Monday, July 29, 2019

He travels with half, a poem by Laurel Smith

He travels with half

his mother’s ashes across the sea,
to the other place she lived away

from him, her East-West selves
grounded in a storied geography:

Here is the river I knew as a girl—
That’s the town where I met him—

her voice a swirl of distant sounds
he knows he will forget. He thinks

dust to dust” a poor cliché, the grains
he now carries more like seeds to be

planted: which one would open in July
with a bloom the size of her fist,

which would grow straight then bend
as if to lift a child who looks like him?

—by Laurel Smith

Bio: Laurel Smith lives in Vincennes, Indiana, and happily participates in projects to promote literacy and the arts. Her poetry has appeared in various periodicals, including Natural Bridge, New Millennium Writings, Tipton Poetry Review, Flying Island, English Journal, JAMA: Journal of the AMA; also in the following anthologies: And Know This Place, Visiting Frost, and Mapping the Muse

Monday, July 22, 2019

Listen to Your Loved Ones Crackle!, a poem by Tim Heerdink

Listen to Your Loved Ones Crackle!
by Tim Heerdink

Oh, what a time we live and die!
Just last morn,
a flash of an article brought strange news
never to be forgotten
as such other atrocities go in history.

Don’t know what to do with your remains?
No need to worry!
Rest forever within the groovy space of vinyl.
For the record,
the sound quality may be horrific,
but that’s all part of the fun.
A teaspoon here,
another touch there,
and now
you’re gold!
What words or music could be important
enough for my ashes to play?
Generations to come will either store the disc
in a basement or attic,
where surely ruin shall follow,
or give it a spin
and complain that an mp3
would be
much better.

Tim Heerdink is the author of Red Flag and Other Poems (Bird Brain Publishing, 2018) and the short story “The Tithing of Man.” He also has poems published in Poetry Quarterly, the Fish Hook, Shared Words, Distinct Voices, The Eye of the Storyteller, and On Earth As It Is in Poetry.

Monday, July 15, 2019

Redwing Swamp, a poem by Paul Richard

Redwing Swamp
by Paul Richard

ferns, fronds, frogs, pollywogs
dew fog,
mist blanket,

snakes just out,
sun’s stove turns up
spring peepers peep

buds awake,
sap ascends,
fledging feathers test flight.

These are all my pets.

From Paul Richard:I've recently had poems published in the Writer's Newsletter in Great Britain. I live in Indianapolis and frequently take poetry classes at the Indiana Writers Center as well as participate in writing and arts seminars. I am a former museum curator and administrator. In my retirement I am a beekeeper and avid gardener and volunteer on behalf of veterans.”

Monday, July 8, 2019

She Loves How Her, a poem by Dan Carpenter

She Loves How Her

mind works
how her attention swoops and swims
through all that lives
how she bares all its secrets
along with all of hers
the way she summons language to this service
uncannily as Snow White
leaving the dusting and bedmaking
to the birds and squirrels

—by Dan Carpenter

Bio: Dan Carpenter is an Indianapolis freelance journalist, poet, fiction writer and blogger. He has published poems in Flying Island, Poetry East, Illuminations, Pearl and other journals, along with two books of poems, The Art He’d Sell for Love (Cherry Grove, 2015) and More Than I Could See (Restoration Press, 2009).

Monday, July 1, 2019

Not Nuns, a poem by Mary M. Brown

Not Nuns
by Mary M. Brown

The nones I know (not nuns
not nuns by a long shot)
but nones, the ones who say

none when asked, “Religious
like those other

nuns, have given up
some things, not men or sex
or children of their own, but

scripture and ritual, done
with all that nonsense,
or maybe those are things

they have never known.
None of the nones I know
are in the habit of meanness,
greed, sloth, cruelty or any
ungodliness. They are none
of those things we religious

folk might wish they were to
justify our own incessant
hunger for church, our failure to

know the holy in the daily,
to realize none of us knows
much of the uncanny divine,

no priest or rabbi, shaman or nun,
none of us able to understand
or unravel much more than the nones.

Mary M. Brown lives and writes in Anderson, Indiana. She taught literature and creative writing at Indiana Wesleyan University for many years. Her poetry appears on the Poetry Foundation and American Life in Poetry websites, in Plough, Third Wednesday, Quiddity, JJournal, and many other journals and magazines.