tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-22968861115000632452024-03-14T01:35:45.702-07:00The Rainbow ProjectA Literary Place of Sanctuary from These Trying Times ROXANNE HOFFMANhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01692002974827319982noreply@blogger.comBlogger98125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2296886111500063245.post-79655401498317697842024-03-03T11:38:00.000-08:002024-03-03T11:50:21.880-08:00Amy Barone | Two Purple Poems<style type="text/css">
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<h2>Purple</h2>
<p class="line"> </p><p class="line">
Like a desert flower,</p><p class="line">
they surprise, pop up</p><p class="line">
on islands of late winter mud.</p><p class="line">
</p><p class="line"> </p><p class="line">
Burst through bare patches of grass.</p><p class="line">
Symbols of royalty and pride.</p><p class="line">
Crocuses robed in purple with yellow tongues.</p><p class="line">
</p><p class="line"> </p><p class="line">
Hungry for a new season.</p><p class="line">
My company on a sunny March day</p><p class="line">
as the days stretch out.</p><p class="line">
</p><p class="line"> </p><p class="line">
All in wait for more color, light, life.</p><p class="line">
Easing our loads. The promise of green.</p><p class="line">
A time of hope.</p><p class="line">
</p><p class="line"> </p><p class="line">
</p><p class="line"> </p><p class="line">
______________________________<br /><br />
</p><p class="line"> </p><p class="line">
</p><h2>Hyacinth</h2>
<p class="line"> </p><p class="line">
</p><p class="line" nbsp="" p=""></p><p class="line">
A scent sends me back —</p><p class="line">
where spring was a destination.</p><p class="line">
</p><p class="line"> </p><p class="line">
Nature nurtured. Violet flowers</p><p class="line">
emerged in a secret spot,</p><p class="line">
trumpets of sweet perfume.</p><p class="line">
</p><p class="line"> </p><p class="line">
Today I placed a potted hyacinth</p><p class="line">
on the grave of loved ones</p><p class="line">
who tended gardens.</p><p class="line">
</p><p class="line"> </p><p class="line">
</p><p class="line"> </p><p class="line">
</p>
______________________________<br /><br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justified;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMqo_VTJnuR4vLkT7hmlNwXd08ZjxnSs8JoWRItg56hewYp9Dts21f5KXyn1l7-uE6KE1BTZog5zsFLRoA_iazelLKh8MLJWDSHXLijV-of-tIoE6xKP_Pey0lfz2E33100RoLzt20WYw/s2048/Amy+Barone+%25285%2529.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1365" height="256" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMqo_VTJnuR4vLkT7hmlNwXd08ZjxnSs8JoWRItg56hewYp9Dts21f5KXyn1l7-uE6KE1BTZog5zsFLRoA_iazelLKh8MLJWDSHXLijV-of-tIoE6xKP_Pey0lfz2E33100RoLzt20WYw/w170-h256/Amy+Barone+%25285%2529.jpg" width="170" /></a></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><b>Amy Barone</b>’s most recent full-length poetry collection, <i>Defying Extinction</i>, was published by Broadstone Books in 2022. SPD recognized it as a Poetry Bestseller of the Month (July 2022) and an SPD Recommended Book. <i>We Became Summer</i> was released by New York Quarterly Books in 2018. Barone has also published two chapbooks, <i>Kamikaze Dance</i> (Finishing Line Press) and <i>Views from the Driveway</i> (Foothills Publishing). Her poems have appeared in <i>Muddy River Poetry Review</i>, <i>New Verse News</i>, <i>The Ocotillo Review</i>, <i>Paterson Literary Review</i> and several Brownstone Poets anthologies. She belongs to the Brevitas online poetry community. Originally from Bryn Mawr, Pennsylvania, she currently lives in New York City and Haverford, PA. Follow her on Twitter where her handle is @AmyBBarone.</div>ROXANNE HOFFMANhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01692002974827319982noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2296886111500063245.post-75312389924691261602024-02-05T14:11:00.000-08:002024-02-05T14:11:48.866-08:00Belle Koblentz | Astra Fantasy<style>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhrfinhtJOgSY_GV0x_XWX4w3bgjoA5kCZ0oKKbFkeNs0dJut3LrH2zPp2vqEh_QCke6JVULBgJGyehQLrayyQdLbopkRVwai88Nm3vgLrLk2l_r7Ue_iBam6PUNPTPBLOZVvRovUjTgC7HBbKA776XwBm2472f40S2SrxQevVR2OUz5OhbDNdFh1vE6TE/s3000/81E6BCEE-F15A-468C-812E-01476BE921DA.jpeg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3000" data-original-width="3000" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhrfinhtJOgSY_GV0x_XWX4w3bgjoA5kCZ0oKKbFkeNs0dJut3LrH2zPp2vqEh_QCke6JVULBgJGyehQLrayyQdLbopkRVwai88Nm3vgLrLk2l_r7Ue_iBam6PUNPTPBLOZVvRovUjTgC7HBbKA776XwBm2472f40S2SrxQevVR2OUz5OhbDNdFh1vE6TE/w400-h400/81E6BCEE-F15A-468C-812E-01476BE921DA.jpeg" width="400" /></span></a></td></tr></tbody></table><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><b>Belle Koblentz: <i>Astra Fantasy</i></b></span></div><br />
<div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="text-align: left;">Once, I was a painter, a colorist. Today, I am a photographer, a digital artist, who approaches the photo image from a painter's perspective and with a painter's vocabulary. Color is still foremost in my consideration of the elements of a piece. Nature is my muse. I transform my original photo, pushing saturation, hue, value and contrast, to abstract it from a photographic reality to a painterly space.</span></span></div>
<div>
<br />
______________________________</div><div><br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhFc_c4vde1916WZDUzVWq9yPl_1SNVr90supWVsvf2beKuFB4KotqH6HFfmtLQxN6LKVuW7AAstjLKNsTNRtSOrzAyTJO7PjeSFYvl82RKfD7VRFGBJbF3B0U-7VpFXu6HzdP-17kdHx6XTTx45JoTFrWXYD9is1_5Uyedw666DNWNP5yKHCj3qaOQ=s605"><img alt="Belle Koblentz" border="0" class="no-click-no-cursor" data-original-height="605" data-original-width="554" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhFc_c4vde1916WZDUzVWq9yPl_1SNVr90supWVsvf2beKuFB4KotqH6HFfmtLQxN6LKVuW7AAstjLKNsTNRtSOrzAyTJO7PjeSFYvl82RKfD7VRFGBJbF3B0U-7VpFXu6HzdP-17kdHx6XTTx45JoTFrWXYD9is1_5Uyedw666DNWNP5yKHCj3qaOQ=w293-h320" title="Belle Koblentz" width="293" /></a></div><br /><br /></div>
<b>Belle Koblentz</b> is a New Jersey artist living in Colts Neck and a member of the Art Alliance of Monmouth County. She received her BA in Visual Arts and an MA in Aesthetics from the University of Texas at Dallas.ROXANNE HOFFMANhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01692002974827319982noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2296886111500063245.post-58500075221812950232024-01-16T10:37:00.000-08:002024-01-16T10:37:40.458-08:00Charles Pierre | Early April Violet
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<h2>Early April Violet</h2>
<p class="line"> </p><p class="line">
</p><p class="line"> </p><p class="line">
An ordinary shift in the chilly wind</p><p class="line">
brings this seed to sprout amid braided debris,</p><p class="line">
just above the high-water line on a beach,</p><p class="line">
where the Nissequogue River enters the Sound.</p><p class="line">
All one can see are five frail petals</p><p class="line">
on a slender stem, with no visible leaves</p><p class="line">
to cushion them in such a punishing place,</p><p class="line">
where the life of a being so small is gauged</p><p class="line">
in days, and the thin light of early April</p><p class="line">
is the only tenderness this flower will sense,</p><p class="line">
exposed on a raft of dead grasses and reeds,</p><p class="line">
bent by onshore gusts as the new moon ascends,</p><p class="line">
when a spring tide floats the violet to sea.</p><p class="line"></p>
<p class="line"> </p>
<p class="line"> </p>
<div style="font-family: "times new roman", serif;">
<span style="color: #666666; font-size: small;">This poem originally appeared in the author's poetry collection, <i>Father of Water</i> (2008).</span></div>
<p class="line"> </p>
<p class="line"> </p>
<p>_________________________________</p><br /><br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibAhfEIwBs15u0AuoLohUCvzd-F08aohiNPr6RkjSoSe4oHVxHwtZsscDRaC0zGs0MfG-sHH6s6ZyvfcNXyt-WVN555O5J7FyB-LBXLCwv3ZWsXUMv9CULTUjqeMhfiZTnS1y2wQD4mlI/s1600/Charles+Pierre.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1122" data-original-width="1600" height="140" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibAhfEIwBs15u0AuoLohUCvzd-F08aohiNPr6RkjSoSe4oHVxHwtZsscDRaC0zGs0MfG-sHH6s6ZyvfcNXyt-WVN555O5J7FyB-LBXLCwv3ZWsXUMv9CULTUjqeMhfiZTnS1y2wQD4mlI/s200/Charles+Pierre.jpg" width="200" /></a><b>Charles Pierre</b> 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: <i>Green Vistas</i>, <i>Father of Water</i>, <i>Brief Intervals of Harmony</i>, <i>Coastal Moments</i>, and <i>Circle of Time</i>.ROXANNE HOFFMANhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01692002974827319982noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2296886111500063245.post-67426526361788860192024-01-15T14:42:00.000-08:002024-01-15T14:45:57.652-08:00Chris O’Carroll | Rose of Sharon<style type="text/css">
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<h2>Rose of Sharon</h2>
<p class="line"> </p>
<p class="line">
Last week, you held one debut bloom aloft,</p>
<p class="line">
High harbinger of this outburst, this spree</p>
<p class="line">
Of petals tissue-flimsy, whisper-soft</p>
<p class="line">
Bowing you low with multiplicity.</p>
<p class="line">
Pale lavender around deep Concord grape,</p>
<p class="line">
These flowers pregnantly proliferate;</p>
<p class="line">
Their color scheme now bulks and droops your shape</p>
<p class="line">
As each brief blossom trumpets news of weight.</p>
<p class="line">
They furl at night and drop off soon enough,</p>
<p class="line">
Then you renew them day by spendthrift day,</p>
<p class="line">
Each with a core white spike of lacy fluff</p>
<p class="line">
Adding its lusty thrust to their display</p>
<p class="line">
Shouldering this mad splurge of fancy dress,</p>
<p class="line">
You curtsy to your own effusiveness.</p>
<p class="line"></p>
<p><class line=""> </class></p>
<br />
<br />__________________________________<br /><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2vu6AZS3kJTdyyIVpEzayG18NS5LVOI9paXtwfjsNrF-j84KUUCDNoy00WzWF3ekZZuvVWPtk84cdMRpexqtPfF7jEW2GpcPMcN3QX0fT7Qe4NuhJnt-dCfSKHLeU-i997kBfTVcqBpODmza8fp9LUcRI67IFfzZwh9J4JVRQE-8E6oZUhVtAl-r9F7E/s1024/D7E5F7E5-F2F0-4D75-9F62-C22C885ECC81.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1024" data-original-width="680" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2vu6AZS3kJTdyyIVpEzayG18NS5LVOI9paXtwfjsNrF-j84KUUCDNoy00WzWF3ekZZuvVWPtk84cdMRpexqtPfF7jEW2GpcPMcN3QX0fT7Qe4NuhJnt-dCfSKHLeU-i997kBfTVcqBpODmza8fp9LUcRI67IFfzZwh9J4JVRQE-8E6oZUhVtAl-r9F7E/s320/D7E5F7E5-F2F0-4D75-9F62-C22C885ECC81.jpeg" width="213" /></a></div><br />
<b>Chris O’Carroll</b> is the author of two books of poems, <i>The Joke’s on Me</i> and <i>Abracadabratude</i>. His work also appears in <i>An Amaranthine Summer</i> (published in memory of Kim Bridgford), <i>Extreme Sonnets</i>, <i>Love Affairs at the Villa Nelle</i>, <i>New York City Haiku</i>, <i>The Great American Wise Ass Poetry Anthology</i>, and multiple volumes of the Potcake Chapbooks series. He is a member of Actor’s Equity, and has performed widely as a stand-up comedian.ROXANNE HOFFMANhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01692002974827319982noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2296886111500063245.post-59426865533070996472023-12-04T02:14:00.000-08:002023-12-05T13:17:00.727-08:00Sarah Sarai | Low Life, Malibu<style type="text/css">
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<div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXCk4Pxx0ZbBCRcO-n76P1sT1DyHdYTyeuUxe9evRdgHIt8CvY8M5pi02itHSGnz9v0lzPiqKX-r2F3tdduLciml2zvxNH6-EDkiP7AMGd_gd0h0u-btYFUeq-FiFCNOQ9MHoHhtstjnAuUOmERroVRK-235L7I8_Oky3iWIiGHBVSmA/s1600/D85DD423-0235-4F0E-9359-E4011355DC1F.jpeg" style="display: block; padding: 1em 0px; text-align: center;"><img alt="" border="0" data-original-height="728" data-original-width="558" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhkkW8U9SsFarH-IYOZY3Q5vW2yx_KCXyx5pNTdcsL3I0Zhph_ngY9CMJb0bTMzL_5ldzr4ESC0sADmrqGCAu4Ek9mDJ-TIkfL1SKcqb_bV0_rhrHSI3yHJOkz1MwPUbX6qfi-XU7dTdMkign481sydtOqrFParXFWj1A2Uwj6UFEX8SUC9b3bYcZoK_24/s1600/9FE8E974-AE91-4FB7-8594-CE821C4C2058.jpeg" /></a></div>
<h2>Low Life, Malibu</h2>
<p class="line"> </p>
<p class="line">
Buoyant and so damn blasé about it,</p>
<p class="line">
the ducks are all <i>You looking at me?</i></p>
<p class="line"><i>
I can float, sucker.</i></p>
<p class="line">
</p>
<p class="line">
While those puffed-up fighter pilot</p>
<p class="line">
gulls straight up sneer, <i>Haw! Haw!</i></p>
<p class="line"><i>
fools, we’re slumming it.</i></p>
<p class="line">
</p>
<p class="line">
Unhinged as their jaws, they swoop in</p>
<p class="line">
on darting fish close to the surface,</p>
<p class="line">
then circle our scraps for dessert.</p>
<p class="line">
</p>
<p class="line">
You and me, slouched on wet sand, we</p>
<p class="line">
feel the day’s chill as a flesh-crawling</p>
<p class="line">
parasite. We consider following</p>
<p class="line">
</p>
<p class="line">
the sun as she shimmies down,</p>
<p class="line">
searching new and newer horizons,</p>
<p class="line">
and each time, we invite her to join us,</p>
<p class="line">
</p>
<p class="line">
up the highway, in a cracked red-</p>
<p class="line">
leather booth shaped like a crescent moon.</p>
<p class="line">
She might want to but never shows.</p>
<p class="line">
</p>
<p class="line">
We’re not big on duty, but we get it.</p>
<p class="line">
We have us one responsible sun.</p>
<p class="line">
The <i>I’m-all-that flighty</i> couldn’t care less.</p>
<p class="line">
</p>
<p class="line">
</p><br />
<b><span style="font-size: x-small;">Previously published in <i>Pine Hills Review</i>, August 2, 2023.</span></b><p><class line=""> </class></p>
<br />
<br />__________________________________<br /><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjAbS_Cmkhrz0IRjNlva8LMEIi8FbEaw47iJLHGcaxa1OqXhN5mNWhRtUfgctObMvlG9xr-JDq_QQBAqw_zrK8Vvou0xbgit-SZK_JiPR9RlvaaE_yfrf91FHbPfyqCPO98MbHZC_1ml5FncPvAe5PGI7Xuue4dVmGffWfsIwNeREAO6r_HhGO3VykIcCg/s1863/DB9D9EB7-66ED-4F3F-BBA3-7F6E313204E4.jpeg" style="display: block; padding: 1em 0px; text-align: center;"><img alt="" border="0" data-original-height="1687" data-original-width="1863" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjAbS_Cmkhrz0IRjNlva8LMEIi8FbEaw47iJLHGcaxa1OqXhN5mNWhRtUfgctObMvlG9xr-JDq_QQBAqw_zrK8Vvou0xbgit-SZK_JiPR9RlvaaE_yfrf91FHbPfyqCPO98MbHZC_1ml5FncPvAe5PGI7Xuue4dVmGffWfsIwNeREAO6r_HhGO3VykIcCg/s320/DB9D9EB7-66ED-4F3F-BBA3-7F6E313204E4.jpeg" width="320" /></a></div><b><br /></b><div style="text-align: justify;"><b>Sarah Sarai </b>is the author of several poetry collections including <i>That Strapless Bra in Heaven</i> (Kelsay Books, 2019); <i>Geographies of Soul and Taffeta</i> (Indolent Books, 2016); and <i>The Future Is Happy</i> (BlazeVOX Books, 2009). Her poems are widely anthologized, most notably in Gerald LaFemina’s<i> Composing Poetry, a Guide to Writing Poems and Thinking Lyrically</i> (Kendall Hunt Publishing, 2016); <i>Like a Fat Gold Watch: Poetic Responses to Sylvia Plath</i> edited by Christine Hamm
(Fat Gold Watch Press, Brooklyn, 2018)
and <i>Say It Loud: Poems About James Brown</i> edited by Michael Oatman and Mary Weems (Whirlwind Press, 2011). A native New Yorker, born in Long Island, she grew up in Los Angeles, returning to attend Sarah Lawrence where she earned her MFA. She currently lives in the big city and works as an independent editor. </div><p></p>ROXANNE HOFFMANhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01692002974827319982noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2296886111500063245.post-64366107684125236372023-12-01T00:27:00.000-08:002023-12-01T07:04:00.777-08:00Bruce E. Whitacre | The Foldout Couch<style type="text/css">
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</style> <table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgnEZnFGhes6FfmTtAsiq4HZTkapvmA-cvRG4gxWftgZ2OL0VZx-QMzaGSI7YswIdoEZrFB-K9I3TOXJIrywlAqEV9Mh_a14fuCgxhnW8LChFl8HuxqljzuSORLdN6bmzsXPHTahuq-Bth4pFo4C_3DQSmzGWF3DAmrnVJlBCUqkEJmnx9AfctkwWK9s14/s750/7146E313-4288-4DEC-B889-DF517562FD77.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="750" data-original-width="750" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgnEZnFGhes6FfmTtAsiq4HZTkapvmA-cvRG4gxWftgZ2OL0VZx-QMzaGSI7YswIdoEZrFB-K9I3TOXJIrywlAqEV9Mh_a14fuCgxhnW8LChFl8HuxqljzuSORLdN6bmzsXPHTahuq-Bth4pFo4C_3DQSmzGWF3DAmrnVJlBCUqkEJmnx9AfctkwWK9s14/w400-h400/7146E313-4288-4DEC-B889-DF517562FD77.jpeg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Jesalah Love Art Neon Sign<br />After Keith Haring</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><br />
<h2>The Foldout Couch</h2>
<p class="line"> </p>
<p class="line">
His force thumps the entire divan</p>
<p class="line">
against the renter-white wall,</p>
<p class="line">
adding to the small dents.</p>
<p class="line">
These are the good years.</p>
<p class="line">
Galaxies revolve like the club door, powered</p>
<p class="line">
by magnetism and mystery.</p>
<p class="line">
Tossing cushions is foreplay,</p>
<p class="line">
though sometimes here the fizz goes flat.</p>
<p class="line">
A bicep in the red lava light,</p>
<p class="line">
an ass in the veil of blue smoke, its globes</p>
<p class="line">
green glitter-strewn and sweating. Heaving</p>
<p class="line">
planets and stars call</p>
<p class="line">
to the white light between the eyes,</p>
<p class="line">
the fire in the throat</p>
<p class="line">
as you take all he’s got.</p>
<p class="line">
The collapse, the caress, the clip</p>
<p class="line">
of the spring through the mattress.</p>
<p class="line">
Another notch in the floor.</p>
<p class="line">
Counting down the security deposit.</p>
<p class="line">
</p><p class="line"> </p>
<b><span style="font-size: x-small;">Previously published in <i>RFD</i>, Issue 190, Summer 2022, pp 55-57, with other poems from Whitacre’s forthcoming <i>Good Housekeeping</i>.</span></b><p class="line"> </p>
_____________________________<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgx7q2Md5r1pKX8jcXd4AIelD-tu3w86-hRhwdy2UzRLPkTQhpMSDb22ppcLxmwuvZuqBXK6rBlX2L2K9eGcsRY4BcnFMJW8zQCWOUKBGv6AlrNPelzsMyre3IbMugDX9F115inN6hLR0nHu0w2RPYMWNfD4GMK1F3Vp7A5lTqlVIjVveEGT0GIWI25jrA/s1636/ECD83379-A07B-48DE-A7F1-1F8DB01DBB8C.jpeg" style="display: block; padding: 1em 0px; text-align: center;"><img alt="" border="0" data-original-height="1636" data-original-width="1263" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgx7q2Md5r1pKX8jcXd4AIelD-tu3w86-hRhwdy2UzRLPkTQhpMSDb22ppcLxmwuvZuqBXK6rBlX2L2K9eGcsRY4BcnFMJW8zQCWOUKBGv6AlrNPelzsMyre3IbMugDX9F115inN6hLR0nHu0w2RPYMWNfD4GMK1F3Vp7A5lTqlVIjVveEGT0GIWI25jrA/s320/ECD83379-A07B-48DE-A7F1-1F8DB01DBB8C.jpeg" /></a></div>
<b>
Bruce E. Whitacre</b>’s recent publications include his debut poetry collection, <i>The Elk in the Glade: The World of Pioneer and Painter Jennie Hicks</i> (Crown Rock Media, 2022); <i>Sky Island Journal</i>; <i>Poetry X Hunger</i>; <i>Dear Booze</i>; Diane Lockward’s third volume on craft, <i>The Strategic Poet</i>; and the 2022 anthology <i>I Want to Be Loved by You: Poems on Marilyn Monroe</i>. Work here was nominated for Sundress Publications’ 2020 Best of the Net Anthology and the 2024 Pushcart Prize. A featured poetry reader at the Forest Hills Public Library, he has read his work at Poets House, the Zen Mountain Monastery Buddhist Poetry Festival, Kew Willow Books, Lunar Walk, and other venues. He holds an MFA in Dramatic Writing from NYU’s Tisch School of the Arts and has completed master workshops with Jericho Brown, Alex Dimitrov, Rowan Ricardo Phillips, and Mark Wunderlich. Bruce is a native of Nebraska and lives in Forest Hills, Queens, with his husband. <p></p>ROXANNE HOFFMANhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01692002974827319982noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2296886111500063245.post-46513888101988445392023-11-29T21:48:00.000-08:002023-11-30T23:15:24.197-08:00Patricia Carragon | Wild Is the Wind<style type="text/css">
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgO-fhZBhLTIGuiraNZ3fcvu_HYbyVcK3xq4YABTcKLG9bjAZ5mSWhwBXTj9ZDW_FPedlsxmyEYI9b-ktnWuw0RGBW3VsRTzFW0Lq2p3LG0O_ZHaUPd3Xg9xxikKlP0CnqesDQvyUHZ883-fE0bHc7U2sJBFpQ6R9xiKP_dUvsQiKPVXdn-iEciamAweJc/s2048/68D9A478-4AB1-4C46-A972-E9706F2CD07D.jpeg" style="display: block; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; padding: 1em 0px; text-align: center;"><img alt="" border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgO-fhZBhLTIGuiraNZ3fcvu_HYbyVcK3xq4YABTcKLG9bjAZ5mSWhwBXTj9ZDW_FPedlsxmyEYI9b-ktnWuw0RGBW3VsRTzFW0Lq2p3LG0O_ZHaUPd3Xg9xxikKlP0CnqesDQvyUHZ883-fE0bHc7U2sJBFpQ6R9xiKP_dUvsQiKPVXdn-iEciamAweJc/s400/68D9A478-4AB1-4C46-A972-E9706F2CD07D.jpeg" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">photo credit: Roxanne Hoffman </td></tr></tbody></table>
<h2><br /></h2><h2>Wild Is the Wind</h2>
<h3>(sung by Nina Simone)</h3>
<p class="line"> </p>
<p class="line">
do you hear the wind?</p>
<p class="line"></p>
see that scarlet leaf</p>
<p class="line">
dance on concrete?
</p><p class="line"> </p>
I am that wind<p></p>
<p class="line">
I am that leaf</p>
<p class="line">
I am that dance
</p><p class="line"> </p>
in the distance<p></p>
<p class="line">
Ms. Simone sings about</p>
<p class="line">
spring & kisses</p>
<p class="line">
</p><p class="line"> </p>
in a dervish trance<p></p>
<p class="line">
you cling to that leaf</p>
<p class="line">
embrace the wind
</p><p class="line"> </p>
the wind is wild<p></p>
<p class="line">
and logic & fear surrender</p>
<p class="line">
to oneness</p>
<p class="line">
</p><p class="line"> </p>
the wind is love<p></p>
<p class="line">
and love is the light</p>
<p class="line">
that has no end</p>
<p class="line"> </p>
<p class="line"> </p>
<b><span style="font-size: x-small;">Published in <i>Jerry Jazz Musician</i>, February 17, 2022</span></b>
<p class="line">
</p>
<br />
<div><br />__________________________________<br /><br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUAkV-EHkaJff6i1AaCzEM8KJzPRi4hbdM2MsBJFyOQG30ktXbCzazX5hHuSV4nUsqhFmCJ0FdJ_TYvKM__WzZynfhgfPg4RQDdbV6ALTGgcASIoozy_SdYTuijgVKqLJVpqDXdkjKJcM/s1600/patricia+carragon+2020.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="960" data-original-width="720" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUAkV-EHkaJff6i1AaCzEM8KJzPRi4hbdM2MsBJFyOQG30ktXbCzazX5hHuSV4nUsqhFmCJ0FdJ_TYvKM__WzZynfhgfPg4RQDdbV6ALTGgcASIoozy_SdYTuijgVKqLJVpqDXdkjKJcM/s200/patricia+carragon+2020.jpg" width="150" /></a></div><b>Patricia Carragon</b> is the author of several books of poetry and fiction. Her most recent poetry collections are <i>Meowku</i> (Poets Wear Prada) and <i>Innocence</i> (Finishing Line Press). Her debut novel, <i>Angel Fire</i>, was recently released by Alien Buddha Press. Patricia hosts the Brownstone Poets reading series from Brooklyn on Zoom and publishes an associated anthology annually.<br />
<br /></div>ROXANNE HOFFMANhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01692002974827319982noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2296886111500063245.post-49103818684858632742023-11-29T17:09:00.000-08:002023-12-04T10:06:24.465-08:00Don Hogle | Red Geraniums<style type="text/css">
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhyJLkeHWOVxcXxlXopRvTtONQ5Ro0ZwefotS8K6Udjou0j1fz-Z75se7bjmvqcrlNZR4NxV_Z_e8pNLhApmylI18pOAUGqf-7KeDUSi9In_aaD1DhVRbMpX0T6rb_N2bbyJIBovRFe986wjjEKCdUYom9b2NY0-eNteSxA7QxGJPjhKglAnJY0YaAiHrk/s640/IMG_1752%20copy.jpeg" style="display: block; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; padding: 1em 0px; text-align: center;"><img alt="photo credit: Don Hogle" border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="480" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhyJLkeHWOVxcXxlXopRvTtONQ5Ro0ZwefotS8K6Udjou0j1fz-Z75se7bjmvqcrlNZR4NxV_Z_e8pNLhApmylI18pOAUGqf-7KeDUSi9In_aaD1DhVRbMpX0T6rb_N2bbyJIBovRFe986wjjEKCdUYom9b2NY0-eNteSxA7QxGJPjhKglAnJY0YaAiHrk/w300-h400/IMG_1752%20copy.jpeg" title="photo credit: Don Hogle" width="300" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: xx-small;"><b>photo credit: Don Hogle</b></span></td></tr></tbody></table>
<h2>Red Geraniums</h2>
<p class="line"> </p>
Was it on the ferry to Mount Athos
<p class="line">
that the spring sun felt hot on my face,</p>
<p class="line">
the wind still cold on the back of my neck?</p>
<p class="line">
A priest with a black hat and straggly beard</p>
<p class="line">
snoozed next to me. Gulls flew alongside,</p>
<p class="line">
catching pieces of bread thrown to them,</p>
<p class="line">
their bodies unnaturally close to us.</p>
<p class="line"> </p>
Or was it in Budva, beneath the sign that read
<p class="line">
<i>Sailor</i>, where someone took my picture?</p>
<p class="line">
Wearing my aviator Ray-Bans, arms folded</p>
<p class="line">
across my chest, I looked comically resolute.</p>
<p class="line"> </p>
No, it must have been in Kotor
<p class="line">
with its trumpet blasts of red geraniums. Yes,</p>
<p class="line">
I sat in the warm sun, the air cool on my neck;</p>
<p class="line">
the flowers spilling from the window boxes</p>
<p class="line">
were so bright, I said, <i>Yes, run me through</i></p>
<p class="line">
<i>with your unrepentant red, for I have no desire</i></p>
<p class="line">
<i>to ever leave here.</i></p>
<p class="line"> </p>
<p class="line"> </p>
<b><span style="font-size: x-small;">Published in <i>Artemis</i>, Volume XXX, 2023</span></b>
<p class="line">
</p>
<br />
_______________________________<br />
<div>
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhh3r5IHkraV2MWA0BqgkUr8dgsRCtDtjJsC-7OArvEUap8W1o0EY71gtKgfK3yfC5oU6nB7hirt4Pv3RH3a7Qhg5gNKDmunMkMVCjizdLJbMBrE_xZlxI9Zf2kt7Ty_jwSIRkiF7ycm5q4v516lb0NPp8qTXaCfLlGJ1s_-nqUm1YyN5j6rHnJOedvPcY/s798/_Photo%20Don%20Hogle.png" style="display: block; padding: 1em 0px; text-align: center;"><img alt="" border="0" data-original-height="798" data-original-width="623" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhh3r5IHkraV2MWA0BqgkUr8dgsRCtDtjJsC-7OArvEUap8W1o0EY71gtKgfK3yfC5oU6nB7hirt4Pv3RH3a7Qhg5gNKDmunMkMVCjizdLJbMBrE_xZlxI9Zf2kt7Ty_jwSIRkiF7ycm5q4v516lb0NPp8qTXaCfLlGJ1s_-nqUm1YyN5j6rHnJOedvPcY/w250-h320/_Photo%20Don%20Hogle.png" width="250" /></a></div>
<div>
A lifelong student of languages and an avid traveler (to some 40 odd countries), Don Hogle blogs at <i><a href="https://dhogle.wordpress.com/">Postcards from a Traveler</a></i>. Hogle is also the author of two poetry collections, a chapbook titled <i>Madagascar</i>, published by Sevens Kitchens Press in 2020, and a full-length book, <i>Huddled in the Night Sky</i>, forthcoming from Poets Wear Prada, fall of 2024. His poetry has appeared in <i>Apalachee Review</i>, <i>The Carolina Quarterly</i>, <i>Hayden’s Ferry</i>, <i>Full Bleed</i>, and <i>The Inquisitive Eater</i>, among other places. He was a finalist for both <i>The Missouri Review</i>’s 2021 Jeffrey Smith Editors’ Prize and Green Linden Press’ 2021 Wishing Jewel Prize, and a semi-finalist for <i>Naugutuck River Review</i>’s 2021 Narrative Poetry Prize. He lives happily in Manhattan without pets, children, or spouses of any gender or species.
</div>ROXANNE HOFFMANhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01692002974827319982noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2296886111500063245.post-42217647336384498782023-04-03T23:29:00.005-07:002023-04-04T11:30:26.686-07:00Rhonda Zangwill | Fever
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<br />
<center><h2>Fever</h2></center>
<br />
<iframe width="560" height="315" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/REryc1TpeY8" title="YouTube video player" frameborder="0" allow="accelerometer; autoplay; clipboard-write; encrypted-media; gyroscope; picture-in-picture; web-share" allowfullscreen></iframe>
<br />
<br />
<p class="opening"><span class="class_sb4">I </span><span class="just">was fourteen when my best friend Kyra’s mother died. At the funeral there were flyers on the seats with a black and white photo. Underneath it said:</span></p>
<center><span style="font-size: small;">In Loving Memory </span><div><span style="font-size: small;">Jayne Marciella </span></div><div><span style="font-size: small;">1925-1970</span></div></center>
<p class="indent">That picture, it was all wrong. It made her look like a housewife, and I never once saw her do a dish. She was in a shiny dark reddish casket with gold handles. The top half was open, and I was thinking how glad Kyra would be that her mother didn’t look like that stupid photo. She looked beautiful. Exactly like she did when she napped in the afternoon. That nap was necessary, so Kyra’s mother would be fresh before she primped for cocktail hour at 5:30.</p>
<p class="indent">Me and Kyra got to sit on the two matching chairs that flanked her vanity table while she primped. Kyra’s mother always wore a full slip that was, she said, a little snug. She never let us turn on the overheads. She had two lamps that cast a patchwork of light and shadow. “This,” Kyra’s mother said, was the preferred environment for grown-up women. In the half dark, her skin looked translucent. Blue-gray veins covered her forearms like an intricate weaving, all pointing toward her pulse points. She always talked about pulse points, where they were, how they worked. She favored those on her neck above the collarbone. That was where the essence of scent was best released and appreciated. Kyra and I agreed that her mother did have a very nice collarbone.</p>
<p class="indent">Kyra’s mother always carefully prepared her “ensemble du soir.” That’s French, she told us, for the evening’s outfit. I already knew that from my French class. “Many parts go into a successful ensemble,” she said. I learned that these parts didn’t have to match, they just had to blend well, like the different flavors in her imported cigarettes. So, it was perfectly acceptable to wear the pink silk sleeveless shell with the rose colored skirt and top it with a blood-red bolero jacket with a delicate magenta scarf at the throat. “It’s all in the same family” she would say, “just like me and Kyra. Look how different we are, but we mix together so well. Besides, it’s deadly to sing a single note all the time. I am a symphony of reds.” And I had to admit that she was, especially if you counted her lips (sienna) and nails, painted in super high gloss pomegranate.</p>
<p class="indent">The best part of primping was when Kyra’s mother chose her shoes. They were arranged by color, season, material, purpose, heel height and age. When she was her red symphony, she could select the wine-colored satin sling-backs, open-toed leather mid-heeled pumps (although they were fraying at the back), high-heeled maroon sandals with the skinny ankle strap, flat cherry skimmers or five-inch spike heels in mirror-shiny fire engine red. She wobbled in these even before cocktail hour started, but so did me and Kyra whenever we tried them on.</p>
<center>* * *</center>
<p class="indent">I couldn’t tell if Kyra’s mother had shoes on because that part of the casket was closed. I really hoped she was wearing the specially-dyed-to-match shoes she always wore with the dress she was in, the one that has the 23 mother-of-pearl buttons up the back. Shoes, she said, were the piece de resistance for any ensemble.</p>
<center>* * *</center>
<p class="indent">Our job, Kyra’s and mine, was to prep for cocktail hour – strainers, straws, crushed ice, the little lemon twists and olives we put in a shallow bowl. We lined up all the glassware. Tumblers, flutes, snifters, and of course, martini glasses that we took out last since they had to be chilled properly, or you would ruin the whole thing. Sometimes we cut up little cubes of cheese and stuck red and blue plastic imitation sword toothpicks right in the center of each one and put them in a semicircle on the wooden board, surrounding the Ritz Crackers that we arranged in short stacks.</p>
<p class="indent">I always thought there would be other people at cocktail hour but there never were. Kyra and I had cokes with a lime garnish, or sometimes orange juice with a splash of grenadine. Kyra’s mother drank scotch-on-the-rocks. She always sat on the high-backed stool near the counter. It had long skinny wrought iron legs that ended in little circle feet and a shiny wicker seat and back. Kyra’s mother would line herself up with the stool and, depending on the size of her heels, either just lift her hip slightly and edge onto the seat, or do a little hop on to it, using the back of the chair as leverage. She always sat erect, head high and shoulders back like the Spanish flamenco dancers we saw in a filmstrip at school called “World of Dance.” She crossed her legs at the ankle “Never at the knee, girls,” she said, “unless you want early varicose veins.”</p>
<p class="indent">Me and Kyra usually finished our Cokes way before Kyra’s mother finished her cocktail. To tell the truth, I think we slurped them up fast because our refill (“it’s called your second round,” she said) was our cue to start the music. Earlier we had put a stack of records on the hi-fi, and at her nod we slid the lever over, watched the first one drop down onto the turntable and the needle jerk its way over. Kyra then handed her mother one of the long-necked beer bottles (unopened) from the ice bucket, and she would start to lip-synch along with “Paper Moon” or “A Fine Romance.”</p>
<center>* * *</center>
<p class="indent">I was getting antsy in my hardback chair when I saw Kyra edging away from that bunch of fluttery ladies all dabbing their eyes with embroidered handkerchiefs. She made her way toward the buffet table and waved me over. We met in front of the punch bowl. Kyra lined up two heavy cut-glass mugs and ladled them full of pink fizzy liquid, all the while singing, but real soft. I could just make out the words as they floated under the steady din in that room.</p>
<center><i><span style="font-size: small;">Never know how much I love you</span></i></center><center><i><span style="font-size: small;">Never know how much I care</span></i></center><center><i><span style="font-size: small;">When you put your arms around me</span></i></center><center><i><span style="font-size: small;">I get a fever that's so hard to bear</span></i></center>
<p class="indent"> “Fever.” That was Kyra’s mother’s favorite song. Cocktail hour always ended with “Fever,” all of us singing along with Peggy Lee at full volume. </p>
<p class="indent">Kyra and I belted out the refrain: </p><i>
<center><span style="font-size: small;">You give me fever</span></center>
</i><p class="indent">Then we clinked our glasses and drained them dry. </p>
<p class="bio1"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><b> </b></span></p><p class="bio1"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><b>“Fever,” the song made popular by Peggy Lee in the fifties, was written by Eddie Cooley and Otis Blackwell (aka John Davenport) and originally recorded by Little Willie John for his debut album of the same name and first released as a single in 1956. In 1958, Peggy Lee covered the song, changing up the lyrics and the arrangement. Her rendition became a top-ten hit in the United States and her signature song and was subsequently nominated for the first annual Grammy in 1959 for both record and song of the year, competing with Frank Sinatra, Perry Como, Vic Damone, Ella Fitzgerald, and the winner Domenico Modugno.</b></span></p>
<p class="bio1"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><b><br /></b></span></p><p class="bio1"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><b>The song lyrics are still under copyright by Fort Knox Music Inc., Trio Music Company, Fort Knox Music Co., Trio Music Company Inc., Trio Music Co., Inc.; the limited excerpts reprinted here are considered fair use by the author and the publisher.</b></span></p><p class="bio1"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><b><br /></b></span></p>
<br />
_______________________________<br />
</p><div>
<br /></div>
<p class="bio1"></p><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiiaPfiXA3hL9Te8t74pF1ru6jKx96tNEW03dux7AVebXICAUIHGR6-g0aXSpB6_wkEWmMXhYmGR6upMvwkTkZ6D9_vQmumxqgK-yATbmDuGKz7FgSl0tk7oyja9y3pr_Jm4MmEMEP3X74qG8kQgkoi9ZeDhRRJnBX_m9_lvZAL77VKN4t0rBV6wwWo/s1280/rzz%20@cape.jpg"><img alt="Rhonda Zangwill" border="0" data-original-height="1280" data-original-width="960" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiiaPfiXA3hL9Te8t74pF1ru6jKx96tNEW03dux7AVebXICAUIHGR6-g0aXSpB6_wkEWmMXhYmGR6upMvwkTkZ6D9_vQmumxqgK-yATbmDuGKz7FgSl0tk7oyja9y3pr_Jm4MmEMEP3X74qG8kQgkoi9ZeDhRRJnBX_m9_lvZAL77VKN4t0rBV6wwWo/w240-h320/rzz%20@cape.jpg" title="Rhonda Zangwill" width="240" /></a></div><b><br />Rhonda Zangwill</b> has long flirted with the literary life, writing, editing, teaching and rabble-rousing for New York Writers Coalition, Read650, PEN Prison Program and The Moth. She now runs writing workshops for the Educational Alliance and Sirovich Senior Center. Her published work is in print journals such as <i>Calyx</i>, <i>Natural Bridge</i> and<i> Hoi Pollo</i>i. She reads around town, including at the National Arts Club, the NYC Poetry Festival, NYPL, and thanks to Fahrenheit Open Mic, in some of the East Village’s most charming community gardens.<p></p> ROXANNE HOFFMANhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01692002974827319982noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2296886111500063245.post-90982332503368402962023-03-17T21:09:00.013-07:002023-03-18T16:37:08.638-07:00Austin Alexis | Sunday Evenings<style type="text/css">
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0sShWiXIP5MiF6d1taxEWDXLw7Vj_7UD8S3Qk0njHxTgoBTpMOIf-EJb8f2JaQEuFyJ4k-CjLBgVTciABwl2mBPO8-RVaQDpSUQ1K55oluX5H_UuyYY8C6axRt8qN_tp4Qwu21Bgs-6HFurRZ6Rv2PwU5Ozz1WWNjQFxODOiauXO-haFkuhN2RbDy/s600/859C71B0-6191-49FE-B2FB-FFDDBFD2C36F.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="Dishes and Stage Curtains" border="0" data-original-height="600" data-original-width="519" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0sShWiXIP5MiF6d1taxEWDXLw7Vj_7UD8S3Qk0njHxTgoBTpMOIf-EJb8f2JaQEuFyJ4k-CjLBgVTciABwl2mBPO8-RVaQDpSUQ1K55oluX5H_UuyYY8C6axRt8qN_tp4Qwu21Bgs-6HFurRZ6Rv2PwU5Ozz1WWNjQFxODOiauXO-haFkuhN2RbDy/w277-h320/859C71B0-6191-49FE-B2FB-FFDDBFD2C36F.jpg" title="Dishes and Stage Curtains" width="277" /></a></div><br /><h2><br /></h2><h2>Sunday Evenings</h2>
<p class="line"> </p>
Dishes whimpered to be washed.
<p class="line">
After that task, she swept the bathroom floor,</p>
<p class="line">
then swept the kitchen floor</p>
<p class="line">
and swept the needy kitchen floor again.</p>
<p class="line">
Most evenings, long boring chores</p>
<p class="line">
shoved toward her, even stalked her.</p>
<p class="line">
But one night per week</p>
<p class="line">
salvation graciously glided down:</p>
<p class="line">
the Sunday night opera on the radio,</p>
<p class="line">
allowing her to be a duchess for three hours</p>
<p class="line">
or an Ethiopian princess,</p>
<p class="line">
or a playboy, or a magical flute.</p>
<p class="line">
Her hands gracenoted themselves</p>
<p class="line">
out of the kitchen sink.</p>
<p class="line">
</p><p class="line"> </p>
She let her husband toss and snore<p></p>
<p class="line">
under a sea of Sunday newspaper.</p>
<p class="line">
She let her feral kids play tent in their beds.</p>
<p class="line">
Her makeshift living room drapes</p>
<p class="line">
evolved into velvet stage curtains.</p>
<p class="line">
The perfume of an elegant audience</p>
<p class="line">
arose from her dusty carpets.</p>
<p class="line">
Everyone keeps a life jacket,</p>
<p class="line">
half buried, yet accessible,</p>
<p class="line">
and she had hers.</p>
<p class="line"><br />
<br />
_______________________________<br />
</p><div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiCz8Lth3SkojIPv2oKnOvzd38lHSgN7fXG060Naqy_aiFuJMaQ0AuPhGmKK85T7XoG-uo-qSeQ16FJLl4nne2bBHqBtHEM4Oy8JTjHAaSTp4c3ASRhs3hWULSWYIm4Aa9DFkhAcV13hbUsdaJ1jLmXu6RYMLyZG1Imb1iINTcItFVGnB75spIctQ74/s1600/Austin%20Alexis%20by%20Linda%20Lerner.jpg" style="display: block; padding: 1em 0px; text-align: center;"><img alt="Austin Alexis [Photo credit: Linda Lerner]" border="0" data-original-height="1844" data-original-width="1080" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiCz8Lth3SkojIPv2oKnOvzd38lHSgN7fXG060Naqy_aiFuJMaQ0AuPhGmKK85T7XoG-uo-qSeQ16FJLl4nne2bBHqBtHEM4Oy8JTjHAaSTp4c3ASRhs3hWULSWYIm4Aa9DFkhAcV13hbUsdaJ1jLmXu6RYMLyZG1Imb1iINTcItFVGnB75spIctQ74/w187-h320/Austin%20Alexis%20by%20Linda%20Lerner.jpg" title="Austin Alexis [Photo credit: Linda Lerner]" width="187" /></a></div></div><p></p><b>
Austin Alexis</b> is the author of <i>Privacy Issues</i> (Broadside Lotus Press, 2014), the winner of 20th annual Naomi Long Madgett Poetry Award, and two chapbooks from Poets Wear Prada, <i>Lovers and Drag Queens</i> and <i>For Lincoln & Other Poems</i>. His work appears in <i>Barrow Street,</i> <i>The Journal</i>, <i>Paterson Literary Review</i>, <i>Otoliths</i> (Australia), and in several anthologies. He earned Honorable Mention in the 91st Annual Writer’s Digest Competition (Script: Stage Play or TV/Movie, 2022) and Flash Fiction of the Month (May 2020) from Great Weather for MEDIA. Previously, he’s received a Bread Loaf Writers’ Conference Scholarship, a Millay Colony for the Arts Residency, and an Allen Ginsberg Award Honorable Mention. Some of his work has been translated into French, Portuguese and Japanese. He lives in Manhattan.<br>
[Photo Credit: Linda Lerner]ROXANNE HOFFMANhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01692002974827319982noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2296886111500063245.post-91783189053757864532022-12-07T21:45:00.015-08:002022-12-07T23:34:31.588-08:00Elan Barnehama | Red Box <style type="text/css">
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<center><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhApkR6By8BufO9MfzDzzFYlza-THlwbWNFxXcB-2wvlKEfBNlhziCf3FhUvjl6om3Zfd9hnhrTAEZdMSgKknlp-7Jk-0YiWtbfqaZQ_yx8at7jwCFkiPMly4qW7ehfxc0TofiQwaQw76Q5XIJAEcaLpNOQqm8h1IjvwNzkQMpuaBZjj-jZBZtbkUQk/s431/711.png" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="1516 Lincoln Blvd, Venice, CA [Map Data ©2022 Google]" border="0" data-original-height="395" data-original-width="431" height="293" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhApkR6By8BufO9MfzDzzFYlza-THlwbWNFxXcB-2wvlKEfBNlhziCf3FhUvjl6om3Zfd9hnhrTAEZdMSgKknlp-7Jk-0YiWtbfqaZQ_yx8at7jwCFkiPMly4qW7ehfxc0TofiQwaQw76Q5XIJAEcaLpNOQqm8h1IjvwNzkQMpuaBZjj-jZBZtbkUQk/w320-h293/711.png" title="1516 Lincoln Blvd, Venice, CA [Map Data ©2022 Google]" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">Google Maps Street View<br />1516 Lincoln Blvd, Los Angeles, California <br />Image Capture December 2017 <br />Map Data ©2022 Google</span></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><br />
<h2>RED BOX</h2></center>
<br /><br />
<p class="opening">
<span class="class_sb4">I</span><span class="just"> turned into the parking lot of the 7-11 on Lincoln Boulevard. I’d been living in Venice Beach for a month and had made a lot of progress on my new novel but had not made any headway on new friends. I knew how to get dates online, but I had no idea how anyone made new friends. Especially anyone past fifty.</span></p>
<p class="indent">
When I first arrived, I tried coffee shops, but no one talked in Venice coffee shops. They just worked away on laptops. I kept going to coffee shops to write by myself in the company of the silent. But at night I hit the boardwalk where I eavesdropped on conversations just to hear people talk.</p>
<p class="indent">
I wore my ear pods and nodded my head, so it looked like I was listening to music and not being creepy. If someone said something interesting, I pretended that I was part of the exchange, part of their story, and I added my words in my head. I imagined that the nice people were my friends.</p>
<p class="indent">
I’d spent the earlier part of the evening on my favorite benches along the boardwalk watching the sun disappear in the Pacific. My best listen that night was the woman who told her date that to be genuinely from Venice one had to stay AWOL. Always West Of Lincoln. I’d been AWOL without knowing it.</p>
<p class="indent">
There were three homeless guys sitting on the pavement in front of the 7-Eleven as I pulled into a parking spot. My plan was to get snacks and sit in my car in the parking lot and eavesdrop as people entered and left the store. I hit the jackpot with a spot in front of the Red Box. I liked listening in on conversations about what movie to rent.</p>
<p class="indent">
I shut the engine and this guy, a small guy in his twenties, tapped on my window. I hadn’t noticed him coming over. He almost fell onto my window. He was clearly wasted. I got out of my car slowly, backing him away with the door.</p>
<p class="indent">
He asked me for a cigarette. I told him I didn’t smoke. That made him angry. Maybe he thought I was lying.</p>
<p class="indent">
I knew him. Or kids like him. He looked like one of my students from when I taught at community college back before I decided to leave the classroom and Boston and head west. They never got older. But I did. I looked at the kid and wondered if I wanted to be a teacher again. I did not. He was twisted and irritated and that made him dangerous. Besides, I had no advice for him.</p>
<p class="indent">
I locked the car and headed inside without saying anything. He started to follow me into the store. Inside, I grabbed some cashews and a coffee. When I went to pay, the kid was mouthing off to the young woman behind the counter. Funny, she looked his age and she didn’t.</p>
<p class="indent">
I felt bad for her. I didn’t need to. She kicked him out of the store with ease and grace. As I was paying, she told me that he was looking to either get the shit kicked out of him or get shot. Or maybe, she added, he just wanted to get arrested so that he’d have a nice place to sleep for the night.</p>
<p class="indent">
I was too sad to stay and listen to the couple in front of the Red Box trying to pick out a romantic comedy. Who even had a DVD player anymore? </p>
<p class="indent">
I gave the cashews to one of the homeless guys and got in my car and drove home.</p>
<br />
______________________________<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhEQr0QG-5N7iY0JbewgBzg5tQWsndnxAgKlAyUVjol7MGy8UoyMNNwUZF90W2tXDxJKo2cI_TCvDowvZqAfMxrGdoEbI7r3wXhgfO_fGIKgosYIRXNdjikg_eKAACe69yHHDuQwEeBz940cHjL3okFogof_B0mdvbIsrt97tsCXnahEAw9HrPx5S0K/s1725/ElanBarnehamaHS.jpeg" style="display: block; padding: 1em 0px; text-align: center;"><img alt="Elan Barnehama" border="0" data-original-height="1383" data-original-width="1725" height="257" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhEQr0QG-5N7iY0JbewgBzg5tQWsndnxAgKlAyUVjol7MGy8UoyMNNwUZF90W2tXDxJKo2cI_TCvDowvZqAfMxrGdoEbI7r3wXhgfO_fGIKgosYIRXNdjikg_eKAACe69yHHDuQwEeBz940cHjL3okFogof_B0mdvbIsrt97tsCXnahEAw9HrPx5S0K/w320-h257/ElanBarnehamaHS.jpeg" title="Elan Barnehama" width="320" /></a></div>
<p class="bio1"><b>Elan Barnehama</b>’s new novel, <i>Escape Route</i> (Running Wild Press, May 2022), set in New York City during the late 1960s, is told by the son of Holocaust survivors, who becomes obsessed with the Vietnam War and with finding an escape route for his family for when he believes the US will round up its Jews. Elan was the flash fiction editor for <i>Forth Magazine LA</i>, has taught college writing, worked with at-risk youth, had a gig as a radio news guy, and did a mediocre job as a short-order cook. “Red Box” is based on a section of Elan’s current novel in progress. It originally appeared as “Listening In,” in <a href="https://roughcutpress.com/issue-11/?fbclid=IwAR1FsfsRq2RyqFtqh8H0ILCAVxWvdANsfdvo3KED-pg-nwM1ECrZ-r9BFFg" rel="nofollow" target="_blank"><i>Rough Cut Press</i>, Issue 11: WELL THAT ESCALATED</a>.</p>
ROXANNE HOFFMANhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01692002974827319982noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2296886111500063245.post-53709301024220388742022-11-23T13:40:00.005-08:002022-11-23T14:14:21.875-08:00Talena Lachelle Queen | Vin Rouge<style type="text/css">
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<h2>Vin Rouge</h2>
<p class="line"> </p>
<p class="line"> </p>
<p class="line"><i>
Je parle vin</i></p><p class="line">
Cabernet Sauvignon, Merlot</p><p class="line">
as long as it is red</p><p class="line">
Zinfandel, Syrah, Shiraz</p><p class="line">
with meals or alone</p><p class="line">
wine is the secret dream of the grape</p><p class="line">
none want to wither on the vine or jelly.</p><p class="line">
The grape wants to be loved</p><p class="line">
Malbec, and Pinot Noir,</p><p class="line">
Desire to be held on the palate for a while</p><p class="line">
They like the swish of the tongue</p><p class="line">
and flutter of the eyes</p><p class="line">
Just before swallowing.</p><p class="line"><i>
le vin c'est la vie</i></p><p class="line">
</p>
<p class="line"> </p><p class="line"> </p>
__________________________________<br />
<br />
<br />
<b><div style="text-align: left;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjrZ97Z4PqIe-TgSWR5Jvrn2qg7kKSSLtIbMX0Nf0PpjRoDPjORQLIg4hs4WOnkYxI5R50YZKB_4LSWGzQWXhJQtvp4diindhdibLM4vPoPIbtMBjf7zrFBzsD_dycvuiA-ryrD6V1HBEthLt-_lXs25WnA9wXhWnQQP2oVKfs5cOmKhFMMOzTu_kU7/s692/TLQ.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="Talena Lachelle Queen" border="0" data-original-height="692" data-original-width="566" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjrZ97Z4PqIe-TgSWR5Jvrn2qg7kKSSLtIbMX0Nf0PpjRoDPjORQLIg4hs4WOnkYxI5R50YZKB_4LSWGzQWXhJQtvp4diindhdibLM4vPoPIbtMBjf7zrFBzsD_dycvuiA-ryrD6V1HBEthLt-_lXs25WnA9wXhWnQQP2oVKfs5cOmKhFMMOzTu_kU7/w262-h320/TLQ.jpg" title="Talena Lachelle Queen" width="262" /></a></div></b><div><br /></div><div><br /></div>In addition to being Poet Laureate of Paterson, New Jersey, since 2018, <b>Talena Lachelle Queen</b> is founder and executive director of the Paterson Poetry Festival, now in its fifth year. She is also founder and president of Word Seed, Inc. a team of literary artists who organize community outreach programs. Her publications include a forthcoming poetry collection <i>How Do I Tell Them?</i> (Poets Wear Prada), <i>Soup Can Magazine</i>, <i>POETS UNiTE! The LiTFUSE @10 Anthology</i> (Cave Moon Press), and <i>When Women Speak </i>(ed. Ameerah Shabazz-Bilal). A sought after artist, Queen has performed at many places including the NJ Governor’s Mansion, Hoboken Historical Museum, and with NYC Men Teach Hip Hop Cypher.<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br />ROXANNE HOFFMANhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01692002974827319982noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2296886111500063245.post-56974464935918061372022-11-23T10:27:00.001-08:002022-11-23T11:28:21.991-08:00Carrie Magness Radna | Red (A Ghazal)
<div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEindMeUf4SJ5sjWfEsR_N-e43E5_-ZtPwXVzXtxHSzQxP-K2ihTOWawlpOAPSiCvllFezmky2xqI7hZ9mUPqq34QpIcCWSIf3e6vymoI2c-bpURnLXspzVXkUmRP-kO96PlKNUqm1cTlnF4sFtOUdOU5VXpfnHyI-1o9T30lPgGLpgaq4YVXjKcSnGt=s1600" style="display: block; padding: 1em 0px; text-align: center;"><img alt="Kissy Coffee Cup with Lipstick Stain" border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1600" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEindMeUf4SJ5sjWfEsR_N-e43E5_-ZtPwXVzXtxHSzQxP-K2ihTOWawlpOAPSiCvllFezmky2xqI7hZ9mUPqq34QpIcCWSIf3e6vymoI2c-bpURnLXspzVXkUmRP-kO96PlKNUqm1cTlnF4sFtOUdOU5VXpfnHyI-1o9T30lPgGLpgaq4YVXjKcSnGt=w320-h320" title="Kissy Coffee Cup with Lipstick Stain" width="320" /></a></div>
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<h2>Red (A Ghazal)</h2>
<p class="line"> </p>
<p class="line"> </p>
<p class="line">A smear of lipstick glazes your favorite coffee cup — <i>Passion Red</i>.</p>
<p class="line"> I’ve not been a coffee drinker, until recently, </p><p class="line"><br /></p>
<p class="line">when I started wearing makeup again, after your last <i>yahrzeit</i> — and red.</p>
<p class="line"><i>Passion</i> was one of your favorite colors, but you hated the stain it left on your face.</p>
<p class="line"><br /></p><p class="line">Things keep changing since you’ve gone. I don’t sleep anymore. I gobble up red</p><p class="line">meat, every meal. I wear leather, velvet & lace — chains by the bed.</p><p class="line"><br /></p>
<p class="line">I speak out. I shout. Your girl has grown up. I remember you with fresh red</p>
<p class="line">roses every Wednesday — Daddy would surprise you, after work.</p>
<p class="line"><br /></p><p class="line">When will I feel okay again? Will I find the answers to life, traveling? I miss the red</p>
<p class="line">clay of Oklahoma, where you once told me you would never leave. Momma, what a liar you are!</p>
<p class="line"> </p><p class="line"> </p>
__________________________________<br />
<br />
<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXqaENChaJK_hQoaePxE-IjqCr-impaFjgUE5Ti64poWxl_ndkpx83uj1LoXM8jaHyNfttSGnppN2xfP0T3YQ1029pdposggQTNhdKcydT1M_tWI48Ee6D_xSBZ-1lwBEZ-upeDEk9yd8/s1600/A7FFA995-A03E-45D4-B63F-DB78D75B1B42.jpeg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1280" data-original-width="960" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXqaENChaJK_hQoaePxE-IjqCr-impaFjgUE5Ti64poWxl_ndkpx83uj1LoXM8jaHyNfttSGnppN2xfP0T3YQ1029pdposggQTNhdKcydT1M_tWI48Ee6D_xSBZ-1lwBEZ-upeDEk9yd8/s200/A7FFA995-A03E-45D4-B63F-DB78D75B1B42.jpeg" width="150" /></a></div>
<b>Carrie Magness Radna</b> is an audiovisual cataloger at New York Public Library, a choral singer and a poet who loves traveling. Her poems have previously appeared in <i>The Oracular Tree</i>, <i>Mediterranean Poetry</i>, <i>Muddy River Poetry Review</i>, <i>Poetry Super Highway</i>, <i>Walt’s Corner</i>, <i>Polarity eMagazine</i>, <i>The Poetic Bond</i> and <i>First Literary Review-Eas</i>t. Her latest poetry collection, <i>In the blue hour</i> (Nirala Publications), was released in February 2021. <i>Hurricanes never apologize</i> (Luchador Press) was published in December 2019. Her fifth volume of poetry, <i>Shooting myself in the dark</i> (Cajun Mutt Press), will be published in early 2023. Born in Norman, Oklahoma, Carrie lives with her husband in Manhattan.
<p></p>ROXANNE HOFFMANhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01692002974827319982noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2296886111500063245.post-48076879748400683652022-09-14T12:40:00.008-07:002022-09-14T13:02:34.050-07:00Sarah Sarai | A Thousand Deaths<style type="text/css">
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<h2>
A Thousand Deaths</h2>
<p class="line"> </p>
<p class="line">
Jack’s in Wisconsin with a girlfriend</p>
<p class="line">
whose father is down one cow,</p>
<p class="line">
which I become in its death,</p>
<p class="line">
the wandering-off cow Jack finds</p>
<p class="line">
“out in the woods with its legs sticking / </p>
<p class="line">
straight up to the stars.”</p>
<p class="line">
Its unborn calf is by its side.</p>
<p class="line">
Eight dead cow-legs point out</p>
<p class="line">
two escaped cow-souls.</p>
<p class="line">
And so I become animal mother</p>
<p class="line">
sorrow, my eyes aching and red,</p>
<p class="line">
searching night skies.</p>
<p class="line">
My legs pointing to the endless.</p>
<p class="line">
I am galled by the up and</p>
<p class="line">
down of love, a boulder</p>
<p class="line">
hard-shouldered every day.</p>
<p class="line">
</p>
<p clas="norm"<span style="font-size: x-small;"> Quote from “Thinning the Herd,” <i>I Have No Clue</i> by Jack Wiler (Longshot Press, 1996)</span>
</p><p class="line">
</p>
_____________________________<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2xjY9anHK6QDkZgadyne0aXSKOIwQgzciZyOZCwTOqMSr0c5-XsYTX8J8qSuZpz1yWQwMl4p0VUhm3prqkJ49IqkKRLMX993q40WcWNq_yD8jCLW-2hbd9dGHC4rYouUSnSZSTplcngiUG6HbDo6NOUiundY4ju3dFTKHSPxEzYdwNhIgqrWhnp_G/s332/B8033387-9E4A-4736-9133-7085F9DF9851.jpeg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="Sarah Sarai (photo by Any Holman)" border="0" data-original-height="283" data-original-width="332" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2xjY9anHK6QDkZgadyne0aXSKOIwQgzciZyOZCwTOqMSr0c5-XsYTX8J8qSuZpz1yWQwMl4p0VUhm3prqkJ49IqkKRLMX993q40WcWNq_yD8jCLW-2hbd9dGHC4rYouUSnSZSTplcngiUG6HbDo6NOUiundY4ju3dFTKHSPxEzYdwNhIgqrWhnp_G/s16000/B8033387-9E4A-4736-9133-7085F9DF9851.jpeg" title="Sarah Sarai (photo by Any Holman)" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Photo by Amy Holman</td></tr></tbody></table>
<b><br /></b><div><b>Sarah Sarai</b> has published two to three poetry collections, depending on how you reckon, and a bunch of short stories. A native New Yorker, she lives in the big city, where she is an independent editor of poetry, fiction, and nonfiction.</div><p></p>ROXANNE HOFFMANhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01692002974827319982noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2296886111500063245.post-28673909760842566952022-06-01T21:49:00.012-07:002022-08-19T13:49:55.779-07:00Susan Justiniano | Raspberry Kisses<style type="text/css">
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDEELqzOwq9OxtYCTz4tOh5L20n8ni4jz7Ojac-eYur_-WLJhwbT9vx9mpoxzPb2RBAYV7GVtowahUjtyYXCeIcFtfhGuX9KdZ-wtkmB__7lU4MuqvuByz1_2Y4xOlAc3kTlG-80iO2Dl1qdjkUCuZ9kcg61YnUhSNYk-oSYkuNeEXHZy540SW-lEY/s1080/9A3A205A-9E81-439A-BF34-2381F7C0179B.gif" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="SMOOCH: Raspberry Between Kissing Lips" border="0" data-original-height="1080" data-original-width="1080" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDEELqzOwq9OxtYCTz4tOh5L20n8ni4jz7Ojac-eYur_-WLJhwbT9vx9mpoxzPb2RBAYV7GVtowahUjtyYXCeIcFtfhGuX9KdZ-wtkmB__7lU4MuqvuByz1_2Y4xOlAc3kTlG-80iO2Dl1qdjkUCuZ9kcg61YnUhSNYk-oSYkuNeEXHZy540SW-lEY/w320-h320/9A3A205A-9E81-439A-BF34-2381F7C0179B.gif" title="SMOOCH: Raspberry Between Kissing Lips" width="320" /></a></div><br />
<p class="line"> </p>
<div id="buzzsprout-player-10723824"></div><script charset="utf-8" src="https://www.buzzsprout.com/42914/10723824-raspberry-kisses.js?container_id=buzzsprout-player-10723824&player=small" type="text/javascript"></script>
<p class="line"> </p>
<p class="line">
</p>
<p class="line">Your kisses taste of raspberry</p>
<p class="line">Tiny chills along lips swollen and red</p>
<p class="line">slide down my throat</p>
<p class="line">melt each nerve as they pass into me</p>
<p class="line"> </p>
<p class="line">the sexy — the want — I feel</p>
<p class="line">hidden beneath lashes against flushed cheeks</p>
<p class="line">pulse skips as your lips travel along my neck</p>
<p class="line"> </p>
<p class="line">our fingers slide</p>
<p class="line">search to touch places</p>
<p class="line">that make the sun jealous</p>
<p class="line"> </p>
<p class="line">threads of our clothes — prison bars! —</p>
<p class="line">struggle to find escape</p>
<p class="line">from liberated sensations </p>
<p class="line">too inebriated to have names</p>
<p class="line"> </p>
<p class="line">sleeve pushed from shoulder</p>
<p class="line">buttons undone by a nimble touch</p>
<p class="line">raspberry kisses color of fire</p>
<p class="line">brand bare flesh</p>
<p class="line"> </p>
<p class="line">hints of the enduring myth of heaven</p>
<p class="line">paradise in your arms</p>
<p class="line">give me rapture with each kiss</p>
<p class="line">absorbed into layers</p>
<p class="line"> </p>
<p class="line">silhouettes dance under cotton covers</p>
<p class="line">spread out on heated current</p>
<p class="line">friction of flesh against flesh</p>
<p class="line"> </p>
<p class="line">our mouths explore one another</p>
<p class="line">discovering delicacies uncommon to mortal man</p>
<p class="line"> </p>
<p class="line">there — that taste —</p>
<p class="line">raspberry</p>
<p class="line">tart</p>
<p class="line">sweet</p>
<p class="line">juicy</p>
<p class="line"> </p>
<p class="line">Elixir easily coaxed</p>
<p class="line">Cherished fruit</p>
<p class="line">To bear fruit</p>
<p class="line">O wondrous raspberry kisses!</p>
<p class="line"> </p>
<p class="line"> </p>
_____________________________<br />
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<b><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCPo4Sz9h5mOmD4h8a8Rj9XHCl4S0c6xABERzCbNBZgXLjPPzY7Kesi0Q5rb2viu1CAtTNvR9uCPQHxeUZVVr9l3zOcgLoY-ISlTVsv_F0A-Fpf65ne-wNUMepOorB0dIEU4eSNiTtRXBuoa4IY-w8EE4dKjidmIL3Jse2cWbQBLQ1juMq46faajDs/s640/Susan%20Justiniano%20aka%20RescuePoetix.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="Susan Justiniano aka RescuePoetix" border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="640" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCPo4Sz9h5mOmD4h8a8Rj9XHCl4S0c6xABERzCbNBZgXLjPPzY7Kesi0Q5rb2viu1CAtTNvR9uCPQHxeUZVVr9l3zOcgLoY-ISlTVsv_F0A-Fpf65ne-wNUMepOorB0dIEU4eSNiTtRXBuoa4IY-w8EE4dKjidmIL3Jse2cWbQBLQ1juMq46faajDs/w320-h320/Susan%20Justiniano%20aka%20RescuePoetix.jpeg" title="Susan Justiniano aka RescuePoetix" width="320" /></a></div><br />Susan Justiniano</b> <b>aka</b> <b>RescuePoetix</b> is the first Puerto Rican and the first woman to serve as Poet Laureate of Jersey City, New Jersey. She is a self-taught, bilingual poet with a deep love for knowledge, music, coffee, food, dogs, and the color red (not always in that order). Words are embedded in her life. Her passion for them started at age nine with a dictionary, notebook, and the latest paperback she could get her hands on. Like a bad penny, you can find her everywhere: <a href="https://linktr.ee/rescuepoetix">https://linktr.ee/rescuepoetix</a>.ROXANNE HOFFMANhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01692002974827319982noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2296886111500063245.post-3195613787747159372022-03-07T21:43:00.007-08:002022-03-07T23:00:30.436-08:00Robert Mueller | Winebibbers Go Home<style type="text/css">
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<h2>Winebibbers Go Home</h2>
<p class="line"> </p>
<p class="line"> </p>
<p class="line">A crimsoned valuation </p>
<p class="line">picks the motors of pentaculated </p>
<p class="line">runners on a field of display</p>
<p class="line">a hoax or an alarm.</p>
<p class="line"> </p>
<p class="line">It used to be the columbine</p>
<p class="line">attracted hummingbirds and star-clipped</p>
<p class="line">in a summer’s hottest tranche.</p>
<p class="line">Now wintry spotter’s net</p>
<p class="line">must catch a feathered red</p>
<p class="line"> </p>
<p class="line">to charge against the wickets</p>
<p class="line">of a ghostly bricolage</p>
<p class="line">a breach to ease the canted branch.</p>
<p class="line">If weakly cardinal in cold</p>
<p class="line">well stretches light’s delights</p>
<p class="line">temptation ardently to spar</p>
<p class="line">with gloom’s adherents snipes.</p>
<p class="line"> </p>
<p class="line">Where seeking bred of seeing’s heart-</p>
<p class="line">flash if a stranger to an anger</p>
<p class="line">braised the coals the scarlet</p>
<p class="line">sparks not in the day played in the dark.</p>
<p class="line"> </p>
<p class="line">A tang to spin the spangled manger</p>
<p class="line">underlay the helicopter hats amid</p>
<p class="line">the gladiolas and poinsettia.</p>
<p class="line">They drew the straws but kept</p>
<p class="line">away the cats. A sanguine sprat</p>
<p class="line"> </p>
<p class="line">could stir the faintest blush</p>
<p class="line">so let us taste the lips’ best rush</p>
<p class="line">of comfort in the common claret</p>
<p class="line">all ablaze and brandishing the fadeaway.</p>
<p class="line"> </p>
<p class="line"> </p>
<div id="buzzsprout-player-10208887"></div><script charset="utf-8" src="https://www.buzzsprout.com/42914/10208887-winebibbers-go-home.js?container_id=buzzsprout-player-10208887&player=small" type="text/javascript"></script>
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEj-Er-IIobeKp6u4rlGre3QHGKw3nrGxQ1U06hfGvH8aMykcYaeE9vwSDl88UVRtjP5jeG6wYpnpcAxhNsz94P7PmxvzHj5CGXeyNwkuBLIsgC-2LPwDQbqx9kM0zsjd_RS6IbQ8SfasTDWmbFkKpOCL_va2E60ybNmqKbNxgCBkSst6caC3Bl3Tk7K=s1600" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEj-Er-IIobeKp6u4rlGre3QHGKw3nrGxQ1U06hfGvH8aMykcYaeE9vwSDl88UVRtjP5jeG6wYpnpcAxhNsz94P7PmxvzHj5CGXeyNwkuBLIsgC-2LPwDQbqx9kM0zsjd_RS6IbQ8SfasTDWmbFkKpOCL_va2E60ybNmqKbNxgCBkSst6caC3Bl3Tk7K=w300-h400" width="300" /></a></div><br /><b>Robert Mueller</b> is the author of <i>Hereafter Knowing in Sonnets and Their Similars</i>, an adventurous undertaking in literary history and critical interpretation under the signs of philosophy and theology. Other recent writings to his credit include a poem in <i>And Then</i>, poetry of an unusual stripe in <i>Home Planet News Online</i> and, in <i>Spinozablue</i>, a group of poems focused on the topic of our precious wetlands as well as an essay titled “Petrarcan Naissance.” Robert has earned multiple academic degrees, a PhD in comparative literature from Brown University, an MA in classics from the City University of New York, and a BA from Yale University. Among his major publications are essays and reviews found in <i>Jacket2</i>, <i>American Letters & Commentary</i> and <i>ELH</i>.ROXANNE HOFFMANhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01692002974827319982noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2296886111500063245.post-5170857615335492392022-03-01T20:38:00.049-08:002022-03-02T08:52:58.818-08:00Belle Koblentz | Tulips<style>
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<div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">In New Jersey, after the evening rain, the daffodil green tips are popping up among the remaining brown leaves of fall. The cherry trees will be next, their blossoms filling the air with pink snow. Tulips should avoid the unpredictable weather of March and make their entrance in April. Spring is beautiful, I await it impatiently.</span></div>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="not-allowed" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody class="no-click-no-cursor"><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><img alt="Tulips, digital photograph by Belle Koblentz © 2020" border="0" data-original-height="241" data-original-width="360" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhOSrFc0AFPEePhvtTEpq4oVqq7v6yqqyFkjJ61D2H6T0JUQvrm2pU4pUJeGES7D7k4DcdLxBb1c0WOXGPEo2tUMVSdTWrSivajFPZO7xwY31BetrP26R7Hwef85gW4gif8PxTB_XAnY0hb7BibCkzj6MoAe7voEhWiCocGDA310m3Soyyy8v3piRWD=s16000" title="Tulips, digital photograph by Belle Koblentz © 2020" /></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><b><i>Tulips</i>, digital photograph by Belle Koblentz © 2020</b><br />Shot with Nikon D80</span></td></tr></tbody></table>
<br />
<div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="text-align: left;">Once, I was a painter, a colorist. Today, I am a photographer, a digital artist, who approaches the photo image from a painter's perspective and with a painter's vocabulary. Color is still foremost in my consideration of the elements of a piece. Nature is my muse. I transform my original photo, pushing saturation, hue, value and contrast, to abstract it from a photographic reality to a painterly space.</span></span></div>
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<div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhFc_c4vde1916WZDUzVWq9yPl_1SNVr90supWVsvf2beKuFB4KotqH6HFfmtLQxN6LKVuW7AAstjLKNsTNRtSOrzAyTJO7PjeSFYvl82RKfD7VRFGBJbF3B0U-7VpFXu6HzdP-17kdHx6XTTx45JoTFrWXYD9is1_5Uyedw666DNWNP5yKHCj3qaOQ=s605"><img alt="Belle Koblentz" border="0" class="no-click-no-cursor" data-original-height="605" data-original-width="554" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhFc_c4vde1916WZDUzVWq9yPl_1SNVr90supWVsvf2beKuFB4KotqH6HFfmtLQxN6LKVuW7AAstjLKNsTNRtSOrzAyTJO7PjeSFYvl82RKfD7VRFGBJbF3B0U-7VpFXu6HzdP-17kdHx6XTTx45JoTFrWXYD9is1_5Uyedw666DNWNP5yKHCj3qaOQ=w293-h320" title="Belle Koblentz" width="293" /></a></div><br /><br /></div>
<b>Belle Koblentz</b> is a New Jersey artist living in Colts Neck and a member of the Art Alliance of Monmouth County. She received her BA in Visual Arts and an MA in Aesthetics from the University of Texas at Dallas.ROXANNE HOFFMANhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01692002974827319982noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2296886111500063245.post-69914653857796971282022-02-24T13:55:00.182-08:002023-12-01T00:33:31.471-08:00Bruce Whitacre | What Is Fire to Me, or, Sailor’s Delight<style type="text/css">
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<h2>What Is Fire to Me, or, Sailor’s Delight</h2>
<p class="line"> </p>
<p class="line"> </p>
<p class="line">Wood smoke lingers aboard the LA plane</p>
<p class="line">that just flew down a burning West Coast;</p>
<p class="line">New Mexico’s blue skies are veiled in talcum —</p>
<p class="line">these warming sunsets — candescent red.</p>
<p class="line"> </p>
<p class="line">Facing west, we eat at a High Plains café;</p>
<p class="line">the dock probes a receding reservoir’s extended shore;</p><p class="line">cottonwood seeds blizzard pink in twilight —</p>
<p class="line">these warming sunsets — simmering red.</p>
<p class="line"> </p>
<p class="line">Bryant Park is sticky with a strange haze;</p>
<p class="line">our tongues salted with the cremated West:</p>
<p class="line">lodgepole pine, mule deer, and mountain lion —</p>
<p class="line">these warming sunsets — radiant red.</p>
<p class="line"> </p>
<p class="line">Coast to coast, the signs rain down from heaven,</p>
<p class="line">launched by scarlet, canyon-scorching flames,</p>
<p class="line">cataclysm of pyrocumulus sky fall —</p>
<p class="line">these warning sunsets — alarming red.</p>
<p class="line"> </p>
<p class="line"> </p>
_____________________________<br />
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<b><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxt-ufSEohDi_SkUG8CAZp4sDk6VooUUJa8gdqLWt5wIjLtmvfh8PF-S58AN7HBz9Barkj6Tq9jq3upHg6iidimNmP8LvKo2PXizHmaHhyphenhyphen7D3QV8LAQPhOi0Kqjf6wSxQ68Esdu3_79A4/s2048/BruceEWhitacre.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1814" height="256" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxt-ufSEohDi_SkUG8CAZp4sDk6VooUUJa8gdqLWt5wIjLtmvfh8PF-S58AN7HBz9Barkj6Tq9jq3upHg6iidimNmP8LvKo2PXizHmaHhyphenhyphen7D3QV8LAQPhOi0Kqjf6wSxQ68Esdu3_79A4/w226-h256/BruceEWhitacre.jpg" width="226" /></a></div>Bruce E. Whitacre</b>’s recent publications include <i>Hey, I’m Alive</i>; <i>Nine Cloud</i>; <i>Pensive</i>; Diane Lockward’s third volume on craft, <i>The Strategic Poet</i>; and the 2022 anthology <i>I Want to Be Loved by You: Poems on Marilyn Monroe</i>. Work here was nominated for Sundress Publications’ 2020 Best of the Net Anthology. A featured poetry reader at the Forest Hills Public Library, he has read his work at Poets House, the Zen Mountain Monastery Buddhist Poetry Festival, Kew Willow Books, Lunar Walk, and other venues. He holds an MFA in Dramatic Writing from NYU’s Tisch School of the Arts and has completed master workshops with Jericho Brown, Alex Dimitrov, Rowan Ricardo Phillips, and Mark Wunderlich. Bruce is a native of Nebraska and lives in Forest Hills, Queens, with his husband.ROXANNE HOFFMANhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01692002974827319982noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2296886111500063245.post-91784314704398097522022-02-22T00:57:00.021-08:002022-08-15T09:50:35.016-07:00Lynne Shapiro | I’ve Read the Room<style type="text/css">
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<h2><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEh8dgEaH7zPbDH_NpjT7aBydGh12Sd07mGMg1UJeFjkOCmM7qros7jnPWmKva6-c-gHSZY9yvcWcqymT8p9xFo6HhHhHaKxSKIz748aFJW6Tj3GQ_OVo6wJ-DF4V5AkeCCazRE4MzKmcOKv5ZvASQoRj5ZUQzYdTr70qE79AspIUpxwqIx6ytgJUqSk=s320" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="Folk Art Rooster [Credit: Lynne Shapiro]" border="0" data-original-height="320" data-original-width="203" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEh8dgEaH7zPbDH_NpjT7aBydGh12Sd07mGMg1UJeFjkOCmM7qros7jnPWmKva6-c-gHSZY9yvcWcqymT8p9xFo6HhHhHaKxSKIz748aFJW6Tj3GQ_OVo6wJ-DF4V5AkeCCazRE4MzKmcOKv5ZvASQoRj5ZUQzYdTr70qE79AspIUpxwqIx6ytgJUqSk=w203-h320" title="Folk Art Rooster [Credit: Lynne Shapiro]" width="203" /></a></div><br /><br /></h2><h2 style="text-align: left;">I’ve Read the Room</h2>
<p class="flushleft"> </p>
<p class="flushleft"> </p>
<p class="flushleft">The photo of me in a velvet dress I wore ice skating with my mother at Rockefeller Center when I was small. </p>
<p class="flushleft"> </p>
<p class="flushleft">The little coat in <i>Shindler’s List</i>.</p>
<p class="flushleft"> </p>
<p class="flushleft">The neighbor’s hair (more towards the orange) of which I was jealous.</p>
<p class="flushleft"> </p>
<p class="flushleft">Stella’s 30-year-old, slider turtle “ears.”</p>
<p class="flushleft"> </p>
<p class="flushleft">My favorite pair of readers.</p>
<p class="flushleft"> </p>
<p class="flushleft">One of two loomed Lithuanian bookmarks that grace my writing desk.</p>
<p class="flushleft"> </p>
<p class="flushleft">The two-toned spine of Yi-Fu Tuan’s <i>Passing Strange and Wonderful</i>.</p>
<p class="flushleft"> </p>
<p class="flushleft">The 26 (times two) luminous leaded squares of the Dutch stained-glass doors that lead to our garden.</p>
<p class="flushleft"> </p>
<p class="flushleft">The timid male cardinal (due to his stand-out hue?) and his less timid, subtly colored spouse.</p>
<p class="flushleft"> </p>
<p class="flushleft">Brilliantly backlit, at times, the dot of color that informs us the male downy woodpecker is at the suet.</p>
<p class="flushleft"> </p>
<p class="flushleft">Rooftop peppers that punctuate the winter palette, strewn throughout the garden by squirrels.</p>
<p class="flushleft"> </p>
<p class="flushleft">Kitchen jars filled with smoked and sweet paprika.</p>
<p class="flushleft"> </p>
<p class="flushleft">The <i>ristra</i> I strung from <i>shishitos</i> that changed color at summer’s end.</p>
<p class="flushleft"> </p>
<p class="flushleft">The speckled comb of my mother’s folk art rooster that’s come to our house to stay.</p>
<p class="flushleft"> </p>
<p class="flushleft"> </p>
_____________________________<br />
<p class="flushleft"> </p>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhgHa1PM4Hlq_3-aCjpG1qdsNzMJdqoZ_r_lTkkkbhCa7RUHZWeUN8qvbyZakrKQ_mbqnmwO_K_BuFijiqVcfDyuH0xuP-04HMkPqp2vE8ayfoCzm4DNQl_UyBd6mkRxf9AYYy4uzhLeqmqjxpt9UUMoaXYivYN-QZ2Ktsqe1AbzdeIcBom_jV-zs2X=s306" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="Lynne Shapiro" border="0" data-original-height="306" data-original-width="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhgHa1PM4Hlq_3-aCjpG1qdsNzMJdqoZ_r_lTkkkbhCa7RUHZWeUN8qvbyZakrKQ_mbqnmwO_K_BuFijiqVcfDyuH0xuP-04HMkPqp2vE8ayfoCzm4DNQl_UyBd6mkRxf9AYYy4uzhLeqmqjxpt9UUMoaXYivYN-QZ2Ktsqe1AbzdeIcBom_jV-zs2X=s16000" title="Lynne Shapiro" /></a></div><br />
<b>Lynne</b> <b>Shapiro</b> has been a writer-in-residence in England, Morocco, and Spain. An arts educator for many years, she worked at the Whitney Museum of American Art and was once an assistant to Susan Sontag. Lynne’s first chapbook, <i>To</i> <i>Set</i> <i>Right</i>, was published by WordTech Editions (October, 2021). Her book, <i>Gala</i>, is forthcoming from Solitude Hill Press (March, 2022). She lives in Hoboken, New Jersey with her husband and elderly turtle. For more information and upcoming events, please visit her website; <a href="http://www.lynneshapiropoet.com">www.lynneshapiropoet.com</a>
ROXANNE HOFFMANhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01692002974827319982noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2296886111500063245.post-27984499476558418872022-02-13T13:06:00.002-08:002022-02-13T14:19:30.587-08:00Carrie Magness Radna | The Thin Red Line<div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgnWu2vOTBGGno03d2tjqJqtjJ5PFepljYZ1Mri_dy9pbVN8S7gSA2J1SyKqfi_fj01G6PqAppmXF6G5BoFD9a_ShGjJZqt5l3zuXMEtoKsUhUSm6ohUmTW6kZs_nhGZhWIY9AzeKszIh0p4v14XbwQ5k_80-DD0iRTlqUoqPAw5Vq_U9GcLxg-aVNI=s1000" style="display: block; padding: 1em 0px; text-align: center;"><img alt="Flattening Heart Line" border="0" data-original-height="700" data-original-width="1000" height="224" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgnWu2vOTBGGno03d2tjqJqtjJ5PFepljYZ1Mri_dy9pbVN8S7gSA2J1SyKqfi_fj01G6PqAppmXF6G5BoFD9a_ShGjJZqt5l3zuXMEtoKsUhUSm6ohUmTW6kZs_nhGZhWIY9AzeKszIh0p4v14XbwQ5k_80-DD0iRTlqUoqPAw5Vq_U9GcLxg-aVNI=w320-h224" title="Flattening Heart Line" width="320" /></a></div>
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<h2>The Thin Red Line</h2>
<p class="line"> </p>
<p class="line"> </p>
<p class="line">You searched for oceans</p>
<p class="line">while we lived in the desert.</p>
<p class="line">The strawberries, now, </p>
<p class="line">freeze-dried in my mouth.</p>
<p class="line"> </p>
<p class="line">The southern tip of the sun</p>
<p class="line">glows beet red.</p>
<p class="line">I saw that abnormality,</p>
<p class="line">on a red-eye flight, alone.</p>
<p class="line"> </p>
<p class="line">Should I leave an apology</p>
<p class="line">after the tone?</p>
<p class="line">Red lipstick stains on coffee cups;</p>
<p class="line">What else did I do wrong?</p>
<p class="line"> </p>
<p class="line">Did we go too far?</p>
<p class="line">All I have left</p>
<p class="line">are a few good pics,</p>
<p class="line">of us, on my phone —</p>
<p class="line"> </p><p class="line">All I want is to fall</p>
<p class="line">apart in your arms,</p>
<p class="line">but you rode away</p>
<p class="line">in your red Jaguar.</p>
<p class="line"> </p>
<p class="line">& I never saw</p>
<p class="line">the thin red line,</p><p class="line">that breakup line,</p>
<p class="line">until it was too late.</p>
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__________________________________<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXqaENChaJK_hQoaePxE-IjqCr-impaFjgUE5Ti64poWxl_ndkpx83uj1LoXM8jaHyNfttSGnppN2xfP0T3YQ1029pdposggQTNhdKcydT1M_tWI48Ee6D_xSBZ-1lwBEZ-upeDEk9yd8/s1600/A7FFA995-A03E-45D4-B63F-DB78D75B1B42.jpeg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1280" data-original-width="960" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXqaENChaJK_hQoaePxE-IjqCr-impaFjgUE5Ti64poWxl_ndkpx83uj1LoXM8jaHyNfttSGnppN2xfP0T3YQ1029pdposggQTNhdKcydT1M_tWI48Ee6D_xSBZ-1lwBEZ-upeDEk9yd8/s200/A7FFA995-A03E-45D4-B63F-DB78D75B1B42.jpeg" width="150" /></a></div>
<b>Carrie Magness Radna</b> is an audiovisual cataloger at New York Public Library, a choral singer and a poet who loves traveling. Her poems have previously appeared in <i>The Oracular Tree</i>, <i>Mediterranean Poetry</i>, <i>Muddy River Poetry Review</i>, <i>Poetry Super Highway</i>, <i>Walt’s Corner</i>, <i>Polarity eMagazine</i>, <i>The Poetic Bond</i> and <i>First Literary Review-Eas</i>t. Her latest poetry collection, <i>In the blue hour</i> (Nirala Publications), was released in February 2021. <i>Hurricanes never apologize</i> (Luchador Press) was published in December 2019. Born in Norman, Oklahoma, Carrie lives with her husband in Manhattan.ROXANNE HOFFMANhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01692002974827319982noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2296886111500063245.post-34654729682713298962022-02-10T00:16:00.035-08:002022-10-06T20:58:54.309-07:00E. Penniman James | Seeing Red<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='560' height='315' src='https://www.blogger.com/video.g?token=AD6v5dwdOVt-0BsLT0Cd61obpe1G5fzqpNTrKKLhy5LBLdc4aglQoV_KcCfBgR0KNcvbSNFl8ixa_60-Zr859eOwtQ' class='b-hbp-video b-uploaded' frameborder='0'></iframe></div><br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjcU-6radxPe1J_JjnF3hRPyoQvapOjsQW9tJSpQborbvUA9ubM2zGFN9KYG-G7zgNpE8FbRRdtpym3ur-Inyof38Uu65sU9SZpdvmv_AoQ4TVg0JjsIT0oH0_HZOZON6-xqQb14yiiNSXfKkRR-HH-Z-uuYVtcgLBGGY_aMIfbzlCJumRnY8myNtop/s726/parkside%2011_21_21.jpg" style="display: block; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; padding: 1em 0px; text-align: center;"><img alt="" border="0" data-original-height="519" data-original-width="726" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjcU-6radxPe1J_JjnF3hRPyoQvapOjsQW9tJSpQborbvUA9ubM2zGFN9KYG-G7zgNpE8FbRRdtpym3ur-Inyof38Uu65sU9SZpdvmv_AoQ4TVg0JjsIT0oH0_HZOZON6-xqQb14yiiNSXfKkRR-HH-Z-uuYVtcgLBGGY_aMIfbzlCJumRnY8myNtop/s320/parkside%2011_21_21.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><b>Photo Credit: Matthew Hupert</b></span></td></tr></tbody></table>
<b><br /></b><div><b>E Penniman James</b> lives and writes poetry in Brooklyn, New York. His poems have appeared in the anthologies <i>Pluto 1</i> (Propoetsy, 2022), <i>Birds Fall Silent in the Mechanical Sea</i> (great weather for Media, 2019), and <i>Lyrics of Mature Hearts</i> (Gordon Bois Publications, 2020), as well as several online publications.
</div>ROXANNE HOFFMANhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01692002974827319982noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2296886111500063245.post-49118024176471115982022-02-07T20:44:00.019-08:002022-02-08T08:52:51.549-08:00 Akshaya Pawaskar | Red Blush<style type="text/css">
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGSpywYJ2hpO_cfchtHWqTOYvtRCvd1BwbNpSZYqwftEKdua6NWHUzYHLVibg1z8ryzUPZXt2k3CeVSuCMOlmHjdtwGolFP-r8he1H_0nZSK19uxcByenHypG15BCeMRggCznkGuzl4J-imriNhtvPu7JjqeZHdwNrSt73YSpjfG_TSGWeJzwPhGG1/s650/7038F7EA-C893-47E8-A03A-26DE73B6B937.png" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="John William Waterhouse (1849-1917), The Awakening of Adonis Oil on canvas c1900 Private art collection" border="0" data-original-height="454" data-original-width="650" height="224" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGSpywYJ2hpO_cfchtHWqTOYvtRCvd1BwbNpSZYqwftEKdua6NWHUzYHLVibg1z8ryzUPZXt2k3CeVSuCMOlmHjdtwGolFP-r8he1H_0nZSK19uxcByenHypG15BCeMRggCznkGuzl4J-imriNhtvPu7JjqeZHdwNrSt73YSpjfG_TSGWeJzwPhGG1/w320-h224/7038F7EA-C893-47E8-A03A-26DE73B6B937.png" title="John William Waterhouse (1849-1917), The Awakening of Adonis, Oil on canvas c1900, Private art collection" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span face="Verdana, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: white; font-size: 12px; text-align: left;">John William Waterhouse (1849-1917), The Awakening of Adonis, </span><span face="Verdana, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: white; font-size: 12px; text-align: left;">Oil on canvas c1900, </span><span face="Verdana, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: white; font-size: 12px; text-align: left;">Private art collection</span></td></tr></tbody></table><h2><br /></h2><h2>Red Blush</h2>
<p class="line"> </p>
<p class="line"> </p>
<p class="line">The redness spreads over the sky like a blush</p>
<p class="line">calming the frantic nerves of morning into</p>
<p class="line">the warm eventide.</p>
<p class="line">Is it the sailor in my soul, delighting over</p>
<p class="line">this change in light?</p>
<p class="line">Is it love tinting my glasses, warping my vision?</p>
<p class="line">Is it the throbbing pain, attesting I am alive?</p>
<p class="line">Is it the globe with vermilion on its forehead?</p>
<p class="line">Is it the bleeding firmament?</p>
<p class="line">Or is it fear or courage, victory or war?</p>
<p class="line">How we interpret this play of colours,</p>
<p class="line">this many-hued life.</p>
<p class="line">How we weave stories of Adonis and Aphrodite</p>
<p class="line">around roses.</p>
<p class="line">
How, then, the art on my wall never is red —</p>
<p class="line">vibrant and arresting.</p>
<p class="line">Perhaps, it was never a colour</p>
<p class="line">meant for the shy,</p>
<p class="line">though in their blush,</p>
<p class="line">a hint of it they cannot deny.</p>
<p class="line"> </p>
<p class="line"></p>
<p class="line"> </p>
<p class="line"></p>
______________________________<br />
<br /><b>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEisyGhx-Sak-Rltq__7DDbhEtdKwBrxX1ilGrFlXi_rum9rf22HEAc0EdLE2eUzQzVtBxtypHCE5xEgxJCEiZU1jtqFqK1m_0iiy6qtQmEluK4mQ8BY15jY_B3cu7YBKsv9hJfUIPNLHtY/s1763/206A5FF6-90DB-4BB2-913F-484326CB2B1A.jpeg"><img alt="Akshaya Pawasker" border="0" data-original-height="1762" data-original-width="1763" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEisyGhx-Sak-Rltq__7DDbhEtdKwBrxX1ilGrFlXi_rum9rf22HEAc0EdLE2eUzQzVtBxtypHCE5xEgxJCEiZU1jtqFqK1m_0iiy6qtQmEluK4mQ8BY15jY_B3cu7YBKsv9hJfUIPNLHtY/w320-h320/206A5FF6-90DB-4BB2-913F-484326CB2B1A.jpeg" title="Akshaya Pawasker" width="320" /></a>
</div>
<br />Akshaya</b>
<b>Pawaskar</b> is a doctor practicing in India, and poetry is her passion. Her
poems have been published in <i>Tipton Poetry Journal</i>, <i>Shards</i>,
<i>The Blue Nib</i>, <i>North of Oxford</i>, <i>Indian Rumination</i>,
<i>Rock and Sling</i>, among many others. She won the Craven Arts Council
ekphrastic poetry competition in 2020, placed third in the Poetry Matters
Project contest that same year, and placed second in <i>The Blue Nib</i> chapbook
contest in 2018. Her debut poetry chapbook, <i>The Falling In and the Falling Out</i>, was published by Alien Buddha in January of 2021. Follow her on Instagram; her IG handle is @akshaya_pawaskar.
<p></p>
<p></p>
ROXANNE HOFFMANhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01692002974827319982noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2296886111500063245.post-34781022210870141542022-02-07T15:26:00.005-08:002022-02-07T15:34:37.641-08:00Zev Torres | Revelations Beyond Red<div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjktKeWZ1-JpKp3lX4FEAQVveitQDkWJODpMc1oDss59TSLDV8V85l_chvRHpUlsZqjaIoWroQoPonEGmvVbZl0bmYZyORy73-BeGokz2cdSo0vjvV78qNtTa5TKoq7SRMhrOji-wDbaKDebW5sEdQOiJvqipzxHNSNSnRMwGZ6buIPl87Q2Q6ukEsI=s942" style="display: block; padding: 1em 0px; text-align: center;"><img alt="Miata Lady in Red" border="0" data-original-height="677" data-original-width="942" height="230" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjktKeWZ1-JpKp3lX4FEAQVveitQDkWJODpMc1oDss59TSLDV8V85l_chvRHpUlsZqjaIoWroQoPonEGmvVbZl0bmYZyORy73-BeGokz2cdSo0vjvV78qNtTa5TKoq7SRMhrOji-wDbaKDebW5sEdQOiJvqipzxHNSNSnRMwGZ6buIPl87Q2Q6ukEsI=w320-h230" title="Miata Lady in Red" width="320" /></a></div>
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<h2>Revelations Beyond Red</h2>
<p class="line"> </p><p class="line">
</p><p class="line"> </p><p class="line">
“Red isn’t my color,” Nina said, over coffee, early one morning,</p><p class="line">
Not long after we first met, even though</p><p class="line">
Every color was her color.</p><p class="line">
She was — she is — one of those fortunate people who can</p><p class="line">
Wrap herself in colors and patterns that would clash on anyone else,</p><p class="line">
In fabrics and textures no one else would dream of combining,</p><p class="line">Someone on whom everything comes together in chromatic harmony,</p><p class="line">
Who brings out the best features in every article of clothing,</p><p class="line">
Rather than the other way around.</p><p class="line">
But she won’t wear red —</p><p class="line">
Or hats, except on the coldest of days.</p><p class="line">
</p> <p class="line">
Years after we bought our own apartment</p><p class="line">
And decided that the time was right to refurbish the kitchen,</p><p class="line">
Nina, to my amazement, said,</p><p class="line">
“Let’s do everything in red. Red cabinets, red appliances.</p><p class="line">
I’ve always dreamed of a red kitchen.”</p><p class="line">
That sounded fine to me, but …</p><p class="line">
“You once said red isn’t your color.”</p><p class="line">
“To wear,” she said, recalling instantly our conversation</p><p class="line">
Fifteen years earlier.</p><p class="line">
“But red things, I love. Like</p><p class="line">
My red Miata, right?”</p><p class="line">
Of course. Her Miata.</p><p class="line">
Her soul-red Miata.</p><p class="line">
The Miata she coveted,</p><p class="line">
For which, if we ever splurged,</p><p class="line">
She would learn to drive.</p><p class="line">
</p> <p class="line">
Moments before we were to make our first red purchase —</p><p class="line">
A burgundy stove —</p><p class="line">
Nina grabbed hold of my wrist, our credit card in my hand.</p><p class="line">
“What happens,” she said, “if we get tired of our red kitchen?”</p><p class="line">
And the only red that ended up in our refurbished kitchen of</p><p class="line">
Stainless steel appliances and beige cabinets were</p><p class="line">Porcelain tiles glazed vermilion and emblazoned with white swirls,</p><p class="line">
Randomly interspersed with blues and yellows, similarly adorned,</p><p class="line">
To disrupt the otherwise glossy white sea</p><p class="line">
Comprising the backsplash.</p><p class="line">
</p><p class="line">
</p><p class="line">
Several weeks ago, while leafing through a photo album</p><p class="line">
From the pre-smart phone era,</p><p class="line">
We came across a picture of Nina,</p><p class="line">
Stunning in a crimson dress — the color of joy and mystery,</p><p class="line">
A garnet pendant on a gold chain around her neck,</p><p class="line">
Her upper arms partially exposed,</p><p class="line">
Standing next to me,</p><p class="line">
At an event, we don’t recall.</p><p class="line">
After studying the picture, which suggests an elegant affair,</p><p class="line">
An occasion worth remembering,</p><p class="line">
Nina frowned,</p><p class="line">
Touched the image as if to spur her powers of recollection,</p><p class="line">
And, with a dismissive tilt of her head,</p><p class="line">
Turned towards the kitchen.</p><p class="line">
“Red’s not my color,” she said,</p><p class="line">
As if reaching that conclusion for the first time.</p><p class="line">
</p><p class="line">
Then she poured herself a cup of coffee</p><p class="line">
From an auburn coffee maker that we happened upon</p><p class="line">
Only a few weeks earlier,</p><p class="line">
On a cold and snowy Sunday morning that left on her ears</p><p class="line">
A trace of frostbite rouge,</p><p class="line">
During our desperate quest to replace</p><p class="line">
The generic black, no-frills, eight-cup drip coffee maker</p><p class="line">
That had died that day, suddenly, after six years,</p><p class="line">
Filling us with a sense of urgency to act immediately,</p><p class="line">
To prevent the day, followed by the week, month, and year,</p><p class="line">
From proceeding without us,</p><p class="line">
Leaving us destined to forever lag behind the present moment.</p><p class="line">
</p><p class="line">
But, more importantly, to ensure that we are sufficiently caffeinated</p><p class="line">
For our longstanding weekend ritual,</p><p class="line">
During which, over breakfast and Café Bustelo,</p><p class="line">
We share our impassioned assessments of the week gone by,</p><p class="line">
Issue “if it were up to me” proclamations,</p><p class="line">
And reveal to each other aspects of ourselves</p><p class="line">
Not discernible on the visible spectrum.</p><p class="line">
</p><div><br /></div><div>
<br />__________________________________</div><div><br /></div><div><div><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjEhVW8TRszyvzRsJNZzw2lf90z5wqXAA9LOkr-xJUwVa9D44w-UG3Ql21FH_PcA8NFMdXB16ijHzArfJg4d3YAxrUm5_WNOuQ1tzO3bR2AJ8M0PJ9lJ-xvt8UUVnfxATrMn9OfRad6xFOh/s1600/ZT+-+May6%252C2020.1.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="927" data-original-width="837" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjEhVW8TRszyvzRsJNZzw2lf90z5wqXAA9LOkr-xJUwVa9D44w-UG3Ql21FH_PcA8NFMdXB16ijHzArfJg4d3YAxrUm5_WNOuQ1tzO3bR2AJ8M0PJ9lJ-xvt8UUVnfxATrMn9OfRad6xFOh/s200/ZT+-+May6%252C2020.1.jpg" width="180" /></a><p><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12pt;"><b>Zev Torres</b> is a writer and spoken word performer whose work has appeared in numerous print and online publications including <i>Breadcrumbs</i>, <i>The Athena Review</i>, Great Weather for Media’s <i>Suitcase of Chrysanthemums</i> and <i>I Let Go of the Stars in my Hand</i>, Three Rooms Press’s <i>Maintenant</i> 6 and <i>Maintenant</i> 12, and the Brownstone Poets Anthologies (2010-2020). Since 2008, Zev has hosted Make Music New York's annual Spoken Word Extravaganza.</span></p></div></div><p></p>ROXANNE HOFFMANhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01692002974827319982noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2296886111500063245.post-76533038923977763692022-02-04T09:51:00.002-08:002022-08-15T09:48:57.935-07:00Megha Sood | Crimson Robe
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjzRJc7yq9iMqZIGLMyc0AeLjOMaS7Ul2Ita6RXX_AzFug1xEM8TRxkngXHxChe-mkTvrxrd4ie_leeDw5hH0CUZZ6_VPgtzzlTapdpJTjFS0XuozO5XWRHLaXHaO_SauhpW9YkzjfcwN3FET6ZoPcuSA8b9DhoWon9O20AvhAS9pif9W6Mu92zOSpW=s3264" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;" target="_blank"><img alt="Crimson Robe Dune Dancing in Moonlight" border="0" data-original-height="2623" data-original-width="3264" height="257" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjzRJc7yq9iMqZIGLMyc0AeLjOMaS7Ul2Ita6RXX_AzFug1xEM8TRxkngXHxChe-mkTvrxrd4ie_leeDw5hH0CUZZ6_VPgtzzlTapdpJTjFS0XuozO5XWRHLaXHaO_SauhpW9YkzjfcwN3FET6ZoPcuSA8b9DhoWon9O20AvhAS9pif9W6Mu92zOSpW=w320-h257" title="Crimson Robe in Moonlight" width="320" /></a></div><h2><br /></h2><h2>Crimson Robe</h2>
<p class="line"> </p><p class="line">
</p><p class="line"> </p><p class="line">
Love is like the crimson robe</p><p class="line">
flowing in the middle of the desert</p><p class="line">
unfettered</p><p class="line">
bathed by the silken moonlight</p><p class="line">
</p><p class="line"> </p><p class="line">
even the shifty-eyed moon is scarred but not love</p><p class="line">
it floats upon those treacherous dunes</p><p class="line">
teaches them a lesson or two</p><p class="line">
about beauty and its frailty</p><p class="line">
</p><p class="line"> </p><p class="line">
those shifting dunes in tandem with the winds</p><p class="line">
caught up in the illusion of permanence</p><p class="line">
as they keep up their dance</p><p class="line"><br /></p><p class="line">
love pirouettes like a swirling dervish</p><p class="line">
to the notes of the aubade</p><p class="line">
sung by the parched lips of her scar-faced lover</p><p class="line">
watching for the last glance from his love</p><p class="line">
</p><p class="line"> </p><p class="line">
a fleeting touch of the crimson robe</p><p class="line">
floating and gliding endlessly</p><p class="line">
in the middle of the night</p><p class="line">
doused in the love of the silken moon</p><p class="line">
</p><p class="line"> </p><p class="line"></p>
__________________________________<br />
<br /><br />
<b><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0VnwiSW1y0BZQxC6_2dR6OXam_BMqiv23STYweorVsi2Jb-UC-FLZP9AUsQ8LKXnh4RQTLw-PRh0zKlebZV4uXs_vLrCI7rdJQsVpu73jVeGswEJTNOOpyL5oDANDykcJcFTJ9xddh14/s2048/Megha+Sood+2020.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="Megha Sood" border="0" data-original-height="1828" data-original-width="2048" height="179" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0VnwiSW1y0BZQxC6_2dR6OXam_BMqiv23STYweorVsi2Jb-UC-FLZP9AUsQ8LKXnh4RQTLw-PRh0zKlebZV4uXs_vLrCI7rdJQsVpu73jVeGswEJTNOOpyL5oDANDykcJcFTJ9xddh14/w200-h179/Megha+Sood+2020.jpg" title="Megha Sood" width="200" /></a></div>Megha Sood</b>, award-winning poet, editor, and blogger, lives in Jersey City, New Jersey, USA. She is Assistant Poetry Editor for the UK-based feminist zine <i>MookyChick</i> and co-editor of <i>The Kali Project </i>(Indie Blue Publishing, 2021), an anthology of art and poetry by women of Indian heritage. Megha’s publication credits include <i>Adelaide Literary Award Poetry Anthology 2019 </i>(Adelaine Books, 2020), <i>Fallow Ground </i>(Inwood Press, 2020), and <i>She Speaks</i> (Sierra Club Books, 2020), as well as <i>Life in Quarantine: Witnessing Global Pandemic</i>, a digital initiative of Stanford University. She has recently published two collections of her own work: <i>My Body is Not an Apology</i>, her debut poetry chapbook from Finishing Line Press (2021), and <i>My Body Lives Like a Threat</i>, a full-length collection from FlowerSong Press (2022). She blogs at <a href="https://meghasworldsite.wordpress.com/">Megha’s World</a> on WordPress and tweets as @meghasood16.ROXANNE HOFFMANhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01692002974827319982noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2296886111500063245.post-7197729042540885082022-02-02T22:03:00.011-08:002022-02-02T23:39:06.111-08:00Ron Kolm | I Am You as You Are Me<style type="text/css">
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<h2><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgLrlQu80ODB3KHeW24z9eto-03kzJzcFRDciR4i8OYurlyAFF1M1gAePRpI8gSgwMMWLSAg45rSWczHF6BE3TtPn_UmujDBcLD2MyGUt7ifqvd4tlAD_56_CJQdbA1a5rt7xIVEeElxLfqa-Jr8SAyZMkv47LPK5F0o_fiIeGvC7nMChFpFAhWbpky=s740" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="Red Pajamas" border="0" data-original-height="740" data-original-width="683" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgLrlQu80ODB3KHeW24z9eto-03kzJzcFRDciR4i8OYurlyAFF1M1gAePRpI8gSgwMMWLSAg45rSWczHF6BE3TtPn_UmujDBcLD2MyGUt7ifqvd4tlAD_56_CJQdbA1a5rt7xIVEeElxLfqa-Jr8SAyZMkv47LPK5F0o_fiIeGvC7nMChFpFAhWbpky=w294-h320" title="Red Pajamas" width="294" /></a></div><br />I Am You as You Are Me</h2>
<p class="line"> </p><p class="line">
</p><p class="line"> </p><p class="line">
When you said</p><p class="line">
You wanted to follow me</p><p class="line">
Everywhere I went</p><p class="line">
For an entire day</p><p class="line">
Videotaping</p><p class="line">
Every movement I made</p><p class="line">
It should have set off</p><p class="line">
An alarm somewhere</p><p class="line">
But I said, “Cool.”</p><p class="line">
</p><p class="line">
Then you wanted</p><p class="line">
To film me</p><p class="line">
In my apartment</p><p class="line">
Doing routine chores</p><p class="line">
Dressed in your dad’s</p><p class="line">
Bright red pajamas.</p><p class="line">
They seemed clean</p><p class="line">
Enough, so I said,</p><p class="line">
“Let’s do it.”</p><p class="line">
</p><p class="line">
So it should have come</p><p class="line">
As no surprise</p><p class="line">
When you phoned</p><p class="line">
And threatened my life</p><p class="line">
For a complicated</p><p class="line">
Imaginary wrong.</p><p class="line">
I guess you wanted</p><p class="line">
To rearrange the original —</p><p class="line">
Edit me in the flesh.</p><p class="line">
</p><p class="line">
</p>
<br />
______________________________<br />
<br />
<b><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhoKf8aTI5l8ZXg-q6mwtN5FFXNNqJfzbfv004nrg3WzmB8ZN_rsxXFaSrwafsyC1XUiPCalEUIiCovygLPvcGsXEWzTXi3n1G3WOwc3B8IbsSsUKx6ItHCR6mgcWK6u1lYOSU4cw9XTaU/s750/Ron+Kolm+Photo+by+Arthur+Kaye300.JPG" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="Ron Kolm by Arthur Kaye" border="0" data-original-height="750" data-original-width="626" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhoKf8aTI5l8ZXg-q6mwtN5FFXNNqJfzbfv004nrg3WzmB8ZN_rsxXFaSrwafsyC1XUiPCalEUIiCovygLPvcGsXEWzTXi3n1G3WOwc3B8IbsSsUKx6ItHCR6mgcWK6u1lYOSU4cw9XTaU/w167-h200/Ron+Kolm+Photo+by+Arthur+Kaye300.JPG" title="Ron Kolm by Arthur Kaye" width="167" /></a></div><br />Ron Kolm</b> is a contributing editor of <i>Sensitive Skin</i> magazine and the author of several books including <i>Swimming in the Shallow End</i> (2020), <i>A Change in the Weather</i> (2017), and <i>Night Shift</i> (2016). His writings also appear in <i>And Then</i>, <i>Feuerstuhl</i>, <i>Local Knowledge</i>, <i>The Opiate</i>, and <i>The Outlaw Bible of American Poetry</i> (Thunder’s Mouth Press). A collection of his papers (some 35 cartons of correspondence, notebooks, objects, chapbooks, signed first editions and runs of literary magazines) was purchased by New York University and is now part of the Fales Library’s permanent archives.ROXANNE HOFFMANhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01692002974827319982noreply@blogger.com0