Monday, March 26, 2018

All Fools's Day, a prose poem by Michael Brockley


All Fools' Day
by Michael Brockley
You stare at your backyard through your patio window while drinking chai and thinking about a woman you last saw five years ago. It's April 1. The spirit of your white German shepherd still scampers after red squirrels and digs at the chipmunk dens beneath your deck. You sip your tea. The spice arouses your palate. You can hear your late shepherd howl at train whistles as the ghosts cross McGalłiard Boulevard. Your body sang to you while you sat beside her in the theater where a man took midnight walks through Paris. Where an actor found redemption after his fall from grace. Your chai is still warm. The woman will be bicycling through Key West now. Anticipating an afternoon sharing key lime pie with a man who resembles the French actor whose name you can never remember. In your disheveled yard, a cardinal perches on the lee side of a red maple to begin his spring courtships. Your dog sleeps in the peach tree's shade. Five years ago, she photographed the narrow, shadowed streets of Madrid. Shared her family genealogy with its rogue's gallery of river pirates and scalawag dukes. A pair of cardinals once nested in her arboretum. Your cardinal swoops and glides the length and breadth of his domain as he woos three hens, including last summer's beautiful albino. You wonder at his acrobatic ardor. At the finesse that has eluded you throughout your life. The male alights beside the albino. You set aside your chai to reach for the morning song within yourself.


Michael Brockley is a semi-retired school psychologist who still works in rural northeast Indiana. Several of Brockley's poems have appeared previously in Flying Island. In addition, his work can be found in Atticus Review, Gargoyle, 3Elements, Tipton Poetry Journal, Third Wednesday and Tattoo Highway. Poems are forthcoming in Riddled with Arrows and Visiting Bob: Poems Inspired by the Life and Work of Bob Dylan.

Saturday, March 17, 2018

Best of Both Worlds, a poem by Rosaleen Crowley



Best of Both Worlds

by Rosaleen Crowley

Whether the sun shines or the wind blows
You'll find me on an airplane going home
Maybe you’ll find me on a boat or a bus
Whatever the object of my transportation
I'm on my way.
Driven by love or fear of losing ties
My vein is pumped and my heart is full,
After soaking in the views and renewing senses
My mind returns, and then it's time to reverse the sojourn
Back again, my other home awaits.
Two worlds exist and I experience parallel lives
The hairdressers, the coffee shops,
Friends and family equally shape me
Except for sea and sand, my days are similar
Mirror images of self and self, my world is my world.


Rosaleen Crowley's Irish heritage inspires her love of water, trees and open spaces. Her interest in poetry and drama influence her passion for painting.

Monday, March 12, 2018

Volunteer, a poem by Casey O'Leary

Volunteer
by Casey O’Leary

If I help out at the nursing home, I see G.G. 
once a week, so I deliver laundry, hanging
cheap cotton button downs in identical closets. Raspy 
barks overpower my shy whispers in conversation; thankfully
old people sleep a lot. I nudge doors open with my 
breath stuck in my throat, quickly stuff faded white t-shirts 
into plastic drawers with trembling fingers. I bear witness 
to the slow slide of aging, drool inching along wrinkled skin, 
labored breaths marking the minutes. The laundry is light.
My heart does the heavy lifting.

From Casey O'Leary: "I am a poet and playwright living in Indianapolis. My play All Is Forgiven was produced as part of the 2017 Short Play Festival at IndyFringe, and I blog at afterthecloset.com. I work as a children's librarian in Mooresville, Ind."




Monday, March 5, 2018

Lost in Art, a poem by R E Ford


Lost in Art
by R E Ford

I'm a broken man,” he says with a slur.
You're coming down to go places,”
she holds his hand. She's fragile too.

Wavering stars in the corridor of poetry—
I read the words and studied the music.
It made me feel too indifferent and distant.
People talk, I don't because I'm somewhere
in between places caught off guard by
the people who don't know the words
that shatter the margin of the self, he thinks.

I'm trying new things, not because I want
to or care to, but because when the beaten
down-ness of life got me, I lost it,” he says
as she pulls him closer. She holds his hand.

Good men suffer, great men get lost
in trying to become something bigger
than the talk of the town,” she kisses him.


R E Ford lives in Brownsburg. He just published his first book of poetry, Justified Dreainess (The Nymphs Lit, 2017.) You can find some of his work on his Instagram page.