MADNESS

by T R Poulson

Nevada looked like its NCAA tournament was going to come to end Sunday in the second round. But after trailing by 22 points in the second half, the Wolf Pack rallied to beat the Cincinnati 75-73 and advance to the Sweet 16. Nevada’s stirring comeback – the second-largest in tournament history – came just two days after the No. 7 seed rallied from 14 points down in the second half to beat Texas for its first NCAA victory since 2007. “Nothing feels better than this,” Nevada coach Eric Musselman said. “Nothing. Sweet 16!” —USA Today, March 18, 2018

A snow hiker finds fifty-four hands: frozen hands, unfettered hands,
gnarled hands, grisly hands, bloodstained hands, dissevered hands.

So many cats:  cougars, bearcats, panthers, tigers, wildcats
pounce on blue jays, bulls, highlanders with their weathered hands.

A thundering herd evades the cowboys’ ropes, pursued by shockers,
those pesky prods pressed to haunches by men’s leathered hands.

The quakers fight, their weapon, inner light, as those jayhawks
swoop and fly, yellow beaks like iron, wings like feathered hands.

Even friars shake in fright, as lawless aggies bare their whips
and guns, no honor to men bound to God with forevered hands.

From myths, the titans from old kingdoms rise to snuff out fires
of boilermakers, crush the torches, hammers of endeavored hands.

Will the gods send hurricanes to spin and drench and swirl,
to tame all claws, talons, hooves, with wind’s untethered hands?

But wait.  Imagine the wagging retriever, prancing, dancing.
He takes the bone from cavaliers’ unwilling, levered hands.

We’re in the madness.  We back our pack of wolves who dodge
the long, curved horns.  The bearcats loom.  We lift together-hands.

T R Poulson, a Nevada Alum (yep, I proudly sign my ghazal with support for my Wolf Pack. Her work has appeared in Rattle, Alehouse, Trajectory, Wildcat Review, The Meadow, Verdad, The Raintown Review, J Journal, and Tuck Magazine), currently lives in San Carlos, California.  

MARCH MADNESS

by Gerard Sarnat

Image source: CNN

Although an ambitious young father, I took a year off from work
to be with my wife and firstborn in the Pt. Reyes National Seashore.
We bought a twelve inch black and white TV with rabbit ear antennae
so I could watch Watergate unfold while doing pushups holding our baby.

More than four decades later it occurs to schedule requisite joint replacements
to coincide with college basketball’s month of playoffs then the inexorable
Select Congressional Committee to investigate T***p & Associates
relationship to Russia’s influence on the ‘16 Presidential election.


Gerard Sarnat is the author of four collections: Homeless Chronicles from Abraham to Burning Man (2010), Disputes (2012), 17s (2014) and Melting The Ice King (2016). Harvard and Stanford educated, Gerry’s worked in jails, built and staffed clinics for the marginalized and been a CEO of healthcare organizations and Stanford Medical School professor. Married since 1969, he and his wife have three children and three grandkids.

MS. D AND THE FINAL THREE

by Lee Patton

She’s alone as usual at the far table in the teachers’ lunch room--
I stall, holding my tray, wondering if today will be the day
I join Ms. D, but Cheryl Sitkow groans at the rain-snow mix
through the staff room window, hoping to lure me into her tale.
“Reminds me of this time last year, Spring break, when we took
our kids to Poland.  Mist and fog and chilly rain every day.
We could barely tell the cathedrals of Krakow from the barracks
at Auschwitz, honestly.  All a gray blur. The kids were so bored.
My sisters kept asking if we could abandon the tour
and catch a  southbound train to the Riviera beaches.”

“What you get, Sitkow, trying to have an educational vacation,”
says Gary Schmidt, brown-bagging it with the other guys from PE.
“Geez, you’re such a history nerd.”  Gary turns to suffer
over his brackets, ratcheting down his hopes for the Final Four.
“If Kentucky doesn’t do any better next time, I’m personally flying
over there to kick their bluegrass asses.  That goes double
for my brother, who’s got double the money on the semi-finals.”

Fawn Lopez, the new Spanish teacher, joins Cheryl, despondent
at the window.  “My grandma says all this moisture means one thing.
Lawns to mow. Weeds to pluck.  Mud.  Can we put a stop to spring?”

Que lastima, I mutter, moving past. I bring my lunch tray to Ms. D’s
vicinity.  She smiles her slow, sad smile, nodding toward a chair.
 “I know why you avoid us, Ms. D,” I say, “all we do is kvetch.”

“It’s not so bad,” she says. “We’re all just stressed, blowing steam.
What about you?  Do you have grand plans for Spring Break?”

“Family stuff,” I sigh. “My cousins and I are driving my godmother
to Palm Springs to escape the rain.  Not real exciting, I’m afraid.”

“Sounds nice,” says Ms. D.  “Maybe you and your cousins can party
while she’s asleep.  And the desert sun is going to be heavenly.”
I warm up, dreaming about the margaritas we plan to blend
the minute we get there.  Then I ask her what she’d be up to.
“I’ll just stay close by my folks, as usual.”  I ask why, stunned
when she opens up to me at last.  She didn’t really have any one
besides her parents. No siblings, no cousins, no aunts, no uncles.
No grandparents.  “Just we three.”  Her folks, she says, were still babies
when they were hatched in separate camps, the only survivors
hung on each family tree. “A relief program brought them
to the States.  All they had were each other, and then me.”  

I remember all the times I’d seen Ms. D staring out, days
like this, to these chilly drizzles that follow blitzkrieg blizzards,
when March cedes to April’s peace, days the earth seems to yearn
for a treaty. She barely touches the Tuna Surprise on her cafeteria tray.
Granting her abashed smiles and polite hellos to us, drifted
to the farthest corner, Ms. D always abides the nearby noise,
this endless griping about all of our gifts.

Lee Patton, a Denverite, writes fiction, poetry, drama and commentary.   Quarterlies that have published his work include Best New Writing 2012, The Threepenny Review, The Massachusetts Review, The California Quarterly,  Poetry Quarterly, Ellipsis, Hawaii-Pacific Review, Adirondack Review and Memoir Journal. His third novel, My Aim Is True, was launched in 2015 from Dreamspinner Press.

ICARUS IN INDIANAPOLIS

by Earl J. Wilcox

He flies through the feverish air, effortlessly,

raises muscled arms to stop the three-point shot.

His whole body is fueled by forces favoring

the young—the roaring crowd, fame,

the Final Four, a life-changing game.

Soaring and soaring and soaring, he falls,

then falls again, fast---a leg awkwardly bends,

a broken bone pierces his skin. With him,

the world cries in agony.

Earl J. Wilcox writes about aging, baseball, literary icons, politics, and southern culture. His work appears in more than two dozen journals; he is a regular contributor to TheNew Verse News. More of Earl's poetry appears at his blog, Writing by Earl.