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Charlotte Mandel
Charlotte Mandel's most recent book of poetry is Sight Lines, published by Midmarch Arts Press. Other titles include her first collection, A Disc of Clear Water, two chapbooks, Doll and Keeping Him Alive, and two poem-novellas: The Life of Mary (with foreword by Sandra M. Gilbert) and The Marriages of…
Jack Lindeman
Jack Lindeman has published three books: Twenty-One Poems, The Conflict of Convictions and Appleseed Hollow. His poems have appeared in many magazines, including Bellowing Ark, Blueline, Blue Unicorn, California Quarterly, The Christian Science Monitor, Commonweal, Eureka Literary Magazine, Harper's Bazaar, High Plains Review, The Hollins Critic, Kansas Quarterly, Massachusetts Review,…
Bergen Hutaff
Bergen Hutaff was born and raised in North Carolina. She is a graduate of Duke University and a former member of The Chicago Board of Trade. Ms. Hutaff was recently a prize winner in the 2003 Tanka Splendor Contest and currently lives in New York City, where she is working…
Van Hartmann
Van Hartmann, a resident of Purchase, New York, received an undergraduate degree in history from Stanford University and a doctorate in English from UNC at Chapel Hill. He is an Associate Professor of English at Manhattanville College, located just north of New York City, teaching in literature and film studies.…
Greg Grummer
Greg Grummer, although a Vietnam Era vet, was never in Vietnam. He has written a number of poems about war informed by his stay in the military, but prompted mainly from listening to NPR during the early nineties when areas of the world were in misery and people were perpetrating…
Samuel Exler
Samuel Exler's poetry has been widely published in magazines and anthologies. Robert Bly praised his first poetry book: “I am often moved…by these poems.” His work has appeared in Global City Review, the Literary Review, New York Quarterly, Plainsong, Poetry East, Home Planet News and others. Among the anthologies in…
Dana Curtis
Dana Curtis holds a Ph.D in English from the University of Denver. Her first full-length collection of poetry, The Body's Response to Famine, won the Pavement Saw Press Transcontinental Poetry Prize. She has also published three chapbooks: Incubus/Succubus (West Town Press), Dissolve (Sarasota Poetry Theatre Press), and Swingset Enthralled (Talent…
Richard Brostoff
Richard Brostoff is a physician who lives in the Boston area. He studied medicine at the University of Pennsylvania, and went on to receive advanced training at Duke and Harvard. In 2000 he was awarded the grand prize at the AEI International Poetry Festival. In 2003 he was editor's choice…
Darla K. Beasley
Darla Beasley is the result of the school of life as well as an undergraduate degree in English and Creative Writing. Awards for her writing include the WorldWide Writers Prize for Fiction, the El Andar Prize for Literary Excellence, and the Andre Dubus Award for the Novella, as well as…
Stacey Fruits
Stacey R. Fruits lives, writes and photographs in Tucson, Arizona. She is the recipient of two previous poetry awards, from Blue Mountain Arts in 1999, and Friends of Acadia in 2000. Much of her new work zooms in on the American West and the red desert that inspires her most…
George Adams
George R. Adams is a professor at the University of Wisconsin-Whitewater, a Korean War veteran, and the son of a bronc rider who was pregnant with him while she was competing in the rodeo. This may explain his personality and politics.
Loretta Wray
By Terri Kirby Erickson
What the Prince Doesn’t Know
By Maureen Sherbondy
Purple Irises
Our gray guide is still incredulous. “They shelled Dubrovnik! Dubrovniks have no fights with nobody. Croats and Serbs always lived here together.” Did he go gray when the war came down? Shells from the hills and mountains? Which grayed first? His hair? Mustache? His skin? His clothes? I am incredulous,…
‘Happily Ever After’ Left With Daddy
It is raining again; spring is always like that, so much rain. Feeling a slight chill Laura wraps the oversized sweater closer about her small frame. The sweater belonged to her late husband Frank. Wearing it gives her comfort and a feeling of nearness to him. Alone now, she sits…
Gebel Musa
—“For man shall not see me, and live.” Exodus 33:20 i. The Approach From the burning, quiet sea We struggle inland, over stone And dry weeds, to the mountain. The mountain stands, and does not change. It is the mountain of God, from which One can see the whole world.…
Netta Gillespie
Netta Gillespie has worked at a number of jobs, most of which were created for her and discontinued after she left. What this says about her job performances one can only conjecture. Her poems and stories have appeared in Matrix, Wisconsin Review, Clariton Review, and Spoon River Poetry Review, among…
Do Not Presume to Call It ‘Fun’!
Offer not my child what you call a game of skill, teaching, as it will how much fun it is to kill! Small instruments of death, held in tiny hands that, yesterday, held mine for their instruction. Yet, you offer, in the name of amusement, destruction! These lessons taught my…
Cape May, NJ: Memoirs of an Old House, Shakespeare’s Moths
CAPE MAY, NJ: MEMOIRS OF AN OLD HOUSE I. Ah, but I talk too much for an old house. Enough now. Understand the rest on your own. Take the Saturday tour. Meet my friends. Some are well cared for, others rundown. But all, like me, are well past one hundred,…
Kamikaze Bird
People who live in glass houses Recognize the sound— The dull but loud and sudden thump Of the Kamikaze Bird against the window. In seasons past, the simple task Required only the bagging Of the deceased and the tossing Of the bag into the can; No pomp and circumstance Requested,…
Eileen Baland
Eileen Baland is Assistant Professor of English at East Texas Baptist University, where she teaches literature and writing. She holds a Ph.D. in Literary Studies from the University of Texas at Dallas, an MLA in Literary Journalism and a B.A. in Creative Writing (Poetry) from Southern Methodist University. She is…
Soon Shall the Winter’s Foil Be Here
—Walt Whitman I know by the tingling tease in the autumn air that soon the trees will begin to show their yearly alteration, and I shall need to readjust my thoughts to cooler days. Winter's onslaught will not be sudden, so there is time to foil the threat of howling…
Beslan, What If…
BESLAN Tonight I will hold you, Alana, And keep you warm. You were the smartest girl In your class and know the Word “terrorist” does not exist In a third grader's vocabulary. I will hold you tonight, Pretty little girl in pigtails, Chestnut brown hair, Gentle eyes. Your mother cries…
Single Malt
He stands there, hands on hips like a great authoritative Bacchus disciple. You've got to go there. You must be there to get the real feel of what is going on. You must be in Scotland near Islay, so said my dad to us boys as we sat around the…
Soft Summer Rain
a little boy sits alone on a stone wall in a soft summer rain humming a tune his father used to sing him to sleep with while rocking in the glider chair between his little bed and the wall from his father's arms he could look all the way down…
The Nature Trail
When I am a lad about the age of ten, my mother takes my older sister and me to visit a park to which we've never been. “It'll be fun. You'll love it. Just wait and see.” The place is fantastic! It has a lake, a swimming pool, even horseback…
Dry Parched Kisses
She sits marooned, an ancient figurehead, Sallow and broad, weathered and lost, While the sands of life and memory pile up Around her ancient flanks. She smiles at memories Of days when she could leap and run and fly Pan-like through the air, and never come down, Never feel cold,…
No Gift Ever Loved Me More
In Anchorage mother stepped out of a Wien Air Alaska jet into the terminal where I sat alone with my baby watching me, she saw herself she longed to turn backward past the splintered shards of betrayal to sing to us her old songs, and never be lonely we would…
Milk and Cookies for Grandma
I spent so many years making sure that your needs were met; many times, ignoring things that I needed. I understood. You were old and those that are aging have less time to enjoy their days, while the younger can wait. Sometimes when I came home from work, stressed and…
Lullabies for Tonight
For the Homeless at the Mission Now, as evening descends and the smoke of your last cigarette lingers in the cough-filled air, rest easy on the crude bunk. In clothes not washed for weeks, sleep sweetly tonight. As you curl yourself into the you before you were born, may any…
Climbing the Water Tower
Climbing the water tower's ladder to see my home Slow rung by rusty rung Grasping the cold steel handles Feet following hands, one beat behind Slow rung by rusty rung Body intent on just one more rung, not looking down Feet following hands, one beat behind In quiet darkness before…
A Walk
gravel crunches under our shoes we walk holding hands not speaking along a road that turns out of sight ahead of us through a stand of tulip trees waving golden in the cold air dark clouds coalesce above us the waning sunshine bright under the black billows running tangential to…
The Difficulties
By Ruth Hill
In Search of Paradise Lost
I am driving down a long expressway, with my hands gripping the steering wheel—tight. There is an underlying fear, knowing that I am not good at abiding by the rules. But the road is littered with signs—a sudden turn to the right— STOP! Then, a sharp veering to the left.…
The Bowpicker
I The two boats tied together One, a station where we capture in columns of figures the screeching pumping mindless cacophony of migrating seabirds, a seething funnel that billows from horizon bead and fans through the straits. A drifting bunkhouse to flop and doze and read, or lie on belly…
Omaha. Day one. The Day-6 June
My heart drags down my khaki sleeves as I kneel on the pink sands of Omaha Beach below nine thousand still stars crying out from folded clouds. I hear hoarse whispering on soft sealed lips reflecting side sand-papered shells. Scrape the surface. Pink-blue blood filters through grains of sand, blood,…
Touchstones
She walks the restless land, the weight of generations upon her soul, her heart descending like the autumn leaves fluttering upon the gold-tinged brilliance of the funeral fire, the air electric with voices of ancient spirits communing with the recent dead. Along the winding banks where mysteries of generations unfold…
Mirrors not for Them
My hero—my male hero—was thin as a rail. Gawky leapt to mind immediately. Polite mood, “ill-favored.” Not just his looks! Could say failure was stalking him, had it not caught up so frequently. As a farmer, he spun a good yarn. As a store-keeper, he, er, uh, spun a good…
Ars anti-Poetica/Halloween candy
Our New Poetry dwells in a literary Reality, both virtual and literal. Our tribe assembles tonight for this year's Ritual. New Verse to be our verse should be close to the ground, substantial in heavy We are like we were last year, but we are different too. nouns for things…
Nightfall
It is dark now a cloud benumbed moon grieves for memory lost the distraught wind stalks between high grasses seeking its youth owls roost, soft feathered in darkened poplars creatures unseen move inevitably to their nightly fate insects buzz and hum demented dervish dirges for those soon doomed while the…
True Roots
To the left of me and to my right apple trees regal in March bloom, in front of me a Sabbath sun, setting hazy this tranquil evening As I intrude through this enchantment I pause, and for a second, as the wind whistles around me and different birdchirps sweeten the…
Daisy Carbine Mantra
I The BB jammed in under the nail of his thumb— a perfect ball of copper buried in the pink swell of his flesh; he yelled ripping the nail back as he teased it out in a bubble of blood and we stopped shooting, crawled out from behind bales of…
War Story, River Around a Village
WAR STORY He takes pictures with the camera his father sent with a note: This is so you can send pictures home. He likes landscapes, aerials with smoke rising from squares of brown and green, like cotton escaping a quilt from home. On ground, he tries to capture the humid…
Lying in the Dark
The mosquito netting my mother drew over our heads was fine and white, like gauze bandages. She tucked it at the bottom of the bed, pulled it up, and draped it over the headboard rail. God bless, she said, and we lay in the heavy dark, shrinking from those loud,…
Spoils of War
Korea, 1951 In winter war and mud an ivory curve gleams too much for bone. My father toes up bowls small as kneecaps—bowls hidden with care, buried for keeping, the home burned flat, dead in the path of the tank grunting closer. At his feet, the earth is quaking from…
Mother and Daughter with Apples and A Shoe
MOTHER AND DAUGHTER WITH APPLES In the attic at 6 De Lairessestraat, skillful young men work under low light. In their hands: pens, carbon paper, blades. An attic in Amsterdam, 1942, where the false identity cards are made— for Jews, or men slated for forced labor in Germany. Small apples…
The Devouring, Stalingrad
THE DEVOURING Auschwitz, 1943 Our babies, creamy as lilies, have run away and have buried their songs in the deep woods. We put down our fiddles to look for them as we hastily cut out a moon from thick yellow paper and stitch it to the sky for light. In…
In Manhattan, After
Like Hiroshima's vague silhouettes of stunned bodies blinded, seared photographically, negatives hurled by heat and light onto still walls of bank buildings far enough the shock of the blast, a sun's rumble, left them standing in the other shock, the light, the instant of exposure x-rayed blindly making flat surprised…
Killing a Gathering of Cells, Saving Angel
KILLING A GATHERING OF CELLS A nightingale sits in darkness and sings to cheer Its own solitude with sweet sounds. Adonais Percy Bysshe Shelley I will show you pain today. The universal gift. The unwelcome sleuth entertained in slanted dark rooms, With early mornings arranging themselves Like dented toy soldier…
An Open Letter to John Ashcroft, Attorney General of the United States
On January 28, 2002, Attorney General John Ashcroft announced that he spent $8,000 of taxpayer's money for drapes to cover up the exposed breast of The Spirit of Justice, an 18ft aluminum statue of a woman that stands in the Hall of Justice. John, John, John, you've got your priorities…
