_________________________________________________________________________

L. Ward Abel’s work has appeared in Rattle, The Reader, The Istanbul Review, Snow Jewel, The Honest Ulsterman, Worcester Review, hundreds of others, and he is the author of three full collections and eleven chapbooks of poetry, including Jonesing For Byzantium (UK Authors Press, 2006), American Bruise (Parallel Press, 2012), Little Town gods (Folded Word Press, 2016), A Jerusalem of Ponds (erbacce-Press, 2016), The Rainflock Sings Again (Unsolicited Press, 2019), Floodlit (Beakful, 2019) and the forthcoming The Width of Here (Silver Bow, 2021). He resides in rural Georgia, and is a reformed lawyer, now teacher of literature.

Early to Rise

Sleep can also come too easily,
and dreamlessness can wake you up at dawn
to a world where the birds have forgotten to sing.
The sun staggers up into the sky
behind bedraggled clouds that don’t know where
to put their rain. No rivers seem to want it;
the trees are ducking; the hills have nowhere to go
and nowhere to put whatever might be offered.
You should have stayed awake another hour,
until the nighttime breeze stopped being shy
and each mosquito in your room had had its fill.

________________________________________________________________________

Andrew Shields lives in Basel, Switzerland. His collection of poems Thomas Hardy Listens to Louis Armstrong was published by Eyewear in 2015. His band Human Shields released the album Somebody’s Hometown in 2015 and the EP Défense de jouer in 2016. Twitter: @ShieldsAndrew   Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/andrewshieldspoems/

Apology 

You teased crocuses out of the soil,
beguiled goldfinches back to sing
at our window that it was finally spring—
but my heart strayed ahead to fireworks,
sparklers, and sunscreen’s frankincense.
I am sorry for my faithlessness.

You rubbed sunscreen on my shoulder-blades,
arranged for the lake to be as blue as sky,
donned a bikini unsuited to your modesty—
yet I opted to give myself to autumn:
pumpkins, sheaves of corn, swamp maples
going pyrotechnic. Forgive me please.

You cut jack-o-lanterns, raked brittle leaves,
dressed children up as heroes and royalty
for Halloween, gave me the leftover candy,
carried the harvest home. I snuck around
with a Flexible Flier, wore mittens sleeping,
text-messaged Santa. I fled your weeping.

You learned to ski, installed snow tires,
bought carrots and coal for the man of snow,
decked the halls with boughs of holly,
fa la la la la. I left you—wandered glades,
seeking tentative hints of green. I listened
for the early bird. I was that mean.

________________________________________________________________________

Seven-time Pushcart Prize nominee Russell Rowland writes from New Hampshire’s Lakes Region, where he has judged high-school Poetry Out Loud competitions. His work appears in Except for Love: New England Poets Inspired by Donald Hall (Encircle Publications), and Covid Spring, Vol. 2 (Hobblebush Books).His latest poetry book, Wooden Nutmegs, is available from Encircle Publications.

Talking Stand-Up Comedy in Pittsburgh

It’s Kat’s birthday and the room laughs
at sad Neil Young songs opposite this
vibrant party. I meet Meeti who says
she has good jokes, bad presence.
She has grander aspirations. I tell her
I never planned to be in this city, either.
She needs a New York or LA. I came
from both & couldn’t hang. Birthday
spirit drifts in this room around us,
everyone having an amicable time.
We are, too, except we can only dream
of spotlights, butterflies, our names in
neon because we’d rather smoke quietly
in the dark corners of social gatherings.

_______________________________________________________________________

James Croal Jackson (he/him/his) is a Filipino-American poet. He has two chapbooks, Our Past Leaves (Kelsay Books, forthcoming 2021) and The Frayed Edge of Memory (Writing Knights Press, 2017), with recent poems in White Wall Review, Subnivean, and Thin Air. He edits The Mantle Poetry (themantlepoetry.com) from Pittsburgh, PA. (jamescroaljackson.com)

The Great Billy Williams

When I was a little kid there was this pop
song, “I’m Gonna Write Myself a Letter.”  
I remember hearing it in a bar, on a jukebox, 

some drunk guy singing along, 
like lightly slamming the open palm of his hand 
on the bar in time to the jaunty rhythms.  

Well, it was just a song, kind of catchy, but I 
didn’t think much of it. The bar, the building 
itself was wooden, and in a low valley, 

between one steep hill and a lower hill.  
By the mid-sixties it was torn down and 
replaced by a small brick strip mall.  

But this song was a big hit, and the guy 
singing, his voice sounded kind of cranky.  
“Gonna write myself a letter,

make believe it came from you, oh yeah!”  
Just another song. When I got to my teens, 
I bought a 45 disc, “I Don’t Wear My Heart 

on My Sleeve” by the Charioteers. A ballad, 
the lead’s male alto was high-pitched and very 
smooth. Elegant. I loved it, love it still.  

Fast forward to me in my fifties. I got 
a Charioteers CD and realized this alto lead, 
singing ballads and up-tempo tunes like 

“Way Down Yonder in New Orleans” was 
the same guy who, back in the fifties, 
had this one smash hit. On “Letter” 

his voice didn’t sound high and smooth like 
on the ballads. I was astounded to learn 
they were one in the same, Billy Williams.  

I purchased the CD from a record shop by 
mail. I talked to the shop owner, now 
deceased, and he said Billy Williams 

was a pretty good singer. He sure was!  
A very good singer. He made other pop 
things but also a lot of pretty great music.  

You listen to him on “So Long,” really listen, 
and you know you’ve been someplace.  
So smooth, so sad it’s sadness 

shed to the limits of joy, pure joy.  
The sound of a singer in love with what he’s 
singing. A master. A blend of passion 

and control. He did enough of that, over 
and over, to where he went beyond good, 
to greatness. Billy Williams, a great singer, 

I read somewhere, ended up living in 
a basement, on the fringe of homeless.  
He needs some credit, though 

he’s long dead and it won’t matter to him, 
but as Frost said, “The fact 
is the sweetest dream labor knows.”  

The truth is in the sound of the smooth alto 
that is Billy Williams, alto lead 
of the Charioteers, the great Billy Williams.

_________________________________________________________________

Peter Mladinic has published three books of poems: Lost in Lea, Dressed for Winter, and Falling Awake in Lovington, all with the Lea County Museum Press. He lives in Hobbs, New Mexico.

What the Street Remembers (3)

Daddy why there?
Been at work
You little sod
I haven’t got change
Chack! Chack!

*

Isaiah Berlin jiggles a greenfly
Off his lapel.

*

Cteck-cteck-cteck-cteck
A party
Yi knaa what it is
Oooom la la la la

*

Bertrand Russell agrees terms
With the squall.

*

He’s denied
Peaches only a pound
Dong dong dong dong

__________________________________________________________________

In 1998, Christopher Barnes won a Northern Arts writers award. In July 2000 he read at Waterstones bookshop to promote the anthology Titles Are Bitches. Christmas 2001 he debuted at Newcastle’s famous Morden Tower doing a reading of poems. Each year he read for Proudwords lesbian and gay writing festival and partook in workshops. 2005 saw the publication of his collection LOVEBITES published by Chanticleer Press, 6/1 Jamaica Mews, Edinburgh. In August 2007, he made a film called ‘A Blank Screen, 60 seconds, 1 shot’ for Queerbeats Festival at The Star & Shadow Cinema Newcastle, reviewing a poem…see www.myspace.com/queerbeatsfestival  He has also written Art Criticism for Peel and Combustus magazines.

Life on the Flood Plain

The river is overflowing,
and the wake along each bank
shakes feverishly, 
is whipped away by strafing rain.

Pale faces watch from shore,
a step or two from the cresting waters,
backs to an avenue of vulnerable homes.

Eyes dull but hearts fast-beating,
each can only think 
of their house’s contents,
furniture, mirrors, carpets, beds,
unmoored and ill-equipped for floating.

Under dripping hoods,
the people draw closer,
a small town gathered, 
talking out their fears,
their frustrations,
like they’re all one family group.

Each is eager to start moving stuff,
from first floor up to second,
from basement to who knows where.
But there’s no place really safe from damage.
Experience of past floods
couldn’t be clearer.

The precious will be ruined.
Framework will need repair.
And, once the dry-out begins,
there’ll be no escaping the mud smell.

People say prayers.
They grow bitter then they pray some more.
They make vows. “Never again.”
All lead to that bitter vow,
“I’ll never sell.”

_____

That’s the Wrong Pose

Please don’t fold your hands over your chest.
I’ve been to too many wakes.
Let them drift down to your sides,
swing them if you have to,
don’t worry about hitting me,
my head is harder than the night.
Having felt this was worth getting into,
I don’t want to lose it
to a grim imitation of a corpse,
an accident yet to happen,
a heart without heart,
some magician disease that can
turn you into a door jamb.
It’s two a.m. and a man should be
occupying dreams fully,
stirring a little mental mud,
not watching all he loves
strike a pose for the end times.
Sure, I’m drowsy, I’m incoherent,
I’m fully aware of the stand-over
tactics of the imagination.
But I don’t want
the worst that can happen,
getting any ideas.
My loneliness
is holed up in the past.
Let’s leave it there.

__________________________________________________________________

John Grey is an Australian poet, US resident, recently published in Orbis, Dalhousie Review, and the Round Table. Latest books, Leaves On Pages and Memory Outside The Head, are available through Amazon. Work upcoming in Lana Turner and Hollins Critic.

Losing you was like winter in Alaska.

Warm summer days dwindled
as a chill crept over the land.

The seasons started to change,
leaves drifted to the ground,

and when you joined them,
the sun stopped climbing into the sky

leaving me in a world
without light.

Life without you has been a season of dusk.
Even though your absence is eternal

the sky keeps reminding me
darkness won’t last forever:

Gray will eventually turn blue
as tears turn to smiles when I think of you.

_______________________________________________________________________

Madelyn Kreienheder is a graduate student at Truman State University, where she will graduate with a Master’s in Education. She is completing her student teaching now and will begin her career teaching English following her graduation. Madelyn’s first published poetry appeared in The Big Windows Review Issue 17.

Mirror of Enigmas

“Forget the dead you’ve left behind
They will not follow you.”
–Bob Dylan

The mirror reveals something different
every time you look inside

The back of a head can be seen in infinite
regression, fading inward as far as a hall
of mirrors will go

A composite sketch of what you might
have looked like once, long ago, represents
nothing now no matter how far inside you go

Even in that other time zone, where a duplicate
mirror resides, where all the reflective glass
surfaces are turned flat against blank walls,

Something is happening inside the framework
but it is impossible to see what

Impossible to know anything

Even the answers to the simplest questions like:
Who am I ?
Where am I going?
Who will I be when I get there?

________________________________________________________________________
Alan Catlin has been publishing for six decades, which feels like the answer to a Jeopardy question these days. His most recent full-length books include, Asylum Garden: after Van Gogh (Dos Madres) and Memories (Alien Buddha). Memories Too is due soon from Dos Madres.

Good Old-Fashioned Hospitality

You open the front door,
and there he is.
Your new roommate.

That’s all well and good,
except you weren’t looking for a roommate.

He shuffles in,
exhausted from the journey,
throwing his backpack on the floor with a thud.

He curls up on your bed,
oily hair resting on your pillow.

You remember the Army cot in the corner,
the one you haven’t thought about in years.
Maybe he could sleep there?

He moves drowsily to the cot,
wrapping himself in a moth-eaten blanket

and falling right to sleep.
You watch him snooze awhile,
a peaceful tangle of blanket, beard, and hair.

You can hardly wait till he wakes up.
You wonder about his name, his hobbies.
Maybe you can surprise him with a housewarming gift.
Maybe pizza. 

_____________________________________________________________________

Greg Sevik teaches writing and literature in Upstate New York. His scholarly essays have appeared in such publications as The Emily Dickinson Journal and Style. His poetry and translations have been published in The Ekphrastic Review, Inventory, and other venues.