I’ve touched death twice and come back. I feel like a cat, though I’m not counting on nine. I was told as a child that I would not live even thirty years due to severe asthma…. http://www.cezannescarrot.org/vol4iss1/thisedgeofsea.html
Thank you to the editors of Cezanne’s Carrot for publishing “This Edge of Sea.”
Nature is relationships in space.
Geometry defines relationships in space.
Art creates relationships in space.
~M. Boles and R. Newman
I’ve fallen for painting furniture. The shape of this old black table compelled me to paint it with acryllics.
A close up of the top:
The unending sentence says:
“love is here,” he said. “I will stay,” she said, thus opening a window in the sky for birds and stars to pour forth which is how we learned everything is Love is here, he said. I will stay, she said, thus…
January 17, 1991
The day after war begins I
reach to hold, be held
beneath the crescent sliver of waxing snow moon
I feel your chest press retreat as we embrace
silken hair weaves through finger-
tips. Men and women die
in a city no longer theirs no longer
home. Your arms wrap me
as water holds wreathes
and Iraq retaliates,
missiles strike Jerusalem,
ten year old girl cries within the brown
mantis face of her gas mask.
Pressed peach of our cheeks
parts my lips near the tenderness of your neck—
I want to feel
your breath on my tongue
your tongue as I breathe.
And what of those in Baghdad
Thank you to the editors of We Speak for Peace and Literary Well/Pozo Literario for first and then reprinting this poem, respectively.
Dark in Light
Wanted to show you the moon
but cruised off the wrong ramp
and wound up in a war zone
where there is no curfew:
men standing solo in the middle of the street
or huddled, talking beneath burned-out lamps;
wanted to show you the soccer moon
but drove down darkened roads with bars
enclosing windows and doors,
barbed wire spiraling a hardware
store and nursery—planks and daisies
out of reach;
wanted you to count the seas
across that haloed orb
but drove alone
through neighborhoods as treeless
as that dog-song moon;
beat-up cars driven
beyond unmarked borders
pulled over by uniforms
with clubs and guns,
jagged tension cutting concrete air;
I want to know who
declared this war of Americans
children peer from sheeted windows,
women hide behind hollow doors,
a man looks up from an empty street,
each of us equal
distance from the sun’s reflective sphere.
Thank you to the editors of Something Like Homesickness and Literary Well/Pozo Literario for, respectively, printing and then reprinting this poem.
There are two ways to live your life.
One is as though nothing is a miracle.
The other is as if everything is a miracle.
After years of losing scores of kernels each time the VCR turned on, the popcorn made a pact that the next group would ensure that none after would go the route of exploding into unprotected starchy balls. In a burst of hot air, white puffs flew out of the kitchen directly at the video unit, through the reprehensible metal trap, until all one hundred and seventy three kernels were tightly packed into the source of their chaotic metamorphosis.
Returning from her room, Sally found the popcorn maker empty so went to the living room where she found her son Jason mesmerized in front of the popcorn-packed Panasonic. Drawing the wrong conclusion, Sally slapped Jason and sent him to bed.
Meanwhile, the popped corn huddled deeper, inadvertently disconnecting two wires, and waited with wide angry mouths for her fingers to enter.
Thank you to the editors of Quick Fiction for first publishing this flash.
Beautiful format, this great publication puts out fantastic flash twice a year: http://www.quickfiction.org/