Monday, November 27, 2017

Dear Gladys, a poem by Amy Genova

Dear Gladys
by Amy Genova

I’m sorry. Sorry mother named you Gladys.
Sorry you were so beautiful.
A Great White Pyrenees standing six feet on hind legs
when largess of paws draped over my shoulders.

Every day after school, you watched for me
from my second story bedroom window.
The stars of your eyes soaring in their field of snow.
Black stratus of widow’s peak spanning a forehead,

broad as a fleet. I am sorry for your pink tongue.
That you had papers, but not litters of snowballs
wagging round your feet. Mother fixed that.
I am sorry stepfather adopted you.

That we lived in a yard-starved townhouse. I loved
to bury my hands in your galaxy of fur. Sorry,
your big heart trembled when stepfather came home.
Mother named you Gladys.

After the divorce, they turned you over to a farm.
I’m glad. But I’m sorry too.

Amy Genova has been published in a number of journals: The Bad Shoe, 3Elements, R.E.A.L., Spry, etc. She also won the 2015 James Nash prize. She has strong ties to Indiana, having lived there and raised her family from 2000-2010. She now lives in Olympia, Washington, with her husband, dog and garden an hour and a half from her daughter and granddaughter. “Olympia is a beautiful place of rainbows, mountain, sea and forests. Also, broken hearts.”

Monday, November 13, 2017

The Scuffle, a poem by Andrew Hubbard

The Scuffle
by Andrew Hubbard

Who would believe
A coyote would slink
Onto our front porch
On a mild November night?

Our husky flew through the door
In a mixture of outrage and fury.

They were matched in size.

My dog had indignation going for him
(And that’s not a small thing),
But speed and ferocity
Were all on the side of the coyote.

The death bite was not far away
When I got there with a handgun
And shot the interloper twice through the chest.

He laid down and died
Spraying blood across the porch,
His wicked teeth chomping,
His eyes blazing violence
Until they dulled and closed.

Our boy only had light cuts
On his lips and muzzle
And one on his shoulder.

Easy to dress, but he shivered
And whimpered until my wife
Found a codeine pill from when
They pulled my wisdom teeth.

Even then he cried in his sleep
All night long. And in the morning
He climbed into my lap
And buried his face in my armpit
For a long, long time.

About Andrew Hubbard: He was born and raised in a coastal Maine fishing village. He earned degrees in English and Creative Writing from Dartmouth College and Columbia University, respectively. For most of his career he has worked as Director of Training for major financial institutions, creating and delivering Sales, Management, and Technical training for user groups of up to 4,000. He has had four prose books published, and his fifth and sixth books, collections of poetry, were published in 2014 and 2016 by Interactive Press. He is a casual student of cooking and wine, a former martial arts instructor and competitive weight lifter, a collector of edged weapons, and a licensed handgun instructor. He lives in rural Indiana with his family, two Siberian Huskies, and a demon cat.

Monday, November 6, 2017

Home, a poem by Chandy John

by Chandy John

You fool yourself into thinking
That the place is yours
You possess the land and time
The little restaurant on the corner
Where the ladies smile at you
The eight minute drive to the airport
The bookstore owned by the local author
The time, the space, the clear blue skies
The sweet fall air
The blush of purple on the bluffs at sunset

But when you betray it by moving on
All of it moves on as well
As if you were never there 

From Chandy John: I am a a pediatrician, researcher and author whose prose, poems and fiction have been published in Sojourners, Phantasmagoria, JAMA, The Pharos, Annals of Internal Medicine, Journal of General Internal Medicine and The Michigan Alumnus. I live and work in Indiana, Kenya and Uganda.