Postcards from the Knife-Thrower

May 21-22 Portland, OR

Today I tore a shirt in the Lion Tamer’s tent, said he’d ask
his wife to mend it, as if I live on an island and no woman

will ever touch me again. I’ve colored outside the lines so often
they’re no longer visible in the light of a sober day.

St. Jezebel knows I keep a lock of Magdalena’s hair to remind me
of despair, knows what I want; every twist is planned except the end.

The end is mine but I lack imagination, the balls
to divine anything between flickers of silent movie frames

in a dream that isn’t; I have knowingly unmade myself
into a man I don’t recognize. Don’t want to, need to

until I’m drunk enough to catch glimpses of the girl you were;
mouthing private devotions and absolution for all creation.

Alex Stolis lives in Minneapolis; he has had poems published in numerous journals. The full-length collection, Postcards from the Knife-Thrower was runner up for the Moon City Poetry Prize in 2017. Two full length collections Pop. 1280, and John Berryman Died Here were released by Cyberwit and available on Amazon. His work has previously appeared or is forthcoming in Piker’s Press, Jasper’s Folly Poetry Journal, One Art Poetry, Black Moon Magazine, and Star 82 Review. His chapbook Postcards from the Knife-Thrower’s Wife is forthcoming from Louisiana Literature Press in 2024. He has been nominated multiple times for the Pushcart Prize.

Riding the Waves

We rode the waves elegantly
undulating 
up and down
gentle waves
soft fingered
at first
in the gentle light
of soft sunshine.

Then the clouds came
gathering 
softly at first
but blotting out the light,
then the wind rose
no longer soft
no longer gentle
now we crashed and dived
violently
heaving
hardly visible 
as the storm gathered pace
its white fingered waves
clawing their way towards us
gobbing their spume

over us
up and down
sucking us in
heaving us up
letting us fall
driving us towards the light
and the rocks lying there

Lynn White lives in north Wales. Her work is influenced by issues of social justice and events, places and people she has known or imagined. She is especially interested in exploring the boundaries of dream, fantasy and reality. She has been nominated for a Pushcart Prize, Best of the Net, and a Rhysling Award. https://lynnwhitepoetry.blogspot.com and https://www.facebook.com/Lynn-White-Poetry-1603675983213077/

waiting.

Weird quirks

You should know that when we fly in dreams and we feel the wind, then we are becoming just as Witches and Sorcerers who fly on their hazel sticks or broom, or who float into the infinite as new supermen or wonderwomen.

first daisies –
violent attacks
of rage

On the Wild Side

the bad girls walk their scissor legs
through blowing scraps of colored
paper, here’s a snip of an ad for trash
bags, here’s the torn up start to a letter.
Their elastic hands reel and unreel
packing tape and seal up my pencil thin
fingers. I can’t type. I can’t bring
my hand to my lips to whistle Hey
Babe, take a walk but they swish past
on high heeled plastic Barbie shoes
their sharp feet sharp eyes grinning sharp
painted white teeth.

Pediatrician Kelley White has worked in inner city Philadelphia and rural New Hampshire. Her poems have appeared in Exquisite Corpse, Rattle and JAMA. Her most recent collection is NO. HOPE STREET (Kelsay Books). She received a 2008 Pennsylvania Council on the Arts grant.

Not Enough Cred at the Crypt

Downtempo low glucose folk music
follows morose antler-punks
from venue to venue downtown.
They cannot tell that my fingerprints
are runes, my eyes leap woodland culverts,
coyotes and rabbits step in my footprints,
thorned trees carved the blood signs on my arms.

Fuck Poetry

Today, between hanging out 
the washing and the second coffee
we fell in love all over again.
Went for a walk through the park
to a cafe where we indulged in pan-
cakes with blueberries, whipped 
cream, maple syrup and second 
coffee, of course. Then without 
saying much, we ambled back to 
our perfectly made matrimonial 
bed with fresh autumn leaf sheets.
We removed clothes, our disparate
cultures, different languages,
family backgrounds, even our 
interests and made sweet, 
syrupy love as if it was our
first, beast, best time ever. 
And it was, so far.

Allan Lake is a migrant poet from Allover, Canada who now lives in Allover, Australia. Coincidence. He has published poems in 20 countries. His latest chapbook of poems, entitled My Photos of Sicily, was published by Ginninderra Press. It contains no photos, only poems.

Ephemeral.Taken

The summer sand matted my feet,
the salt stung my eyes.
I floated anyway,
my hair fanning behind,
like a mermaid’s, cast green
by the sun.

Sarah Daly is an American writer whose fiction, poetry, and drama have appeared in twenty-five literary journals including Triggerfish Critical Review, A Thin Slice of Anxiety, Ibbetson Street Press, The Seraphic Review, and Superpresent Magazine.      

Dove Cries

Their call was familiar
before their appearance

Feathers smoothed to seamlessness
multiple shades of tan, beige, brown

Not biblical symbolic white, yet
still peaceful

Too large for the perch so they sat in the seeds
until Dad bought a mix that repelled them

Now they peck in the grass of their banishment
mourning

Sound I know from summers
sisters and I sleeping in the same room

Waking to unaccustomed plaintive notes
visiting his farm back when Granpa lived

LA Felleman is a financial analyst in Iowa City and is improving her poetry-writing skills thanks to the Free Generative Writing workshop. She organizes a writers open mic at the public library (or via Zoom during pandemics) and serves on the advisory council of Iowa City Poetry. She is the author of The Length of a Clenched Fist from Finishing Line Press.