Join us as we celebrate our launch of Issue #5: “Lost and Found” with readings and art presentations by C.Cimmone, Koss, Cole W. Williams, Shareen K. Murayama, Angela Dribben, Fred Gerhard, Kip Knott, Peter Mladinic, Jonce Palmer, and Tanvi Nagar.
A Journal of Hybrid Literature and Art
Join us as we celebrate our launch of Issue #5: “Lost and Found” with readings and art presentations by C.Cimmone, Koss, Cole W. Williams, Shareen K. Murayama, Angela Dribben, Fred Gerhard, Kip Knott, Peter Mladinic, Jonce Palmer, and Tanvi Nagar.
by C.Cimmone
The baby is screaming. I turn to the kitchen window, hoping you are mowing the backyard, but all I see is overgrown green. …
by Lorelei Bacht
When you touched __________,
you commissioned me to bring
before your eyes the history
of “__________ and __________” …
by Lorelei Bacht
Un de perdu, dix de retrouvés.
Is how we calculate precisely how many fishes remain when one has departed…
by Lorelei Bacht
where there should be an ache there is a blank a hollow square the texture of grey clouds I poke at it test its absence lack of substance…
Poetry and Photography by Koss
Someone online asked me how you died, then quickly vaporized. Protons and neutrons reverse direction and switch connections. We meet like ghosts; synapses trail our devices. …
Poetry and Photography by Koss
along the stone-lined path, her body surrendered
leaning against the west wall, she slid off her birks …
Poetry and Photography by Koss
everyone is your best friend
when you’re dead …
by Winston Plowes (Poetry & Film) and Alicia Fernandez (Voice)
No country is really sure
how many it has lost
and in Madrid, Spain is recounting its dead in the Ice Palace. …
by Nancy Himel
erased from This Mournable Body by Tsitsi Dangaremba
You decided to escape You vow / you will launch into my life ….
by Nancy Himel
To the scattered stalks, Vincent asks,
“What if the road is the rifle
the only way to wander these hills of grass
to feel the warmth of solitary sun?” …
by Cole W. Williams
the sound of one voice / slips from the strands of her hair / jounced by dust at the speed of sound …
Photography by Shareen K. Murayama
by Shareen K. Murayama
When I realized I could be a victim of an active shooter, I asked my partner to accompany me when walking the dog….
by Wilson Koewing
TW: violence, active shooter situation flashbacks, suicide ideation
Alison chose to move to Asheville, North Carolina and leave her corporate career behind…
Visual Art by Angela Dribben
by Angela Dribben
Run the brush fibers between your lips, girls
Get a fine point
Paint fine numbers on the clock dials
Our boys are fighting for you girls…
by Angela Dribben
obliged
to join
girls
16 and over …
by Glen Armstrong
I fear photography in that it is more than a suggestion. About a girl. About reality. About face and light. …
by John Rodzvilla
Make me whir-r-r, whir-r-r, whir-r-r … !
by Fred Gerhard
Sun going down / almost still / moving / sentinel trees stand / feathery filament / testament …
by Fred Gerhard
I think of Pennsylvania on days like this.
The arching sunsets over a bowl horizon…
by Gaby Benitez
imagino cada abuelo es mío
los que están tomando jugo de zanahoria con jengibre en la
panadería, the one at the house on the corner …
by Sheree Shatsky
solitary / woman / striking the stars above …
by Sheree Shatsky
something strange about
air
…
by Sheree Shatsky
to this world
devote attention….
by Elyssa Tappero
the chiropractor says my ribs keep popping out and i wonder if that’s from my heart trying to break free…
by Christian Garduno
We used to walk down Shattuck
with the textbooks we couldn’t afford in their bookstores
we would make a left, down Bancroft Way
stop and share a smoke with a few friends along the way…
by Kip Knott
Dear Jenny,
Today marks the 30th anniversary of our divorce. …
by Peter Mladinic
On a part of the army airbase that crosses
long air strips once used for planes, now
for gliders, I walked towards the prison…
by Peter Mladinic
This was the 1950’s. I get sentimental
remembering Jake, a dachshund.
He had all the freedom. He was smart. …
by Daun Daemon
it was a wiener dog turned my drunk daddy sober;
all them cats all them years couldn’t do it;
mama couldn’t do it no matter how hard she begged…
by David S. Anderson
My mother said she wished I would disappear.
Not die, because then she might carry it—
no, worse. She asked that I fade away…
Comic by J. Bradley
by Shiksha Dheda
Could I
be trying to be
more than what I am …
by Shiksha Dheda
unadornedunadornedunadornedunadorneduna
BarrenBarrenBarrenBarrenBarrenBarrenBarrenBa
by Dr. Sarah Gundle
When we began our work, my patient was a full-time martial arts instructor. Something drove him to therapy. He wasn’t sure what. …
Art by Shilpa Bharti
by Nikki Clayton, Mark Goodwin, and Rod Duncan
you can
not
clove
hitch mist…
by J.I. Kleinberg
if you are
a cloud
What do you
Keep
…
by Sheldon Lee Compton
He planted plugs of zoysia grass last summer. Now that’s what all the yellow is about. Everywhere that’s yellow this morning…
by Sheldon Lee Compton
A new couple who became pregnant by mistake. Neither of the two young parents wanted a child, so when the baby was born, they placed it in a remote location, a mud and grass hut some thirty yards from the main home. …
by Jonce Palmer
(from If this planet once again becomes swampland)
& we are left with wasps mingling : with poppies still rising out of our pots …
by Avery Lane
Purple light backs the drummer, and from his left ear dangles a single feather, swinging wildly with each wallop of the snare. …
by Avery Lane
The voices of her mother and the doctor were all but muted.
Their words like minnow, silver and languid…
by Avery Lane
a fire lights up their faces.
Food is passed, from hand to hand
sinew and fiber unbound by heat.
…
by Tanvi Nagar
I sat in a dimly lit room and began to flip the dusty journal’s pages…
by Janet Kozachek
In the spring of 2011, I was asked to submit some images of a mosaic “work-in-progress,” Subclinical Harpies…
Contributors: Josh Steinbauer, Emily Ann Salles, Angelica Mejia, Rebecca Andem, Joy Alexander, Maurice Moore, George White, and Foster Trecost.
by Josh Steinbauer
“Suffering is both a barrier and a bridge.” – Kao Kalia Yang
by Emily Ann Salles
My great-grandmother used to terrify us by taking her teeth out. With a flick of her lower jaw they’d pop out into a shark’s double smile. We would shriek. The youngest of us started to cry. She would chuckle and chomp them back into place.
by Angelica Mejia
Not having much of normal necessities in the kitchen had not phased me until my adult years. My parents did their best at raising us while my mom was fighting a battle none of us knew how to deal with or talk about. She hid it from me and my siblings for years—cancer.
by Angelica Mejia
It was on the 9th of August the evening that my great-grandmother passed. It was the last week of monsoon season, the favorite season all Arizonans are familiar with. The weather podcast for the day was no chance of rain, but later on, when we knew she passed, it rained, and it rained hard.
by Rebecca Andem
Fields that blossomed at dawn faded by dusk, as though a million blue butterflies had landed and lifted. And her mother, her mother fluttered on the thin edge of shadows.
by Rebecca Andem
As a rule, Jamie steered clear of Fat Tuesday. The MTV clones with their bedhead styles and tribal tattoos were bad enough sober. Tossing back Jell-O shots and moving in packs? No thank you. But three years in the Keys, and he was restless. He’d been through every waitress and barback from Key Largo to Key West.
by Joy Alexander
I was really not suicidal. But in that murderous instant, I was trapped. And the way, as I saw it, after long harried minutes of despair, was to just jump and end it all.
by Joy Alexander
There ought to be an asylum for such as me
harassed and haunted I am.
Thermometers blaze high temperatures of suffering COVID patients, while
I gripe at sunburn on my pampered potted plants.
by Maurice Moore
Only one copy of Roberta William’s 2133 text “Blood Rituals and Monsters of the Postbellum” exists. It was recovered from the excavation site after her disappearance back in 2138. Reports state that Williams disappeared while doing further research on the Purpura Demon legend for her second book while on expedition at the Neuse River.
by Maurice Moore
Roberta: -Knock, Knock-
Alfreda: Stop yo monster drawing Junior and get de door ya Momma still getting pretty fa de Doctor.
by George White
Honestly, Mark, picking you up today was nearly as bad as the funeral. Time for a brew now. I think I need a nice decaf tea. I might even treat myself and put some honey in it.
by Foster Trecost
I came upon a young boy who sat upon the ground. At his side lay a blue Schwinn, lent from an earlier time. His hands were stained with grease from the chain, which had popped from the sprocket, and his shirt stained with grease from his hands. I watched for a moment, then knelt next to him.
Join us as we celebrate our launch of Issue #3: Hybrid Identities on Sunday, February 21, 2021 4:00 PM Mountain Standard Time.
Cover photography by Brenna Wuillamey
by Garrett Gomez
crawled into a shell
this afternoon xcept
it was a cocoon…
by Lucy E Allan
There are two types of water in the sea, and there are two sadnesses in the body.
The first sadness lives in the muscles between your ribs…
by Suzanne S. Rancourt
This wind shoulder bumps stacked droplets. They tumble down branches / fall off cliff tips shining green with wet….
by Suzanne S. Rancourt
The bull waggled his rack tips while feeding on submerged water lilies and pondweed….
by Brenna Wuillamey
by Noeme Grace C. Tabor-Farjani
Hannah and I, listening / to the cacophony of noon / while cocooned in this stillness / as the rest of the world / cycles on what is their norm….
by Brenna Wuillamey
by Jen Schneider
Locks turn right. Keys clank.
Huddled whispers. Spilled secrets….
by Brenna Wuillamey
by David Estingel
Thumbing through The Borderlands, I can’t help but feel not “brown” enough. I’m Mexican Lite. Got a case of the “coconuts”. There are no rageful battle-cries inflaming this breast. …
by mary hope|whitehead|lee
by Stephanie Powell
They chew with soft-jawed mouths open; molars loose in the gums.
It may be post-war steak, grey under kitchen lights…
Poetry and photography by Stephanie Powell
This room as a picture, the Musician stands up, his lower groin occupies the space with the possessive masculinity of a Mapplethorpe. …
by Megha Nayar
Wife (Fully functional human being, veritable force of nature)
Me (Her troubled husband, hereafter referred to in third person)…
by Brenna Wuillamey
by Ken Tomaro
it has been awhile since I’ve been home
the cat barely recognizes me
but it didn’t take long for him to warm up
before he went back to licking himself…
Poem by Silvia El Helo, photograph by Terrence Sykes
Ten slow sips…
by Jemelia Moseley
I am watching TV as the TV watches me
I see movement but I hear no sound
In my own head space, my own maze…
by Jemelia Moseley
As a black child growing up in the 90’s they said I was lucky because my hair was long,
when I cut it they said my beauty was gone…
by Red Sagalow
Story by Mark Blickley, Photography by Beatrice Georgalidis
It was time for Ralph’s first real haircut. Ralph’s mother said it was time, as did the next-door parents of his best friend, Emmitt. The only person who did not think it was time for a real haircut was Ralph. He did not want to go to the barbershop. …
by Mary Ledvina
by Timothy Tarkelly
God!!!!!! sloped shoulders, and the flat stomachs
of 1966…
by Hibah Shabkhez
I am a boiling pot of Englishes, bubbling frantically as they collide. …
by Dmitry Blizniuk, translated by Sergey Gerasimov
Sailing boats with bright sails —
lemony, orange, striped, —
flock by the shore,
dawdling at the water edge like burning giraffes…
by Mernine Ameris
my aunt’s 2nd wedding.
an august festival for some.
an all day marathon for those who know her.
a common cocktail for a haitian wedding.
by Perla Kantarjian
there is a bag of worn out peaches sitting
on my kitchen floor
that i cannot bear to devour nor to dispose of….
by Helen Bowie
Your beautiful stories of life in Kiev, when you were only / a child…
by Tamara Al-Qaisi-Coleman
Can you see how the river shimmers? Connecting states
I pledge allegiance to
the farm to market roads
Connecting rivaling towns
by Rudolf Alexander
A new bridge is being built over the river in Carpentersville
that will connect Longmeadow Parkway on the west bank…
by Jacob Nantz
Stand at the south end of the square and face the courthouse. DANMAR FAMILY PHARMACY casts a shadow over the white-bricked building to its left.
by Jacob Nantz
I grew up riding trains from the suburbs to the city, / then around the city, hovering on the EL…
by Jacob Nantz
…Middle and working classes fill in from the edges and meet downtown in an uncommon harmony: filthy taverns, charming Irish Pubs, an aging casino, an old roundhouse-turned brewery…
by Ronald Tobey
we bought an old used manure spreader
small holding 80 bushels
enough for one pass of 500 feet
faded red planks bolted to its steel frame
rust on metal…
by Howie Good
The relationship among spatially dislocated but simultaneous events is difficult for a lay person like me to fathom….
by Howie Good
You unbutton the top few buttons of your blouse. The doctor places a cold stethoscope against your chest….
by Howie Good
Because the horizon for humanity is so cold and sharp, the edge of an executioner’s axe, I try my best to stay up on the news, but today…
by KG Newman
The lunatic let his pet mosquito out of a matchbox outside our quiet house / as freezing eventide strolled over to see what’s up.
by KG Newman
I tried brewing a placebo/antidote in the garage over bottomless beers and drifting solitude, / while you read the first chapter of every self-help book from the library.
by KG Newman
The morning Stan Lee died I put my son in his Spiderman shirt for day care, wondering / when he’d comprehend each late-night kitchen argument…
by Cole W. Williams
I draw tik marks on the page—
wanting to see what hundreds of thousands looks like…
by Maia Joy
Marble bust goes to the emergency room
complaining of chest pain, loss of sensation…
by Alyssa Jordan
He goes where you can’t follow, like all
the dead do. You wonder…
by Alyssa Jordan
You buy flowers
wondering where
she has gone. …
by Jennifer Shneiderman
Bees riot in swaying lush lavender rendering jealous wild pink bougainvillea undulating dancing…
by Ahmad Al-khatat
We constantly question the things we do.
Living has become a harder question than death. …
by Tina Anton
by Shoshana Olidort
after Paul Celan [UNLESBARKEIT]
Unreadable this, unreadability of this, illegibility of this, illegible this
world, world, world, world. …
by Alvaro Enciso and Elizabeth Salper
by Rebekah Cheresnick
Remember the dirt
fragile in the sun so warm
on your back
and your shoulders
and your scalp.
HHR is currently open for submissions from Nov. 1, 2020-December 15, 2020. We are accepting general submissions as well as themed submissions.
Cover Art by Jorge Oyarzún Sardi
Typography by Annelies Zijderveld
by Irina Moga
Art by Tatiana Arsénie
On some days the hazy, milk-white light draws me into a strange fluidity: it’s the wisdom of a wing-like, deceitful surface.
by Galina Itskovich
Translations by Valentin Emelin
The road is sad, saturated with poison,
And pricking with flat notes on my bare feet.
Impasto on canvas.
by Jack e Lorts
Color the
soft voices
a violet or
maybe a shade
not yet discovered,
a nuance…
by Cheryl Heineman
They are raven-like, dark-winged
moving toward a tangled nest
or like crows circling
seeking their own kind
against a fog-ivory sky the outline
by Kim Baker
Charley pours their coffee,
tells them they look good.
But they know they are just a couple of stiffs…
by Lisa Periale Martin
Wing man speaking
now he’s singing
layering images
coats curried
borrowed brush tips
by Mark Blickley
Photography by Keith Goldstein
I’ve had this recurring Bridge Dream for nearly fifteen years. It first appeared one night after being exhausted by cram studying for my Bar Mitzvah. In this initial fantasy I was a swaddled infant left on the very beginning of a long and twisting walkway through a vibrant yet desolate forest.
by Greta Pullen
Those drop earrings (doubtless pre-Colombian). Jade certainly. In any case a green stone Standard issue metal alarm clock, two bells on top. Hairstyle parted in the middle.
by Maroula Blades
On the 10th August 2020, I saw the totem pole out of the corner of my eye. I was travelling on the “Road to Sacrow” in Krampnitz. Krampnitz is a district of the state capital Potsdam (Brandenburg) in Germany. I asked the driver to halt the car. I had to take a photograph of this interesting object. There wasn’t a bronze plaque nailed on the painted bark. This artwork has no recorded history.
by Jorge Oyarzún Sardi and
Océano and Claudia Nuñez de Ibieta
Siempre soñó con el océano. Lo que se llama soñar, despierto y dormido.
He always dreamed of the ocean. You could say constantly dreamed, daydreaming or asleep.
by Cole W. Williams
He has found our child,
the boy–in flannel, TIED SHOES, and jeans, was not in the water for a swim. We know the boy is misplaced, we know the boy was head under, wet hair, too long.
by Pilar Rodríguez Aranda
What is it about a wall? About the action of marking or writing on it? What kind of power does it exert on the writer/painter/activist/transgressor, and on the viewer/reader/witness/accomplice?
by mary hope|whitehead|lee
7 june 1908: cristina hermanita mi alma mi corazón
(portrait of cristina, my sister 1928)
for sweet talk and useless coin
you will slay me
Art by Jorge Oyarzún Sardi
Issue #2.5, our special ekphrastic issue, will launch at the end of October.
Cover Art by Jessica Dawn Zinz
Contributors: Kayla Rodney, Christopher Atamian, Joy Alexander, Yi Jung (Jolene) Chen, Michelle Villegas Threadgould, Jessica Dawn Zinz, Richard Oyama, Yuan Changming, F. Daniel Rzicznek, Satya Dash, Raphael Luis J. Salise, Guna Moran, and more.
Kayla Rodney: What it all boils down to is that people from New Orleans always want to be home because there is something about the city that draws you back to it, and many families from the city have lived there for generations, my own included. …
Her talent with diction, music and the lyric is apparent in her first collection of poems, Swimming Home, which begins with a grocery list which very quickly becomes much more…
by Kayla Rodney
Over two-hundred years ago black feet
In shackles shuffled to shores they were unsure of.
The jingle of chains a precursor to the jingle of change in coin purses
Used to purchase us.
But still we sang into blue skies…
by Guna Moran
translated from Assamese by Sadiqul Islam
I can see at night,
not in daytime.
After the nap
the ribs talk to the bedstead.
…
by Guna Moran
translated from Assamese by Bibekandanda Choudhury
Because they do not have a
permanent home…
Poem by Carl Scharwath
Video by Jeanette Skirvin
by Mike Knowles
by Zach Murphy
There’s a formidable stone house that sits atop Fairmount Hill. It’s been for sale as long as I can remember. …
by Raphael Luis J. Salise
I lied
when I said
“I’ll be home soon,
don’t you worry about me”
…
by Raphael Luis J. Salise
we are soldiers, right?
comrades, always there for each other
no one was watching us, right?
it was just you and me in the middle of the night…
by Thom Brucie
I did not want to watch my grandfather die
but I did
as surely as I watched him
prune his grape vines…
by Michael Buckius
When you were 12 years old you destroyed your mother’s garden. You used a miniature souvenir baseball bat that was purchased at Camden Yards two summers prior. …
by Kim Bockus
Two months into chemotherapy I begin to think about Alice and her Adventures, triggered by the toxic cocktail coursing through my veins and permeating my brain. …
by Penny Harter
Preparing the cup of coffee that leads off my day—one of just two cups, the second only half-decaf—has become a ritual. …
by Penny Harter
Recycled loss composts this garden. Loss of everything dear you’ve treasured since childhood: your tin shovel the sandbox swallowed. The mewing kitten your mother rescued from the white line. …
by Sean J. White
who knows the difference between lazurite and lamprophyre a rock is a rock is a rock is a rock
unless a rock is an answer …
by Satya Dash
Had to argue against tale of breasts
Curving to shape my narrative of breath
…
by Satya Dash
rope me by grips of mane vowels in my name
jealous in yearn feed me me
liver hearted God was I no skin or hair no wound
by F. Daniel Rzicznek
Limitless, compassionate energy between snow and tree, the fall of each, those several thralls. …
by Karen Loeb
Match the comment with the response.
Relatives/friends: Why in the world are you going to adopt a child?
by Howie Good
A Toast to the Dark
I search my sock drawer for a clean shirt to wear. On the subway, I pretend my briefcase is full of secret nuclear launch codes. …
by Roy Duffield
a reflection on the self reflection of a
self portrait of the poet as a young man as a self
…
by Ryan Greene
in the void
a whole lot of floating
old old light
…
by Yuan Changming
盲人摸象(the Blind Feels the Elephant): Another East Idiom
Here’s the elephant…
by Richard Oyama
It does not think of the boy’s bird screech and water pistol, the girl’s pas de deux and pursed lips. They batter each other’s head with flattened palms. …
by Adam Ai
Dear Orloj, My Wondering,
The last two dreams were not about her.
by Matthew Dettmer
I got home Friday night with a bag of potato chips because the woman working at the gas station a third of the way home saw me lurching down the aisle with the shelves of wine and said “no booze for sale now” …
by Jessica Dawn Zinz
full & complete
change is
by its nature
difficult.
by Marlene DeVere
She sat alone in a corner of the café, toying with her pearlescent necklace that for fifty years held a special place in her jewelry box. …
by Amanda McGuire
Three eyes in the back of the head but it’s impossible to see the reign beyond & above…
by Amanda McGuire
Leaves scratch the sidewalk again, and the air here is electric with possibility, according to the meteorologist. ….
by Michelle Villegas Threadgould
No hay reggaaeton sin ti
Tennessee is a black tree blur
…
by Michelle Villegas Threadgould
Not film / Not guns / Not you
But I could
and I did
when I outran you
by Robbie Curry
awaken your
body to your ancient future
celebrate
by Sandra L. Faulkner
Dear Mom,
I made your cake today
since I can’t see your face
…
by Sandra L. Faulkner
July 8, 2020 / Dear Alice, / Today would be your 112th birthday. They tell me that / I look like you…
by Jill Carpenter
Quilting develops an internal ruler—I know an inch, or six inches, or 36 inches when I see it.
…
by Yi Jung Chen
A ring, quietly stays
on mom’s little finger, passing down
a tale of frugal living…
by Joy Alexander
I had to laugh.
I just had to laugh,
my thoughts, a manic violin.
…
by Joy Alexander
It was late evening and the Jamaican downpour of rain made it seem even darker in the bus in which my mother and I were traveling. It did not matter that I could not see outside from the rain beating on the side of the window or glimpse the shadows of trees sprinting by the window. ….
by Christopher Atamian
Growing up in Yorkville in the late 1970’s, nothing thrilled me more than visiting my dear old Tante Angele in Morningside Heights. Manhattan had not been completely gentrified yet, so Yorkville still retained its mostly Hungarian and German flavor, and Morningside Heights might as well have been Tokyo, it seemed so far away…
Contributors: Siobhán Scarry, Lyn Baldwin, Ellery Akers, Lauren Camp, Abeer Y. Hoque, Joy Castro, Wyatt Welch, Iris Orpi, Annelies Zijderveld, Rob Carney, Justin Kitts, Marvin Shackelford, Paolo Bicchieri, Edward Lee, Lynn Finger, Elena Valdés Chavarría, and Irina Mashinski.
by Siobhán Scarry
How do the thoughts move?
With whirring, with wings, with unthinkable thoughts.
by Lyn Baldwin
On a Sunday afternoon in middle March, I open my truck door and step into in the high, thin light of a spring afternoon in the upper Lac Du Bois grasslands, just north of Kamloops, British Columbia.
by Ellery Akers
After working for months banding seabirds on a rocky island, I lean over the rail of our boat and smell land…
by Lauren Camp
1. Moderate-stage Dementia, Most Likely Alzheimer’s
by Abeer Y. Hoque
Here I love you, New York.
In the neon-striped night, people rise and roar.
The sirens and singers vie with their ululations.
A hundred times I listen.
by Joy Castro
“…friends?
Now you use a word whose meaning I have never known.”
—Charles Baudelaire, Paris Spleen
by Wyatt Welch
Birds are dying all over North America and I make a margarita.
Three green water-crisis limes, California.
by Wyatt Welch
I was,
I was each time,
conventional…
by Iris Orpi
Friday 2011, Chicago
Razor slices of red-tinted winter sky through the blinds, like verses of a waning fire.
by Iris Orpi
For eleven minutes, there was no God
by Annelies Zijderveld
1.
Pour the sugar and water into a heavy-bottomed pan set on medium high until the sugar roils in what resembles ecstatic agony—but don’t reach for the wooden spoon to relieve it.
by Rob Carney
Because The La’s were playing on the stereo, and the crescent moon looked frozen in the morning, and I wasn’t thinking about traffic because these phrases kept popping up and keeping me busy . . .
by Rob Carney
Just now, in the middle of a nineteenth email from OTL about Kaltura and their systems-training videos to help us “begin immediately transitioning” to teaching all our classes via teleconference . . .
by Justin Kitts
Get to see your face
In a hotel hell
Not much to look at
But it’s better than jail
by Marvin Shackelford
Along the tar-chipped road ponds dry at their edges, banks spreading, the streams and springs that feed them narrowing through their stones and winds, disappearing. The sun works at the earth unimpeded for weeks, sets each evening far behind the parched trees bunched across the horizon.
by Paolo Bicchieri
at some rodeo
you kissed my neck in front of my grandparents / it wasn’t that you couldn’t / everyone laughed / it was that five miles away / someone wept when they heard the crack…
by Edward Lee
From the series ‘(Un)Revealed’
by Edward Lee
From the series ‘(Un)Revealed’
by Lynn Finger
Cotton canvas is the most flammable, although poly blends can go faster because they melt.
by Elena Valdés Chavarría
En las calles del olvido
merodea un recuerdo de ti
que persiste
pese al tiempo…
by Irina Mashinski
Anyone who remembers, a lifetime ago, trying to make out new patterns on the wallpaper each night and being terrified by the dark frightening folds of that strange shape on the chair will understand what I am about to say.
by Irina Mashinski
a bird of glass,
a bird with a scratched throat,
a bird that tries to tell it all at once,
a bird that turns its head when called,
a bird that’s pinned with hopes…
by Irina Mashinski
I slept to you,
slept into you,
and then, to fall asleep, escaped from you
behind a cardboard wall, as if unbound…
by Irina Mashinski
November wind
sways you – bewildered lost
between two languages:
one a birch tree and one a willow.
Review by Lynn Finger
Rob Carney is someone who can find the soul in an empty room, or abandoned spot, and give it a chance to sing. His poetry explores the person in the emptiness, or the emptiness in the person, and shows how it is beautiful and enduring.
Rob Carney: People need their wildness back. Using figurative language to evoke the animal in us seems like it ought to be one of poetry’s jobs…. Personification is helpful because most people need to, as [Robinson] Jeffers says, “uncenter our minds from ourselves” and “unhumanize our views a little.”