I could fly
by Cheri Fry
I could fly
if your broken wings were mended
I could smite the spell
that
wracked your body by twists and turns
and laid bare the vision of the shell you have become
it angers me
throws me into the depths of despair
and challenges my spirit
to rise
like a vortex into a
glory light
a wide expanse of sheltered rock
that holds peace
that transcends suffering
and we could fly
if our broken wings were mended
by the tides
of the sea
of life.
Copyright 2005 by Cheri Fry
Reproduction is prohibited without express permission of the author.
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If any healing can come
by Luke Buckham
If any healing can come
from these broken hands,
let it come now, before the eyes
dim on a vacant earth;
strike down the bearer of no faith
after the hands have moved.
After such glory, the bearer of healing
will be forgetful of its source.
If any healing can come from
these broken hands, let the bearer
of healing sleepwalk with the message
all over town in a mask of light, and wake
naked and forgetful of the deed.
Some powers can be better handled unawares.
Copyright 2005 by Luke Buckham .
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The Fairies
by Joneve McCormick
They study with Merlin's coterie
and honor desires as gods
waited on by belief
like their cousins, the angels.
Their early training
still consists of finding such
as place, age and time of day
to be passing fancies
(in short, replaceable).
..
Knowledge keeps them light
and their wings brightly rainbow,
though much they do be hidden,
and they still appear fully-formed
when today's reality experts
go on their paid vacations;
some believe the fairies have migrated,
for security reasons, to other planets
and saucer in too rarely.
Copyright 2005 by Joneve McCormick.
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May River Madness
by Clifford K. Watkins, Jr.
a fire burns between a circle of fiends
bedazzling eyes
descending from a sky of strange stars
the river's mouth gaped
senseless
deranged
rapidly sparks fly
embers lie
and reflections linger unchanged
souls swirling in the night
fools jousting at stars
so wishful
so bright
Copyright 2005 by Clifford K. Watkins, Jr..
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Summer Back Home
by Monica Doorhy
It was one of the few mornings
when the plump hand holding the white-paper flame
convinced the damp peat to catch
and I padded across the cool stone to the kitchen
my aunt's thick back to me
she's like a bell ringing in her drapes of summer dress
and the fat sausages are spitting at her wrist
Padding now back to the bedroom
and the breeze is stirring all the smells together
eggs cracking, dogs barking, sheep are still in the fieds
my uncle with his tweed cap and his straight back
driving the tractor towards the bog
to the old house and its black latchkey
to purple frogs and rotted logs
which he doesn't notice, it's another day
and I curl up under the eiderdown
and close my eyes to my mother's breath
sleep comes here like a happy death
thinking of the wildflower day ahead
a trip with Eilee to the butcher shop
on our way back
a rolling wet stroll through the bog
dinner and giving my pork chop to Shep
later in the evening, burying my smile in his fur
which was still soft then
before I lay down under the covers alone
and darkness lays down on my eiderdown spread
Copyright 2005 by Monica Doorhy.
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The Forgotten
by Damion Hamilton
Time takes white-hot space out of flesh and youth
And one is left stranded on platforms and harbors,
Waiting for the nebulous of things to come
To sit forlorn underneath a brooding moon
And the majestic, indifferent juries of stars
To hear the horny, mournful wails of the cats of night
Feline hair and air, returning like an old friend
This drought of space, hovering one
As ominous as a plague
As one hope for a future which is shiny and new
While the past brings on ulcers and cloudy dreams
Away and away this electric pain
Away and away, palm on chin… trying to figure things out
This waiting, piled on waiting
Copyright 2005 by Damion Hamilton.
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Last of the Spray Carnations
by Alan Morrison
That day, stamped through a haze,
a nervy bleach, blurred photograph
exposed before developing
like a crippled Spartan baby;
a saffron-starched, sun-blanched album
family image, except it wasn't
my family I mingled with, but a stunned
white drift of sun-paled faces probing
lychee-eyes into market bargains.
As if I looked at this bustling rock-pool
speculum of life through frosted glass
or a thick honey-coloured vase.
I tripped on, lost to the fogged outside
of myself, part-deaf to the touting shouts
of the cod-eyed fishmonger, the sun-flushed
apple-shaped pink lady, lamb-shouldered
butcher with a scrag-end face, his
white coat reeking of bloody meat.
Everything, poetic and pathetic
at once, in a burst of cheap-side sunlight
scooping a pool on the scene.
Even the vivid spoils of the Florists
appeared pitiful: a cluster of pink
and white spray carnations,
green on the edges of thirsty petals
poking from a bucket; a bunch
of scrunched-up tissues saturated
with tears of mustard sun.
Copyright 2005 by Alan Morrison.
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Letter to the Editor: Cherie Staples (skyearth1@aol.com).