Charles Pierre | The Red Fox

The Red Fox

 

 

At dusk, in the leafless woods,

where the path drops off

to the harbor’s frozen mouth,

silence seizes me.

 

My eyes, scanning the patches

of muted brown and lavender,

catch the only flash of color

amid the diminished acres.

 

A small streak of fire

hunches and watches me,

then skitters off a bit

to hunch and watch again,

 

and I, stiff with cold,

as still as the dormant

life surrounding me,

in winter’s thinnest light,

 

surrender to the heat

of this odd living hearth —

my throat thawed

against the frigid air.

 

 

This poem originally appeared in the author's poetry collection, Father of Water (2008).

 

 

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Charles Pierre was born in New York City in 1945 and raised in Centerport, New York. He studied at the University of Virginia and worked as a copywriter in Manhattan, where he has lived since 1973. Mr. Pierre is the author of five poetry collections: Green Vistas, Father of Water, Brief Intervals of Harmony, Coastal Moments, and Circle of Time.

John J. Trause | Red

Red                                  Color? Red Orange Green Yellow

San Antonio, as one of the fastest growing cities in the nation, was also experiencing a high rate of homelessness, crime, and degradation, belying the tranquility and ostentation of the tourist trade along the River Walk, a clear separation between the haves and have-nots in close proximity, the former ignoring the latter and the latter trying to gain the attention of the former. Late-stage capitalism was still wreaking havoc in American cities, and San Antonio was not immune. Outside the hotel along the River Walk where my sister, my three-year-old nephew, and I were staying, the bright red sun beat down oppressively, even early one Sunday morning as we strolled the short walk to St. Mary’s Church, a block or two away. As we approached the façade of the church, we saw, there, lounging on the steps, a homeless woman, one of scores of victims of rampant capitalism and social neglect. This poor woman, plump from poor diet, and with brightly but poorly dyed red hair (ketchup as hair dye, and not just a vegetable, as in the Reagan years) was calling out and gesturing to us from a distance while combing her greasy, colored coif. Getting closer, I realized that she, knowing that we were headed to the entrance of the oblivious church, was trying to get my attention and not that of my sister and nephew: “Mister, mister, your fly is open.”

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John J. Trause, Director of Oradell Public Library, is the author of six books of poetry, including Why Sing? (Sensitive Skin Press, 2017) and Seriously Serial (Poets Wear Prada, 2007; rev. ed. 2014), and one of parody, Latter-Day Litany (Éditions élastiques, 1996), the latter staged Off Broadway. His translations, poetry, prose, and artwork appear internationally in many journals and anthologies. Marymark Press has published Trause’s visual poetry and art as broadsides. He is a founder of the William Carlos Williams Poetry Cooperative in Rutherford, New Jersey, and the former host and curator of its monthly reading series.

Thaddeus Rutkowski | Red Sky at Morning

RED SKY AT MORNING

I consider myself lucky

that I don’t have to take warning

on the mornings when, at sunrise,

the high clouds turn pink,

then deepen to red,

covering half the sky.

 

I’m not a sailor,

worried about the weather,

expecting the red clouds to turn

to dark gray clouds that let loose

a flood of rainwater,

tossing my ship at sea.

 

I am just a person looking out my window,

well, not constantly looking,

because that would be boring —

just looking at the sky —

but now and then checking

as the reddening registers in my mind.

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Photo Credit: Jackie Sheeler

Thaddeus Rutkowski is the author of seven books, most recently Tricks of Light, a poetry collection from Fair Weather for Media. He teaches at Medgar Evers College and received a fiction writing fellowship from the New York Foundation for the Arts.

David Huberman | Nighttime Rainbow

Nighttime Rainbow

The night hung thick over the waterfront like dark gray octopus ink. Flying above, even Nosferatu could not penetrate the gloom with his x-ray optics, swooping downwards through the heavens, piercing the oceanic air.

His high-pitched hearing, unique to his kind, detected prey below. Descending almost to the murky saltwater surface, he lashed out lightning quick, and the quarry was caught. The Beast did not struggle. Sometimes the shock alone did them in.

The first bite was always the best. Sinking his teeth into his game, he was shocked to taste so much salt in the blood. What was this being? Was it true what they said? Had Homo sapiens gotten so much heavier due to their bad eating habits?

Never had the night been as shadowy as it was this evening. Witnessing the longest lunar eclipse in a millennium, his curiosity had piqued beyond belief. Flaming like a red-orange meteorite, he landed on a nearby dirty white lighthouse, still grasping his kill. The lights revolved to reveal a large amount of violet blood!

Before he could react, a powerful force had punched him almost through the roof. As the pale alabaster vampire's pallid-yellow eyes took one last look at the living entity that he had caught, his victim had come back to life. Somehow it appeared familiar, somewhere between a humanoid and a giant green lizard. And the Creature from the Black Lagoon plunged them both back under the deep blue sea.

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David Huberman has had work published in Evergreen Review, A Gathering of Tribes, Long Shot, Lungful, Icon, Make Room for Dada, Best of Panic, the anthology The Jewish History of the Lower East Side, The Unbearables, Prometheus, Rant, Pink Pages, and Public Illumination, among many others. He has performed in three plays at La Mama Experimental Theatre Club and also appears as a lead actor in the movie Trail of Blood, 1995, archived in the TCM (Turner Classic Movies) database. Follow this link: http://www.tcm.com/tcmdb/title/517247/Trail-of-Blood/. He reads his work all over New York City and now to a worldwide audience on Zoom.

A recently published short story “Vampires of Pattaya Beach,” a fictional, horror, avant-garde account, can be seen in the selective story anthology 2016–2018 issue of Sensitive Skin.