s Eyes | The Antique Store
Sky Angler
Fabrice Poussin
Robert Piazza
If I Ever Were to Die
Dancing in my Wheelchair
Gregg Dotoli
Russell Hemmell
The Last of the Icebreakers
Xylophone
Ingrid Bruck
S.E. Ingraham
My Hands | In Motion
In Motion
J. Grant
Scott Archer Jones
Eminent Domain
Mailbox
John Grey
Susanne Margono
You Left A Sweater Behind
In Motion
Julie Naslund
Victoria Crawford
In Motion
Counted Lace
Leslie McKay
William Doreski
My Hands
Venus Ashore
Founder’s Favourites Issue 4-August 2018 Inside 4
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7 8 9 10 10 11 13 16 17 18 19
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23 26
Victoria Crawford Counted Lace Donna Davis Cat’s Eyes | The Antique Shop Richard Weaver Sky Angler Barbara A. Meier The Wave Gregg Dotoli Last of the Icebreakers Anna Ciummo Aloe Vera Debbie Richard Rapunzel Richard Sampson Courting Sunset in Castile Mark Hudson Haiku William Doreski Venus Ashore Scott Archer Jones Mailbox Robert Piazza Dancing in My Wheelchair Russell Hemmell Xylophone John Grey You Left A Sweater Behind Melanie Wilcox RIP R. Gerry Fabian Soul Secrets Ingrid Bruck, Leslie McKay My Hand Dee Aubert, Ingrid Bruck, Julie Naslund, Leslie McKay, S. E. Ingraham, Susanne Margono In Motion J. Grant Eminent Domain Fabrice Poussin If I Were to Die
Victoria Crawford Pg 4
Donna Davis Pg 3
Debbie Richard Pg 9
Richard Weaver Pg 6
Barbara A. Meier Pg 7
Richard Sampson Pg 10
William Doreski Pg 11
Scott Archer Jones Pg 13
Robert Piazza Pg 16
John Grey Pg 18
Melanie Wilcox Pg 19
R. Gerry Fabian Pg 20
Dee Aubert Pg 21
Ingrid Bruck Pg 21
Julie Naslund Pg 21
Leslie McKay Pg 21
S. E. Ingraham Pg 21
Susanne Margono Pg 21
Fabrice Poussin Pg 26
Meet the Contributors Anna Ciummo (pg 8) is a native of Topeka, Kansas, and is an undergraduate student at Washburn University. As a compulsive workaholic, she turns to poetry for relaxation and solace. She is the winner of the Dorie Renee Hogan poetry prize (2016), resulting in the publication of her chapbook, Dreamflowers. She has also been previously published in Inferno Magazine. When she is not studying, writing, working, or somehow doing all three at once, Anna can be found crocheting or tending to her plant family of eight. Barbara A Meier (pg 7) teaches kindergarten in Gold Beach, OR, where she continually frets over how to get five-year-olds to start a sentence with an uppercase letter, end with a period, and make sense. In her spare time, she looks for agates, petrified wood and fossils on the beautiful Southern Oregon beaches. She has been published in The Poeming Pigeon, Cacti Fur, Highland Park Poetry, and Poetry Pacific. https://basicallybarbmeier.wordpress.com/
(bio pics on page 2) Rengay group represents poets from five countries (page 21). Dee Aubert was born and raised in Mexico. She resides and writes in a Switzerland. Ingrid Bruck lives in Amish country in Pennsylvania USA, a landscape that inhabits her poetry. Julie Naslund lives and writes in the high desert of central Oregon USA. She feels that poetry is an act of translation. Leslie McKay is an Aotearoa/New Zealand poet and writing teacher. Winner of the 2015 Caselberg International Prize, her work appears in anthologies and online. Sharon E Ingraham is a Canadian poet and Past-President of Canadian Authors—Alberta Branch in Edmonton. Born in Germany, Susanne Margono resides in the United States. She writes poetry in German and haiku in English. Debbie Richard (pg 9) is listed in the Directory of Poets & Writers as both a poet and creative nonfiction writer. She was selected as Adelaide Voices Literary Award for Poetry FINALIST for 2018. Her poems have appeared in Torrid Literature Journal, Adelaide Literary Magazine, Scarlet Leaf Review, WestWard Quarterly, Halcyon Days, and others. Her third book, an illustrated book of poetry entitled PIVOT, is scheduled for release in December 2018 by Adelaide Books of New York. www.debbierichard.com Donna M. Davis (pg 5) is a former English teacher and current small business owner who lives in the Central New York region. She has published poems in the Tipton Poetry Journal, Slipstream Review, Halcyon Days, The Muddy River Review, The Comstock Review, Third Wednesday, Burningwood Literary Journal, Pudding, Poecology, The Centrifugal Eye, Red River Review, Ilya's Honey, Gingerbread House, Aberration Labyrinth, Red Fez, Oddball, and others. Fabrice Poussin (pg 26) teaches French and English at Shorter University. Author of novels and poetry, his work has appeared in Kestrel, Symposium, The Chimes, and dozens of other magazines. His photography has been published in The Front Porch Review, the San Pedro River Review, Halcyon Days as well as other publications. Gregg Dotoli (pg 7) has studied English at Seton Hall University and Computer Programming at NYU. He is a White Hat Hacker and works, keeping organizations safe. His first love is the Arts and he enjoys the rich culture of NYC. Gregg has been published in many international periodicals, zines and anthologies. J. Grant (pg23) is a retired social worker, recently graduated from New Directions, a writing program for psychoanalysts. He writes essay, short fiction and memoir. His work has been recognized by The Wayne Literary Review and Memoir Magazine. He lives in Asheville, NC. John Grey (pg 18) is an Australian poet, US resident. Recently published in the Homestead Review, Poetry East and Columbia Review with work upcoming in Harpur Palate, the Hawaii Review and Visions International. Mark Hudson (pg 10) is a published poet and writer who has been published on-line, in print,and internationally. As he writes today, August 3, 2018 he is having a good day, he got published three times in one day. First, he got a short story accepted by an anthologuy accepted by an anthology called Pilcrow and Dagger, second, he got a poem accepted by Tigershark magazine, and third, Monique accepted this haiku. To read more of Mark's work on-line, please go to illinoispoets.org, or check out rejectedmanuscripts.org and read "Frankenstein Forever" or "Dark chocolate." If you like them, please vote thumbs up. Cont’d on pg 27
Counted Lace
By Victoria Crawford A length of yarn soft, thin, fuzzy, baby yarn, it feels like the ivory cream I’m told it is. The slender needles make for careful casting on with creaky fingers. The pattern builds. Yarn slides easily under fingertips. Plastic markers help to count rows, repeated patterns. Luckily, I’m good with numbers and this pattern— six christening robes— imprinted the lacy design in my brain. This robe? It’s for a great-grandchild.
c gitanna—stock.adobe.com
Cat’s Eyes
by Donna Davis You enter their black holes and the night is in Majorca. A woman in a satin gown dances on a luminous veranda. She hears the cat purring in the strings of guitars and peeks at the sky as through a glass bowl. The cat lifts its paws, and twirls to her tango, flashing its eyes at the beauty within.
c Lema-lisa—stock.adobe.com
The Antique Shop By Donna Davis
A cream-colored Scottie waits at the door near a brass flowerpot. He follows you past oak armoires with stained glass panels, Victorian chairs, and mahogany beds. You stoop to examine a blond oak chest, and the shop owner says, it was once an icebox in a North Country home. Rusty cornets and candy tins, ivory cigarette holders and wrought iron trivets, rhinestone brooches that Grandma might wear are scattered on tables. You sit down at a pipe organ, and the shop owner explains how once there was one in almost every fine parlor, carved out like sweet chocolate, rich brown on dark.
c Skitterphoto—Pixabay.com
Sky Angler
By Richard Weaver has more often than not caught the odd low-flying cloud on a windy day, more luck than lure, less skill than lore. He’d cast his patented helium Federico Fellini squid jig or Warhol wobbler into the ether, count to the largest known prime number (257,885,161-1) before adjusting his counting frame to a more subtle dimension, and loudly offer up prayer for a wormhole largemouth bass, or at minimum the fox and goose in Alpha Vulpeculae. It’s not so much the right bait, or masterful technique, smiling conditions or talking fish (Tzaruch shemirah and Hasof bah - roughly filleted - all must be accountable at the end). The day it rains Charles Fort. The day a monstrous cloud sails across the Gulf of Mexico, silver hook in its cirrocumulus mouth spawning super hurricanes and himmicanes is the day he will retire.
c Robert Rozbora—stock.adobe.com
The Wave
Barbara A. Meier The wave comes on black bear paws padding the surf with claws scratching the sand and raking rocks to sea. It lies hibernating in coral dens, curling its rump from Cook Inlet to Hecate Strait, generating the sleeper waves that sneak to an Oregon beach, sweeping a woman away.
Š loreanto-Stockadobe.com
The Last of the Icebreakers By Gregg Dotoli
pink slips for the crew and a warm welcome at port for the poles are clear sailing melted icebergs , bays and dissolved tundra create horrific islands of penguin, polar bear and walrus carcasses sweating fork tongued scientists understand our geo-island is next rising sea levels embrace the cities we freeze in perpetual panic as lakes evaporate like water drops on a scalding pan
c antoine perroud—stock.adobe.com
Aloe Vera
By Anna Ciummo aloe vera pickled grace all donned with vinegar hungry for dog manure eggshells and clementine skin resting in clay fertilized soil crumpling beneath growth tiny bug crawling up the tendril drooping tendril heavy with juice new leaf emerged two days ago, curve just forming. death still compressed
c jmvhllg-Pixabay.com
Rapunzel
By Debbie Richard Her prison was not a round brick tower like the one in the fairy-tale, but a bedroom in the upstairs of a house where a window overlooked the grounds – green, lush, inviting. A Tyrant, no less, oversaw her existence with rarely a word of kindness, most often sharply spoken words meant to keep her oppressed. This maiden’s blond hair, too, had been cut short, leaving her without a means of escape.
c stefanoventuri—stock.adobe.com
Courting Sunset in Castile By Richard Sampson
His saraband consort moves to mesmerize his gaze, stepping around shadows so as to avoid disturbing the dark beautiful desire playing in his mind. He sees in shifting shapes a figured intensity across muted silken landscapes, draped in intoned whispers blowing coolly over his kindled imagination. At dusk, a sentence is pronounced on two, and a well-tempered procession inclines each to the other. In restful quarters time dissolves to dreams as an immeasurable moment in silence becomes key.
c Lopez_Grande—pixabay.com
Haiku
By Mark Hudson Spring brings pouring rain, winds blow like winter still here, the sun takes it’s time.
c fotolesnik—stock.adobe.com
Venus Ashore
By William Doreski Old Orchard Beach, cumulus muscling over the Atlantic, sunbathers bathing without sun. The only upright figure, a woman with her back to us, poses with hands atop her head— gray and white-striped swimsuit sheathing her valuable torso from unfiltered ultraviolet. Another woman photographs this coastal Maine Venus, but the light looks too flaccid, too monochromatic to flatter the revelations of her body, the symmetry of her pose. Although other beachgoers ignore this simple montage, the flat and featureless water looks ready to absorb whatever indecencies this figure offers to empower future myths.
c cza czu PL—Pixabay.com
c villorejo—stock.adobe.com
Mailbox By Scott Archer Jones
A
t six a.m. he strode back and forth in the road. Across the ditch and the big front yard, he could see the lights in the kitchen. He sidled over to the next window. The candle burned on the dining room table. That's when he knew. She always lit the candle when sentiment swept over her, a sentiment that led to the giving of herself. Led to surrendering herself to a man. Once to him. He slunk closer – he couldn't see her face. He was sure it was her. Skulking there in her road, in disguise, must have been a plan, but he didn't know who had made it. What was he doing there? He wore the new coat and also a hat he hadn't worn for years. The muffler circled his throat dull and black, anyone's scarf. Even the breath, someone's breath, swirled out gray and ghostly, exiting the scene up into the dark, wreathing him in a disguise. He should walk down to the end of the road and back; he should maintain the disguise with lying steps. Just a guy out for a walk. The houses were far back, and small. They deserved their isolation, set on big lots out here on the edge of town. Back, back to her house, as if he was reeled in by a string that she held. His steps stumbling a little in the unevenness of the grass, he caught a glimpse of her through the sheers, at the table. There in front of the candle, she was writing, writing. On paper as white as the curtains. In front of the candle that should have been lit for him. He was paralyzed peering into the room, beside himself with anguish. He could see his breath, as gray as the winding sheet around a corpse. He rubbed his frozen painful face, his shoulders hunched in the sharpness of winter. He was dead cold, but his blood hammered, his pulse jumped. He felt his eyes starting out of his skull, his head beginning to explode.
The breakup hadn't happened here, not at this house – the meltdown had ripped through his place and shredded its way out his door. His life stopped when she had slammed that door. She had come into his home office, laid a hand on his shoulder, said his name. He turned. She was so beautiful, perfect really. Tall and graceful like a sapling in the wind. Her face so fair, her nose a snub, her mouth an unhappy shape. She took two steps back, leaned away. She flipped her blonde hair; she always made that gesture before she spoke. “I can't take it any more. I've thought hard about it, and I can't do this. Not since last night.” “Last night? I told you, it'll never happen again.” She shook her head. A bright bomb of light as her hair created a whirlpool around her skull. “I have to break this off – it's no good for either of us.” What could she mean? “You mean you're not going to move in like I planned? Okay, I understand. Too fast. You can keep your place.” She crossed her arms, kept backing up until she reached the door jamb. “I don't want us to be together. In fact, I don't want to ever see you again.” He glanced down at his hands in his lap. They were clenching and unclenching. “No. It's not going to be that way.” “My girlfriend's picking me up now. My bag's by the door.” What had he said then? He couldn't remember. He followed her through the house, seized her arm. There was screaming, maybe his. Her eyes were like a wild animal's, open so wide, so blue. She jerked herself out of his hand. Ran through the door to the car. She left the suitcase.
He could remember – putting his head on the door, leaning against it with the wood molding pressing into his forehead. He smashed his hand into the sheetrock beside the door, cutting it, breaking two knuckles and the little finger. He hadn't been able to use the keyboard for a week.
Now he watched her finish the letter, as he touched the frame of the window. He watched her hands in the candlelight, her arms, so beautifully brown like caramel. It was a letter that should have been written to him. He could see her fold it in thirds, saw it as it slipped into its paper reliquary. She had written a letter, in that delicate, scratchy hand of hers, bowing down her face to the paper that lay before the candle, a candle that should have been lit for him. He watched as she stamped it – she looked up the address from her book, not a known address like the one she had so often written three years ago. Not his address. Soon she would make another cup of tea, from the limp teabag she had already used and he would watch again through the kitchen window. She would eat a small carton of fat free yogurt, a piece of toast. She would come out to the small silver car in the dark; she would stop at the mailbox and place the letter there. It would lie in wait for the postman, an intermediary of focus, of infatuation, of love. A letter that should have been his. The spruce branches were scratching at him, moving in the cold wind. His eyes knew her intimately, the black hair, the smooth brown skin, the eyes so dark. Why had she changed her hair color? His eyes fondled their way over her long muffler, the short jacket, the jeans slightly too tight where she carried extra pounds he loved. The door of the car slammed, cutting off his adoration. She drove away. He emerged from behind the blue spruce. The chill seized him now – his teeth chattered. How could she drive away? Involuntary twitches raced through his shoulders. He clenched all the muscles in his body to stop the trembling. In the watery predawn, in the sad winter, the letter called to him. The tomb shaped opening of the mailbox gaped black in front of him, the letter lay white and waiting, the space small and intimate. The envelope leapt across the space as his fingers approached it, at least he felt it did, offering itself into his hands. He slapped the door shut, dropped the flag. He glanced up and down the road, guilty, secretive, caught in his own act. On the envelope she had inscribed a name, the name. He had the name now. But what had she said? Did she use the same words, the same motif, the same song she had once used for him, in the beginning three years ago? He marched to his SUV, the letter held firm inside the coat against his chest. He dropped it on the console by his phone and he traveled home. The envelope lay there in the corner of his vision, waiting. At his breakfast bar, he shoved aside unread papers, a stack of mail, a coffee cup that dropped to the floor and – unnoticed – broke. The letter, white against the red tile, named his rival. He knew now to hate a man named Jeremy. He scribbled down the address on a cover of a magazine about wine. Fishing a six-inch deboning knife out of the wooden block, he teased the letter open. Words crawled like ants in front of him – she was in love. He trod on the broken cup, kicked pieces aside. Something awful should happen to Jeremy. An old woman lived on the corner up from her house – Neighbor One. She had an overactive fox terrier that she wasn't walking. He offered, she accepted, deal struck, but he was no better for it. He would take the little beast out twice a day, up and down the block, past the mailbox, past the table and the candle. After dark and (Continued on page 14)
without a dog, he could return to wait for Jeremy. How long would it be, days, a week before her arms opened in welcome for Jeremy? He sidled up to her mailbox, opened it and rummaged it while the terrier sniffed at the post. Piss flowed across the frozen ground and around his shoe. A note from Jeremy, blue envelope, magic tape on the flap. Down the road they went, the dog darting to the right and left as he strolled, all slow and innocent. As the terrier rushed up to the leash end, he delivered satisfying little pops that jerked the animal, the oblivious dog straining at the lead. When he reached the next box, he opened it also. Why not? They had committed the odious crime of being her neighbors. He found a statement from the bank and an envelope from a mortgage company –they dropped into the copious pocket of his pea jacket. At the next residence he purloined advertising supplements that he deposited further down on the other side in the fourth neighbor's mailbox. Neighbor Seven provided two personal letters and a catalogue in a brown paper wrapper. He slipped it halfway out – a catalogue for male latex clothing. He gave it to Neighbor Eight's mailbox, down at the dead end of the street. He found it a pity the road had so few houses, he so enjoyed the series of senseless petty acts. Maybe he would write them, tell them what she had done to him. A love letter in every box. He returned up to the corner, dumped the dog on the grateful old woman. She bent crooning to the short-haired little rat – he came close to kicking both of them. In the SUV, he filed his new mail in the console, cruising home, smug – now he would put a voice on Jeremy, having his letter, having his secret words, having his balls. At the breakfast bar, he discovered Jeremy's letter to be – horrible. He didn't want to read it, to cut at himself with their happiness, but he had to know. Jeremy's words scrolled out fawning and snobbish, both self-denigrating and boastful. Worst of all, Jeremy was all charm. “Oh my darling, we've come so far together in so little time. You are eating me up, becoming my very core. I can't think about anything but us. Why, its not even safe for me to drive – I can't even see the road as I go, just how you look as you look at me. I'm worthless at work, and I just wait. I just wait until I can see you again.” It came clear now she had to have Jeremy, and Jeremy had chosen to have her. Jeremy would keep her. He might even consider her a long-term investment. Marriage, like getting a dividend check. He opened the cupboard over the sink and fished down the bottle of vodka. The refrigerator gave up a carton of orange juice. He found a pack of magic markers in a drawer. He took the yellow one and, reading back through the letter, marked over her name. Yellow everywhere she existed. The first vodka had disappeared – he made another. Now he seized the red marker and defaced each mention or insinuation of intimacy, of the whisper of two pale bodies tangled in a dark room. A third vodka and the black marker. He obliterated every I and My and Mine in the letter. With the brown he blotted out every promise and blue every compliment. Slapping the letter onto his cutting board, he pinned it to the wood with the boning knife. Collapsing onto the stool, his forearms on the countertop, the glass corralled by the circle of his muscle and bone, he reached out and fiddled with the bank statement, the mortgage letter, the two personal letters. Why had he taken them? Meanness? Distraction?
He slit open the first. The bank statement was bleak, and the mortgage letter threatened, demanded the two missed payments. Maybe this couple was so poor he could pay them to kill Jeremy and have no bothersome questions, no shocked moral superiority. But to have Jeremy dead where he couldn't see it, feel it happen – no. Suffering welled up out of his hollowness – self-pitying tears sprang into his eyes. They dried salt on his face. He followed with the personal letters. One was from a mother to a son. The letter had some anguish, not like his agony, but some. The Son was not to worry: his father would soon come around. No one could be angry forever. The money would soon be back and everything would be all right. In the meantime, Mother enclosed a check from her own account. This would have been irritating if his heart had not been so broken – he wasn't going to destroy the check. Now he had to repair the envelope and return it to the mailbox. He teased open the second letter, just in case. Father had written it, in parade ground cadences. It directed the boy not to call, not to write, in fact, to never come home again. The Son was cut off, and if he didn't like it, maybe his prissy little boyfriend would support him. Jeremy's arrival still hung waiting like storm clouds. Delay made the desperation mount. A couple of nights she didn't return home before his late rounds, but each morning he caught sight of her in the kitchen, still living alone. A snowstorm blew in and blew out – he left his tracks up and down the road, with a tracery of dog prints that laced through his in an arabesque of deceit. The letters from the mortgage company turned more demanding. He witnessed a fight between the Son and the Prissy Boyfriend. The Boyfriend left and Son closed all the house blinds, stopped going out, seldom checked the mailbox. He understood the Son's need to hide shame and despair away. Darkness. He felt too obvious in the road, even with the frequent changes in coats and hats. He needed another excuse, another alias. He picked up advertising fliers at the supermarket and, carrying a shopping bag, trudged up and down the road stuffing them into the mailboxes as he stole the mail, or returned it. He pawed through everyone's stuff, but only Two, Four, and Seven held any interest. The rest were a sea of dullness, unredeemed and mind-numbing. But not Neighbor Two – Two was hopeless, like him. After several notices, Two lost the nice car, not their junker. By chance he was loitering two houses away at a mailbox when two men drove up: one unlocked Two's car and stole it. Neighbor Four trudged out to the mailbox to ask him not to stuff in the fliers. He already knew that her medical insurance had lapsed. Her son shuffled along by her side. Down's Syndrome. As they approached, he gazed down into the round face, the jowls, the limpid brown eyes behind bloodhound eyelids. If he had Down's like the child – now, Down's would be rough, but he wouldn't be lost in dreams of killing Jeremy. Neighbor Seven, the Son, covered in a blanket, huddled in a chair in his living room and drank. Now the drapes were never drawn: the Son didn't care who knew. Maybe he should loan the Son the small revolver he had at home. Suicide wasn't so bad, if quick. But maybe murder was better. Maybe murder would make that upwelling of feeling, the anguish that he wasn't good enough for her – maybe killing would make that stop. For a moment. He hated German cars. Parked out front in her drive, glimmering under the porch light, it spread its silver wings, flashed its Teutonic badge, waited for some sexy commercial to make. Jeremy. He rang the bell, and after a moment the door pulled open. Jeremy was big: big shoulders, big nose, big hair. Jeremy gave him a hundred watt smile and said, “Can I help you?”
“Is she here? I need to talk to her.” His hands were in his pockets, his right caressing the handle. Jeremy was all charm. “No, I'm afraid that she's not available right now. Do you want to leave a message? Maybe I can help you?” The knife was deep down in the pocket of his khakis. He could feel the point worming its way through the corner, pricking him in the leg. “I need to talk to her. Alone.” Now Jeremy didn't look so pleasant. Concerned maybe. “And you are?” Why wasn't Jeremy afraid? He should be afraid. “I'm the boyfriend.” The knife started to dance in his pocket. It was jabbing his thigh, wanting out. Jeremy's eyebrows crawled up his face, nearly to the perfect hair. “Really?” “Really.” “I think you mean ex-boyfriend.” Jeremy's eyes went all squinty. He took a step forward, his foot on the doorsill. “She'll talk to me. She still loves me.” Jeremy put his hands both on the door and the jamb, building a wall across the opening. He was huge. “Listen, I don't know who you are, but I do know the guy she dated before me was Asian. I'm going to close the door now.” He inched his foot forward. “Ask me in.” Jeremy shook his head, frowning. “Get your foot out of the door, before I break it. I'm calling the police.” He said, “Don't do this.” He knew his voice was too loud. Jeremy swung the door towards the jamb, shoving on his foot. “It's best if you go away and never come back. And I don't know what's wrong with your leg, but you're bleeding all over your pants.” He dropped his head to see. Red soaked the thigh in a hand-sized patch. He rocked back, staring at his leg. Jeremy closed the door, without haste. The deadbolt snicked, loud, final. The porch light turned off.
He faced up to it. She didn't live in her house anymore. Sure, she visited the house now and then to check on it and pick up the mail, but she lived elsewhere. With Jeremy. No sacred missives went out from her, no carnal notes arrived from Jeremy. He was as tormented by the loss of their cloying intimacy as he was relieved to avoid every flirting phrase. He had lost Jeremy's address – why had he been so careless? He could be there, where they were. Waiting outside. Neighbor Two received a threat from the Public Utility – power would soon be turned off. Neighbor Four's son had sinus infections – she was visibly upset. She tramped out to talk to him for no reason, and mentioned he could start leaving the advertisements in her box again. Neighbor Seven, the Son, wrecked his car while drunk. The old woman with the terrier told him the boy wore a tracker on his ankle and couldn't leave his yard. It came apart in only a week. On Tuesday the Son killed himself with pills, lying naked and alone in a bathtub. He was floating in stone cold water when they found him on Wednesday, but the anklet still worked. On Thursday the boy with Down's, angry over something, pushed his mother down the steps, breaking her wrist. On Saturday the bankrupt neighbors left in a rickety minivan, abandoning the house and all its things to the financial wolves. On Monday a realtor stuck the sign in her lawn, struggling to get it into the frozen ground. The house was for sale. He couldn't even remember her face. But he could remember how she had made him feel. How all of it had felt. He could remember how it was to be loved. It wouldn't quit rocketing around in his mind. He tugged the boning knife out of the cutting board and made the first cut, an experiment, across his bicep. It hurt like hell and seeped a little blood, a drop running down into his elbow. Then he sliced the outside of his forearm, into skin she had once caressed. The two inch long incision sprang out in bright red song.
c dh_creative—pixabay.com
Dancing in My Wheelchair By Robert Piazza
Sometimes I wheel into a vacant gym And spin and spin on its varnished floor—— I spin until the world’s a blur—— My wheels are eyes of hurricanes—— I spin until I’ve lost the names You mothers gave me—— Don’t stare At a man who’s lost his limbs! Lord knows I wish I had a pair—— A whirling dervish, a cyclone, a gyre, I spin until the floor’s on fire! Jamming to jive on my FM radio, I can really make my wheelchair go—— If someone sees me, I don’t care—— I can really make my wheelchair spin As Stevie Wonder’s keyboard sings—— Popping wheelies in my chair, I kick my stumps into the air—— I shake my arms and bob my head—— At least I’m not among the dead—— Now try to stop me if you dare! King David danced in streets of sin After slaughtering Philistines—— Whoever claimed that life was fair? Handicapped, crippled, invalid, maimed—— Christ, they say, can heal the lame! Sometimes I spin until I feel no pain, Just spin and spin as if I’m insane—— I love my life and my wheelchair, So dizzy the gym revolves like a fan! The gym revolves like chopper blades—— I like to spin as fast as I can, And then I spin again and again—— In ‘Nam, I dodged the rocket flares While hippies dodged the draft, their hair Below their shoulder blades—— A veteran Of scars, I’ve heard them whisper Freak! Bird without wings, fish without fins—— That’s why I crave a vacant gym—— That’s why I love to dance alone, Pretending to kiss my microphone—— So what if I lost my legs in the war? Now I own the gymnasium floor—— Nobody’s here but my chair and me—— Amen! Amen! I’m finally free! What’s everybody staring at me for?
c Suzanne—stock.adobe.com
Xylophones (*)
By Russell Hemmell Made of rosewood, Padauk or plastic, singing loud and clear or hidden in inaudible waves glimmering in the moon shade over Halong Bay or chasing the dying stars to the ocean resounding with two octaves and whatever mallet pleases you - Khao Luang xylophones remain what they’ve always been: alive with entangled harmonies in quivering fountains of light. I can’t play, she told her lover. You’ll learn, human, for me. The music-breathing creature of the abyss - fleeting green hair like seaweed, salty lips in silky texture placed Rae’s tiny hand on the silver idiophones and suavely smiled. (*) First Appeared in Illumen, February 2018
c ChiccoDodiFC—stock.adobe.com
You Left A Sweater Behind By John Grey
I find your sweater but, lingering perfume to the contrary, nothing is familiar where your arms used to be. It's always empty, in need of a body to fill out the shape I remember. Then it can really be a sweater. Not just a garment on a hangar hung low, despondent, as if the two of us were going somewhere together and it just can't understand why it stayed.
c Nito—stock.adobe.com
R.I.P.
By Melanie Wilcox
I
’ve long since forgiven your missteps. It took me awhile. I had to face my own first. You still hold my heart in your hands, stolen from me in a game of keep-away neither of us would win. And yours is sheltered in mine. I take comfort in its warm pulse, reminding me always that you are still here. How we can be in two places at once is a mystery, but it is possible. You make me certain of that. I watched as you struggled, with wings still damp from life inside your shell, to become strong, to fly higher than everyone around you, to become something more than a hollow-boned winged thing. Those who loved you, including those who never understood how to love anyone, not even themselves, could only watch, hungering for what you had found. Mostly though, you sought to rise above your inability to accept love, especially your own. I never thought it would be so hard to let you go. You earned your grace before me and flew away, free at last from the struggle, the endless work of becoming something more. I hope to join you, wherever you are, someday. Perhaps our hearts will find each other again. Until then, go in peace.
c Joef—stock.adobe.com
Soul Secrets
By R. Gerry Fabian You can get too close to a thing. It can consume you in eerie ways. You won’t believe it even when those closest warn and threaten. You wish to become the thing and because you cannot you yearn to suckle it. When it perishes and it always will, it’s aftertaste remains even after you pledge you soul to speak of it no more.
c 1987599—pixabay.com
My Hand
In Motion
smelling breakfast egg pretzel warm sugared donuts
tiger leaps through flames alighting on silken paws fledgling safe in jaws
falling for a bracelet made of summer filigree
green crowds into roadways high-water rush of springtime
work horses for sale crazy quilts burst color busy hands plough and sew
winds whip willow leaves fling finished catkins to earth scent of grass fresh mown
alpaca blankets swathed in luxury my hand
soggy bits of straw cling to wet bottom trousers steady strings of rain
a crowd in black denim our feet slip in mud
on fantasy island jumping gates to take the sun
glowing pearl necklaces a red beret in the distance at one with everything
celestial flare solar arc across the blue season to season
By Leslie McKay and Ingrid Bruck
By Dee Aubert, Ingrid Bruck, S.E. Ingraham, Susanne Margono, Leslie McKay and Julie Naslund
c pass—stock.adobe.com
c ADD—pixabay.com
c elharo—stock.adobe.com
Eminent Domain, Tragedy & the Favor of the Universe By J. Grant
C
ows grazed along well-worn paths, which led up to the grey, tin-roofed barn. Nearby, a large granite rock sat above the small cave-like opening where the spring flowed forth and gurgled through mossy rocks. A twig fell off the willow tree, causing tiny ripples to the banks and water spiders to skip across the surface of the clear water. The windows of the white farmhouse reflected the sun’s weakening light as it began to sink into the ragged tree line. The Ebberts were sitting down at the kitchen table for their final supper there. Chuck, a large muscular blonde, gentle and kind said the blessing. “Dear Lord, bless this food and our family. Even though we have to leave our wonderful homeplace, we are thankful we’re together.” The chorus of “Amens” was some comfort but looking up, they faced one another with unease. “It won’t be so bad after we get settled,” Chuck said with a false cheerfulness. “I’m sure I can find work somewhere. After all, I did, just graduate and have my diploma.” “I sure hope so son,” Jim said wearily. Jim was showing his years. His slight body was supported by slender arms resting against the table. The little hair he had left on his head circled around the back from ear to ear. His face was worn and furrowed. “I’m proud you did that.” I never thought I would need school’en, since we had this place here and could grow our own food. It’s been in the Ebbert family for five generations and we always got along just fine, farming the land, providing for ourselves. I’m too old now to look for work – nobody wants a tired, worn-out, ole farmer.” “It’ll be OK, I’d like to be closer to Whitesburg anyway,” Rose said trying to be optimistic. Rose was a large woman. She had cheeks that matched her name and soft black hair streaked with grey. Her brown eyes projected determination. “When my brother gets here in the morning with his truck, we’ll all have to pitch in and get it loaded so we can make it to town and unload before dark.” Amy and June looked at one another. Both sets of brown eyes moistened. “Now, we don’t need any more of that, Jim said. Eat your pork and potatoes. Mamma fixed them special and made that delicious salad. She also has some pie for us, don’t you mamma?” “Sure do, I made some chess pie, just for tonight.” Amy and June stared at her. Through misty eyes, June said “Momma, I know you want us to accept what’s happened, but it just ain’t fair.” June’s sixteen-year-old face was rather plain. She wore her black hair short. Her dark eyes flashed with intelligence. “We love it here. You remember I wrote about this place for my English class and got an A on it?” “I didn’t know about that, June. Do you still have it?” Chuck was curious. “Of course. I saved it, silly. It means too much to me to throw it away.” “Get it and read it to us. I want to hear it. I never got an A on anything. Is that OK Papa?” “Well . . .” Jim hesitated, thinking it might be too much for them to bear, but then said, “I suppose it could be a farewell address.” June hurried to her room and found the piece out in the folder where she kept her poetry and English papers. She read with sadness and authority:
It was mid-May. The tomatoes were climbing up the narrow poles planted in the soft, black earth. The squash was popping up through the mounds – two at a time. The potatoes were already blooming – dainty white caps, wavering. And the beans had just begun to climb up the triangular poles. A large pileated woodpecker with its red-topped cap and black and white wings broke the silence with a drill-like hammering. A huge oak tree pressed its enormous mouth against the earth. A large hole was exposed at the bottom. The blue sky peaked through its branches as they reached outward with enormous arm -like limbs. Squirrels frolicked through the branches and made shrieking noises at the buck deer, who suddenly looked up, then posed and stared, frozen by something in the distance. The rhododendron rustled. A turkey peered out with its colorful waddle wiggling. June broke a long silence: “Just because the government wants our land to build a road, we shouldn’t have to give up generations of livelihood and land that we love!” she pushed the words with force. Amy, two years younger put her arms around June and gave her a long hug. Amy was pretty - hazel eyes, reddish brown hair and a ready, generous smile. Jim and Rose fought the tears. Chuck got up and went to the kitchen. Rose dabbed her eyes with the napkin and composed herself. “Of course you’re right – it ain’t fair, but sometimes life ain’t fair and you just got’ta accept it,” she said straightening herself stiff in the chair. “Your mamma’s right Juney, it’s an important lesson to learn.” Jim said with authority. It might be an important lesion to learn, but that don’t make it any easier!” June said with a fierce scowl. Chuck broke in, coming back from the kitchen, “We’re all hurt’n and sad about it, but it don’t do no good to go on and on about it. We’ve been fight’n this for over a year now and there’s noth’n more we can do. We’ve settled. We’ve lost this place and that’s that. Now lets try to move on and look toward new horizons.” “Well said, son,” Jim affirmed. They finished their dinner in silence. The pie was good and helped ease the pain a bit. Living in a rental apartment in downtown Whitesburg was a nightmare. They were very cramped into tiny rooms – five of them in a five-room apartment. There were always strange noises in the night that kept them awake – sirens, people yelling and almost every night Johnny Cash singing about hardships. Their grief was almost unbearable. They longed for the gurgling of the creek, the frogs croaking in the night, and the haunting sound of the whippoorwills. Right away, Jim and Rose, began looking for a place to buy outside of town. They looked at what Jim called “plastic” houses; they looked at mobile homes; they looked at “dumps”; they looked at property with no houses; they looked at farm houses they couldn’t afford; they looked at places with no room for a garden. Places they liked were way above the amount the State of Kentucky had given them for compensation. They looked all summer but with no luck. Chuck found a job at the community hospital as a security guard. He enjoyed meeting the people who came and left the hospital, lending a hand to folks who needed help getting in and out of their cars. This is where he met Mary Sue Witt. He told her about their miserable, cramped apartment. “We got’ta find sump’ten soon or we’re gonna get so down we wont like living,” he said when he learned she was a real estate agent. (Continued on page 24)
“Here’s my card. Tell’em to call me. I’ll find ‘em what they want.” As the popular trees were turning brilliant yellow and the sugar -maples began to have red and orange tips on their leaves, Mary Sue knocked on the Ebberts’ apartment door. She was a large woman with red frizzy hair. She wore deep purple lipstick and a pink Mumu dotted with large red hibiscus blossoms. When Rose opened the door, Mary Sue was excited, “I’ve found the perfect place for y’all!” She talked so fast her accent blurred the words. Rose looked at her trying to understand what she said. When it registered her brown eyes brightened. She motioned Mary Sue inside. Jim was in the kitchen fixing some tea, “Come here Jim, Mary Sue says she found us sump’ten.” “Morn’en Mary Sue. You want some tea?” “No thanks Jim. I just came to tell you there is a really nice piece a’ farm property about five miles outta town. Just came on the market. Old Mrs. Godfrey has been living there alone for the last five years since her husband died. She had’ta go to a nursing home ‘bout a month ago, after she fell and broke her hip, poor thing. Her son, Allen, lives in New York, has just put the house up for sale and he’s asking a fair price. It’s more than you can afford but I’m purty sure we can negotiate. I’d like to take you to see it.” “Of course we’ll go. Maybe this is what we’ve been look’in for”, Jim said with an excited shine in his dark brown eyes. As they drove up the winding dirt road, a small, white farmhouse, peeked through the woods. Rounding the curve, they saw two huge oak trees standing like sentinels on either side of the house. Their leaves tinged with a deep rust matched the tin roof of the house. Cecile Brunner roses covered the trellises on either side of the steps leading up to the front porch. To the right along the road there was a small stream, winding its way down the hill toward a spring-house covered with pale blue wisteria. Several cows dotted a pasture in the distance. A large lot to the left of the house had been cleared of timber and was covered with weeds and vines. Hanging on a pole was the outline of a human figure. “Look it’s an old scarecrow . . . used to be a vegetable garden!” Jim said excitedly. “This is perfect!” exclaimed Rose, eyes watering. “We’ll take it!” Jim laughed at his eager humor. The door creaked a little as they slowly walked inside. The place needed work. The kitchen was outdated; the cabinets old and peeling paint, the sink chipped and the Fawcett leaking. The bathroom was tiny and had only a small tub with no shower, and the three bedrooms were small. All the rooms would have to be painted. But the Ebberts were used to hard work. and They knew they could have this place in shape in no time. They could hardly contain their excitement. They wanted to meet with Allen right away. That night they told Chuck and the girls about the place. They all got so excited they drove out the next day to take another look. “It feels like home. I’ll bet there are crawdads in that creek.” said Amy. June was disappointed that she and Amy would have to share a room. She had been hoping she could have friends come for overnights. Amy said, “I don’t mind sharing if this will make us happy again.” Chuck said, “I’ll be glad to help fix’in it up, but I plan to move into my own place soon. I been save’n up. Then you girls can have your own rooms.” The next day, Mary Sue called Allen. “I think I got a buyer for your place, Mr. Godfrey. Can you come down here to negotiate the details? “Sure, I was planning to come and check on the place anyway. I’ll catch the next plane out to Lexington, then rent a car and drive on out to Whitesburg.”
It was a beautiful sunny day as the Ebberts and Mary Sue waited on the front porch for Mr. Godfrey. June and Amy were enjoying a ride in the swing. “Here he comes,” Amy anxiously observed. Their eyes followed a red Maserati convertible coming up the dirt road, leaving a trail of brown dust. Allen Godfrey spoke with a strong New York accent. He was a large man, balding and wore owl-like sunglasses. His clothes looked expensive; a red sport shirt, white pants and black and white shoes with tassels. He moved deliberately toward the anxious greeters. Mary Sue offered her hand, “Hope you had a relax’n trip, Mr. Godfrey.” “Yes. It was fine. I’m glad to get away from the hectic pace.” He acknowledged them all with a nod and cordial smile and shook Jim’s and Rose’s hand. “We’re pleased to meet ya’ Mr. Godfrey,” Jim said, then added, “I was wondering if you ever spent much time here.” “I grew up here. I’m feeling a bit sad about giving up this place. It has been in my family for several generations. They were all farmers and eked out a living growing their own vegetables and breeding their own pigs and cows. We had horses too. I used to ride over the fields, jump the creeks and herd the cows back to the barn for milking. It was a grand life, growing up in the country like this. Where I live now, there aren’t many people who appreciate this kind of life.” He gave June an inquisitive look, paused as if he were remembering something then said, “Come around to the back I want to show you something.” They all followed him out to the barn. He pointed to the large cut out space in the front of the barn, over the sliding doors. “That’s where we forked the hay into the top of the barn to feed the cattle. My sister, Erin and I loved to play in this barn. We would climb up to the top rafters and sit and enjoy the view. One day when we were out here climbing the rafters I said to Erin. ‘I double dare you to jump from the very top rafter.’ She looked at me with that look she always got when she was determined to do something. She didn’t hesitate, stood up and disappeared over the edge. I yelled down to her. ‘Erin, you did it!’ There was no response. I crawled over to the edge and looked down on a scene so horrible I still tremble when I think about it.” Tears began to roll down his face. “Erin landed on a pitchfork someone forgot to put away. . . went right through her heart . . . killed her instantly. She was about your age June.” He looked away and blew his nose. The Ebberts waited in stunned silence. As he turned back, Mary Sue said, “We’re really sorry about your sister, Mr. Godfrey.” She put her arm around his large shoulders. “We can tell you loved this place. You know, the Ebberts had a place much like this; they had to sell to the State for a new road come’n right through the middle of it. It’ll take the house, barn and everything. They’ve had a rough time loosing that farm.” Allen’s face became even darker. “You know it ain’t fair,” June chimed in. My civics teacher, Ms. Tobias, told us about eminent domain. I don’t think there should be such a thing!” “Now, now Juney. Don’t get all worked up again,” said Jim. Mary Sue commanded, “Lets get over to my office to discuss some details.” They all followed her car back into Whitesburg. Her office was on Main St. in an old two story brick building painted a bright yellow. Only Rose, Jim, Sue and Allen could squeeze around the small conference table. Chuck, June and Amy hovered around them. (Continued on page 25)
“Now Mr. Godfrey, you had the property listed for $125,000. The Ebberts are prepared to offer you $85,000. That’s what they got from the State for their property. So, what we are proposing is that they pay you up front, the $85,000 and then, pay you a monthly fee, plus interest, ‘til they pay a total of $105,000. They have to keep their savings to live on and to fix the house up. Chuck is willing to help out as much as he can. It will be doable; they’re honest, hard working folks and you can count on them to keep their word on this. Allen looked hard into Jim’s and Rose’s eyes, then got up and walked over to the window. As if talking to the big Oak tree outside, “I have a confession to make,” he said with grave conviction. I own Colburn Construction. We build roads.” There was a long pregnant silence. “Colburn Construction has contracted with the State to build that road that will go through your property.” He turned back, his eyes searching around the room, looking for understanding. “I feel terrible about this. I don’t know what to say. I’m so sorry.” “Sorry is not good enough, Mr. Godfrey,” June blurted at him. “You people are awful! You destroy livelihoods, and make life miserable for people, while you sit in your comfortable offices, eat in fine restaurants and live off the misery of others.” “Now, Juney,” Jim said, trying to console her. “It’s not Mr. Godfrey’s fault. He’s not the one decid’n to take people’s land. He’s just mak’n a living build’n roads.” Allen moved close to June. June backed away. He reached out to her and took her hands in his. She jerked them away and looked at the floor. “Honey you’re right,” His voice became soft. “It’s not fair for the State to take people’s land. I have made a pretty nice living. I tell you what I’m going to do.” He turned toward Jim and Rose, looked them squarely in the eyes and said, “I’ll sell you my family’s property for the $85, 000 you got from the State and that’ll be it. No more will be required.” “Are you serious, Mr. Godfrey?” Jim’s eyes bulged with disbelief. Allen’s broad and sincere smile told Jim he was serious. “Well, I’ll be! That’s right gen’rus of you Mr. Godfrey!” he exclaimed. Rose dabbed tears. June stood wide-eyed. Chuck walked over to him and started pumping his hand, “Thank ‘ye, Mr. Godfrey. You’re a good and kind man.” “Lord bless your sole!” blurted Mary Sue. “For that, Allen Godfrey, I’m invit’n you to diner at my house tonight. “Do you like collard’s ‘n ham?” “I most surely do, Mary Sue. I most surely do.” As they all sat around Mary Sue’s dinner table, there was appreciation in June’s eyes. She spoke softly. “I’m am sorry for the things I said to you, Mr. Godfrey.” She allowed Allen Godfrey to take her hand in his. He spoke as softly as she. “This can be a cruel world June. Horrible and unfair things can happen, like tragic accidents and eminent domain, but sometimes the stars line up and we are in the favor of the universe.”
c elharo—stock.adobe.com
If Ever I were to die By Fabrice Poussin
If ever I were to die, I would take the whole world with me and leave just enough so everyone would recall there was once a tree of sweet cherries in the midst of the city. If ever I were to forget, I would carve my name in stone and stand vigil above the growing moss and lichens as once did the philosopher haunted by his memories. If ever you were to walk the path still warm without regrets and slow as you pondered in the ever lightness of your dress just as in your dreams you often fancied such a saunter.
If ever they might take a moment to inhale the spheres and listen to the pounding of their dying hopes perhaps they would hear the answers to their cries. If ever we were to fly to traverse the realms above Mt Blanc merely dressed of a gentle snow blown by the breath of infinity might you gaze and shut your mind to the world below? If ever I were to live, I would not bother so much to land and search for an anchor, trite safety of unsuspected danger I would let my spirit glide and softly encounter its mate. If ever I were to die‌
c Wolferl—pixabay.com
Meet the Contributors Con’t Melanie Arrowood Wilcox (pg 19) is an author and artist whose creative work focuses on nature, spirit, and the relationships between people. She lives near the Haw River in Saxapahaw, North Carolina. Her background includes a B.A. in journalism from the University of North Carolina (Chapel Hill); postbaccalaureate work in marine geology, biology, and ecology; and pursuing personal interests in psychology, animal behavior, and foreign languages. More information is available at www.linkedin.com/in/melaniewilcoxauthorandartist. R. Gerry Fabian (pg 21) is a retired English instructor. He has been publishing poetry since 1972 in various poetry magazines. His web page is https://rgerryfabian.wordpress.com. He is the editor of Raw Dog Press https://rawdogpress.wordpress.com. His novels, Memphis Masquerade, Getting Lucky (The Story) and published poetry book, Parallels are available at Smashwords and all other ebook stores. Seventh Sense, his third novel has been published by Smashwords. He is currently working on his second book of published poems.
Richard Sampson (pg 10) lays claims to many dimensions; the lyrical and the dissonant, the metrical and the asymmetrical. All find a home in his poet’s heart and mind. Richard was born in Guyana and resides presently in Toronto, Canada.
Richard Weaver (pg 6) lives in Baltimore’s Inner Harbor where he volunteers with the Maryland Book Bank, acts as the Archivist-at-large for a Jesuit college, and is the unofficial poet-in-residence at the James Joyce Pub and Restaurant - a mere 276 strides away. He is the author of The Stars Undone (Duende Press). His poems have appeared in River Poet’s Journal, Southern Review, Little Patuxent Review, Loch Raven Review, Adelaide, Slush Pile, and Elsewhere. Yes, there is a magazine named Elsewhere). Rob Piazza (pg 16) teaches literature and writing at private schools in New England. During the past year, his poetry has been published in print and online by The Lyric, Haiku Journal, The Society of Classical Poets, Poetry Quarterly, and Mystic Blue Review. This summer he will spend a week cultivating his craft at the Frost Farm in New Hampshire. An avid hiker, he lives in rural Northwest Connecticut with his wife and children.
Russell Hemmell (pg 17) is a statistician and social scientist from Scotland, passionate about astrophysics and speculative fiction. Recent/ forthcoming work in Aurealis, The Grievous Angel, New Myths, and others. Finalist in The Canopus 100 Year Starship Awards 2016-2017. Find her online at her blog earthianhivemind.net and on Twitter @SPBianchini. Scott Archer Jones (pg 13) is currently working on his sixth novel and second novella in northern New Mexico, after stints in the Netherlands, Scotland and Norway plus less exotic locations. He’s worked for a power company, grocers, a lumberyard, an energy company (for a very long time), and a winery. He has launched three books. Jupiter and Gilgamesh, a Novel of Sumeria and Texas in 2014, The Big Wheel in 2015, and a rising tide of people swept away in March 2016. And Throw Away The Skins is in production. Visit him at https://www.facebook.com/ScottArcherJones or www.scottarcherjones.com Victoria Crawford (pg 4) is a retired teacher and writer now retired in Chiang Mai, Thailand. She likes sharing the moments of the small delights of everyday life in her poetry to connect with readers everywhere. Her poems have appeared in The Lyric, Califragile, Hawaii Pacific Review, Wildflowers Muse, and various other journals.
William Doreski (pg 11) lives in Peterborough, New Hampshire. He has published three critical studies and several collections of poetry. His work has appeared in many journals. He has taught writing and literature at Emerson, Goddard, Boston University, and Keene State College. His new poetry collection is A Black River, A Dark Fall.
Founder’s Favourites Issue 4-2018
Thanks for spending time with the writers.