THE BEDSIDE BOOK OF NATURAL MAGIC
I need a thought like clean, cold water. I need to dissolve into the whole rather than solve a sheet of equations for x. I don’t want to think about those little paperbacks that teach teenagers to hex each other. The little chills and transgressions that can’t help but fill a moment. I don’t want to think about how weeds grow and skin freckles. Hell is a heck of a lot less scary when published in paperback. BATHTUB INCANTATION It can’t be helped. The enamel wears thin. The drain grows its rusty beard. Ajax crystals gather near large underpants. Singing naked I know what the most blessed of hobos knows: Language bounces. The telephone rings. The world squirrels bits of itself away under our fingernails. It has to do with renewal and settling down to think about a journey once believed dirty, once believed endless. VISITORS FROM BEYOND I sleep to the sound of waves defining the shore. I dream of maintenance snakes need after navigating a thousand holes. Who is Ruby Stone? And why is she so smooth and in my bed? I have always been open to visitors from beyond. I used to sleep with the radio on. The radio waves at night seemed to rejuvenate the entire world. (Glen Armstrong holds an MFA in English from the University of Massachusetts, Amherst and teaches writing at Oakland University in Rochester, Michigan. He edits a poetry journal called Cruel Garters and has two new chapbooks: Simpler Times and Staring Down Miracles. His work has appeared in Poetry Northwest, Conduit, and Cream City Review.)
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The Truth About Ageing
1. aspen trembles lake laps sun dapples woods trillium titillates shady patches cedar perfumes air crisp clear calm 2. we knew we’d have to sell our place on the lake one day but somehow never thought that day would come our future currency of loss desire yearning despair The Truth About Happy This grey that stares Lies not, stark skin and bone. James Joyce Happy, at this age, comes with many qualifiers. I was less stiff when I got out of bed this morning. I’m happy about that. Sara’s cancer is confined to her gall bladder, lymph nodes and liver are clear. That makes me happy. Only five people from my high school class are dead and I’m not one of them. That’s something to celebrate. Every now and then my left ankle doesn’t work, but that’s only every now and then; mostly it works and I walk my little dog Mugsi and watch her tushie wiggle down Maple Avenue, and that makes me happy. I only allow myself half a grapefruit in the morning but, after I eat the sections I’ve carefully carved from the fruit, I squeeze the juice into my bowl. Those sips of fresh grapefruit juice produce a pleasure beyond joy. And when my wife, Judy, takes a moment to pat my arm when I’m cooking our dinner or kisses me on the cheek when I put her plate before her, the happy I feel makes saints hit their knees. Of course, there’s the nitwit in Washington, the constant lies, hypocrisies that cause mirrors to blush, the idea that empathy is a national security risk. Yet with us humans there’s always the possibility that kindness will be reborn, that compassion will make a comeback, that happy will be happy again. The Truth About Night Why is the night so craven? Everything possible during the day seems impossible at night. I’m not referring to the raucous bacchanalia of night clubs and dance halls, the blockbusters at movie houses, or poker nights with the guys. I’m talking about the sweat-soaked heart pounding 3 AM maelstrom when you’re sure you have terminal cancer, an infection no antibiotic will cure, and that all your arteries will close at once. This is when your disgraces, every time you measured your mouth for your foot size, reappear in technicolor and surround sound, when the eyes of the world are focused solely on you and people with names like Wolf, Anderson, and Rachel smirk and intone your sins over and over on their 24-hour news programs. You rise from bed, an anvil of shame on your back, pee, sip some water, crawl under the covers and wait for light’s subtle shade, that lambent curtain of forgiveness called dawn. (Charlie Brice is the author of Flashcuts Out of Chaos (2016), Mnemosyne’s Hand (2018), and An Accident of Blood (2019), all from WordTech Editions. His poetry has been nominated for the Best of Net anthology and twice for a Pushcart Prize and has appeared in over ninety publications.) The Inlay Work on the Left Side of the Brain
A nest of the woman’s hair ran through the farmhouse in all directions like a map of the town. The poet never stirred for four days and nights. A swarm of black flies quivering up the walls. Little children with vague forget-me-not eyes standing over her bed. linen pale as snow. (Winston Plowes shares his floating home in Calderdale UK with his seventeen-year-old cat, Sausage. He teaches creative writing in schools, universities and to local groups while she dreams of Mouseland. His latest collection, Tales from the Tachograph was published jointly with Gaia Holmes in 2018 by Calder Valley Poetry. www.winstonplowes.co.uk) A Minor Distraction
You, who are about to be eaten. You, trapped among the intangible, sinking deeper the harder you struggle, remarkably adept at suffering, dogged by false intuition, an icy finger running along your spine, a premonition gnawing on blood and bone, your ‘gift’ the curse of seeing that which lies beyond the senses. You, somewhat like the rest of us, inhabited by an innate instability, temporarily maintaining equilibrium, keeping the illusion alive, momentarily, before quietly slipping over the edge. (Bruce McRae, a Canadian musician currently residing on Salt Spring Island BC, is a multiple Pushcart nominee with over 1,500 poems published internationally in magazines such as Poetry, Rattle and the North American Review. His books are ‘The So-Called Sonnets (Silenced Press); ‘An Unbecoming Fit Of Frenzy; (Cawing Crow Press) and ‘Like As If” (Pski’s Porch), Hearsay (The Poet’s Haven). |
The Beautiful Space-
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