MYSTERY PLANE

by Phyllis Wax

They keep searching the seas:
the Bay of Bengal, the Gulf of Thailand,
the South China Sea, the Indian Ocean.
Might as well look in Lake Michigan.

No terrorists on board, no hijackers.
Two good pilots—a grandfather and
a young man looking forward to marriage.
Only good people (ask the relatives,
wailing and weeping), a planeload
of concentrated goodness
from Asia, Australia, Europe
and North America.  Where
could they possibly be?

I know.  A night flight.
Two pilots, heads in the clouds.                        
One gives a nod, turns                   
off the transponder.  The plane
rises to 45,000 feet, 60,000, higher—
approaches the glowing face of God.         


Phyllis Wax muses on the news and politics from a bluff overlooking Lake Michigan in Milwaukee, WI.  She's been widely published, most recently in  The Widows' Handbook:  Poetic Reflections on Grief and Survival from Kent State University Press.

ENLIGHTENMENT

by B.Z. Niditch

Image source: Poets for World Peace

This spring we plant
seedlings
on grounds that flower
covering the good earth,
and write in splendor
by our night lamps
as a new season rebirths
each poet's power,

Asking winter's icy justice
be gone this season
we reach  for deadlines
over a stalking press
to stamp out
in bold headlines
every reasoned grievance,

Yet the bureaucracy
drives us crazy
making us wait
in the cold for hours
and the plutocracy
ignores our pleas
for democracy,

We learn from Byron
Picasso or Shelley
with a artist's chance
for a dove's release
under the burning sun
when frightful furies
ask for war
we yearn
to walk for peace.


B.Z. Niditch is a poet, playwright, fiction writer and teacher.  His work is widely published in journals and magazines throughout the world, including: Columbia: A Magazine of Poetry and Art; The Literary Review; Denver Quarterly; Hawaii Review; Kadmos (France); Prism International; Jejune (Czech Republic); Leopold Bloom (Budapest);  Le Guepard (France);  Antioch Review; and Prairie Schooner, among others. He lives in Brookline, Massachusetts.

CYBER LIPS

by Susan Vespoli

            (after Lucille Clifton)


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.................../..../
............./´¯/'...'/´¯¯`·¸
........../'/.../..../......./¨¯\
........('(...´...´.... ¯~/'...')
.........\.................'...../
..........''...\.......... _.·´
............\..............(
..............\.............\...

watch out for online lips.
they need no face
to move around on.
they speak in virtual blips
from keyboard
cell phone screens
they tweet and twitter
spit. those lips

are chicken clicks
they snap their words like whips
flip posts like middle finger.


Susan Vespoli lives mainly in Phoenix, but sometimes in Prescott, with her partner and dogs. She is a teacher, poet, and born-again-bicyclist.

REPORTING IN FROM THE SKY

by Kristina England





Last night, I forced myself into slumber
as a nine alarm fire left my State in grief,
two Boston firemen perishing in the ashes.
Now, sky-based for five hours,
I click the internet icon on my phone
receive no connection.
Too cheap to pay for inflight service,
I know nothing of the ground,
of my family, my country,
only of what I see -
the periwinkle sky,
my unfinished seltzer,
aircrew maneuvering the aisle,
and my travel buddy, one Deb Fisher,
her head tilted to the right,
arms crossed,
the soft breath of sleep
moving her forward in time.


Kristina England resides in Worcester, Massachusetts. Her fiction and poetry is published or forthcoming at Gargoyle, The New Verse News, The Story Shack, The Quotable, and other magazines. Her first collection of short stories will be published in the 2014 Poet's Haven Author Series.

FITS AND STARTS ON THE BIG YELLOW FISH TAXI

by Tricia Knoll

Image: A pool in the Sacramento River where young salmon were stranded last year (Fish and Wildlife Service via KQED)

                           California Drought Has Salmon Hitching Rides in Trucks 
                                                                 --Bloomberg News, March 26, 2014


Oh, as rare as hen’s teeth, or when pigs fly
under a rain of cats and dogs and the horse in my pasture
is purple.

Or as surprising as the black President
and peace in the Middle East.

When fish ride bicycles,
there are so many fish
so far to go

thirty million salmon grab taxis
from Sacramento to the sea.


Tricia Knoll had a salmon omelet for breakfast. She writes poetry in Portland, Oregon and has a chapbook Urban Wild coming out in May from Finishing Line Press.

GREATCOAT SHADOW

by Gary Bowers

Massive Nor’easter bigger than Hurricane Sandy expected to bring winds, snow, cold blast to Northeast for late March. Posted on March 25, 2014 by Anthony Watts on Watts Up With That?

We do warm.
Some soon day, when cataclysm is a daily thing,
The managers-by-crisis of our orbiting home
Might scatter squares of molecular-malleable metal
In a greatcoat for the Earth
Above the atmosphere.

We may cool.
Since weather is, in an interrelationship this size,
Irreducible to a set of equations,
There are bound to be consequences
No software simulation nor flight of fancy
May anticipate.

We may learn,
In the greatcoat shadow,
New transient joy
Of occluded sun and eclipted moon
Before the next
And final crisis.


Gary Bowers is a northern-Arizona poet whose specialties are acrostic, illustrated verse and the sonnet form. He is the author of Lives of the Eminent Poets of Greater Phoenix: Volume I. He lives happily with his collagist girlfriend Denise and their cat Cookie in Cottonwood, Arizona.

THE SLIDE

by Cally Conan-Davies



When we met the moon was over the house.
Now the house is gone beneath the mountain,
And night drops weeping through the broken day.
On the ground the mired leaves of autumn
move in the drying wind, and blow away.


Cally Conan-Davies hails from Tasmania, and now lives in the Pacific North West. Her work can be read now, or soon, in The Able Muse, Angle, The Hudson Review, Kin, Lavender Review, Mezzo Cammin, The New Criterion, New Walk, Poetry, Quadrant, Raintown Review, The Sewanee Review, Shotglass, Southwest Review, Suptropics, Virginia Quarterly Review.

SPRING MUSINGS

by Martin Elster



A hundred thousand million galaxies
in motley clusters rapidly receding
from one another — like a bunch of bees
repelled by tainted nectar they’d been eating —
is a sure sign the cosmos is inflating,
as is the vocal structure of the frog
now calling out across the water, waiting,
as patient as the shadows in this bog.
With every croak, his throat must grow then shrink.
But will that happen to the universe?
Well, you can speculate and muse and think
and theorize and wonder and immerse
your thoughts in such abstract considerations
while I sit listening to frog vibrations.


Martin Elster, author of There’s a Dog in the Heavens!, serves as percussionist for the Hartford Symphony Orchestra and is a composer; his poetry has appeared in numerous literary magazines and anthologies.

PUTIN AS JABBERWOCK

by Kathleen Capps

Shots fired as Russian troops force their way into Ukrainian base in Crimea --Financial Times, March 22, 2014

Long ago with eyes aflame,
Keen his claws, monster came.
We have only fists to sing
We have only stones to sling.

No one calls to freedom bring
We have only fists to sing.
In the Square we’re beaten down
A Savior no where to be found
Monster monster burning bright
With all the diamonds in the night
Sitting on your jeweled throne
Dark and evil is your crown.

Whiffle your wings through tulgy wood
Manxsome Moscow foe, no good
To Crimea or Ukraine in breaking laws.
Only blood drips from those claws.


Kathleen Capps received a PhD from the University of Oregon in English; studied French, Spanish, German, Czech, Polish, and American Sign Language; presented conference papers at international semiotic studies and comparative literature studies conferences; raised Icelandic sheep for thirteen years; sometimes blogs about the farm.

THE RISING COST OF FOREVER

by Tricia Knoll

It started with stamps, that brainstorm to sell U. S. stamps with no imprint
of cost -- forever-good stamps. Flags. Shirley Chisholm. Ray Charles. Year
of the Horse stamps with no horses on them. Four-color winter flowers
and Harry Potter. The images seem to have a shelf-life of somewhat less
than forever, but maybe not. American culture is funny about cults.

There are some for-real forever stamps -- and the price is rising on them
too. Cesspools of nuclear waste no one wants in their backyard. Good-by
passenger pigeons. Black rhinos. Leatherback turtles. Mountain gorillas.
Children without food. Families with no homelands. Farmland poisoned
beyond use by nuclear accidents. Plant pollen that is genetically ready
for the round up season of pesticides.

You lick it. You stick it. Pick the self-adhesive. Stick it to you.
The cost is going up again soon.


Tricia Knoll is a Portland, Oregon poet who enjoys The New Verse News daily. Her chapbook Urban Wild will be available from Finishing Line Press  in May 2014.

STANDING AT HIS GRAVESITE THE DAYS OF HIS DYING

by Sadie Ducet

 
 

In my mind’s eye, I have been standing here all week, 
standing vigil: no signs, no chant or song, no ranting shirts. 
Stone-faced, yes, but here must be no hate.
I clear the space. And there are others, also standing. 
In my mind’s eye, we stand for hours, days, attentive
to know the place with its chill small breezes, 
the squirrels and mice, songbirds at dawn, 
the occasional crepuscular fox glimpsed 
among trees and grasses. We prepare together
for what must happen as stars wheel over:
the crew digging the hole, and one
who pisses into it, knowing who it’s for.  

They arrive in procession with the body.  
Together they lower that mad man down. 
His hurt and hungers, whatever they were, now done. 
A few words said, they leave. The backhoes fill the gape. 
Then all are gone, save those who keep this vigil.  
We remain, to stand there, still, invisible as night comes on.     
     Then give us signs and signifiers now,     
     to quiet this mound of earth and heal the scar,     
     to keep such pain from ever seeping back.  

But it’s too late for that. All we can do
is offer a smaller prayer: cover over. 
Take him in, this broken old man who hated. 
May he know peace at last, in dust. 
May the rest of us know more than rest. 
Plant a yew tree, a poem, to mark this place. 
Then let earth do what it does best.

Sadie Ducet's poetry appears in a few places, including New Verse News, Literary Mama, Rose Red Review, and the upcoming issue of The Mom Egg Review. 

SLINKY – SLANKY – SLUNKY

by The Bangkok Bards Saknarin Chinayote & Charles Frederickson

Four seasons almost perfect harmony
Classic movement symphony left unfinished
Predictably never skipping its turn
Annual rejuvenated hope weeds overgrown

One eye sees the other
Feel lost touch sensually regained
Breathlessly inhaling exhaling deeply again
Awakening passionate urges lust yawning

Wondering why you were born
Celebrating revived roots coming alive
Patiently awaiting final snowflake meltdown
Spring sprang sprung tightly wound

Unmistakable scent stale dirt clumps
Seedlings poking through frostbite bitten
Prickly rosebuds arise spirit risen
Barefoot miracle right on schedule

Turning shiny countenance toward sun
Warm embrace hugging droopy lids
Faithfully planting seedpods reaps harvest
At least one more time

Pre-compressed helical spring stretching gravitation
Toying with divine levitation tension
Reforming itself under own momentum
Flowing curves regaining original shape

No Holds Bard Dr. Charles Frederickson and Mr. Saknarin Chinayote proudly present YouTube mini-movies @ YouTube – CharlesThai1 .

WHAT YOU BELIEVE INTO

by Jim Gustafson



“What if I believe into this just because it is beautiful?” --Andrei Dmitriyevich Linde upon being told that his theory of the “inflationary universe” (The Big Bang) has been confirmed.  March 17, 2014


What if we believe
into this just because
it is beautiful?

Is that enough, or was
there more for us
to hope for.

Not many can place their life
in just one thing. Perhaps
science is poetry, after all.

One day, will our words
be measured at the earth’s pole?
Will come to the door

and say, what you have
believed into
has been proven true?


Jim Gustafson’s most recent book, Driving Home, was published by Aldrich Press in 2013 and is a 2013 Pushcart Prize Nominee. He is an MFA candidate at the University of Tampa, teaches at Florida Gulf Coast University and lives in Fort Myers, Florida, where he reads, writes, and pulls weeds.

LOST FLIGHT

by David Chorlton

Between the disappearance
and the find, there is a time
imagination flies
to an altitude above
unhappiness or discontent

and circles the globe
following the possibility
that nothing is wrong, that
the pilot simply tired
of gravity and when
his announcement was broadcast
in the cabin, all

the passengers applauded.
A wonderful lightness
took hold at a cruising speed
of survival with a view
down on the earthly struggle
where bad news

is the only kind expected,
but waiting for a signal
we can watch

for the perpetual flight
passing overhead: a silver
arrow pointing
at beyond, at
wherever it is
such freedom ends.

David Chorlton has lived in Phoenix since 1978, and still sees his surroundings with an outsider's eye. This helps his writing projects, which include a new poetry collection,"The Devil's Sonata," from FutureCycle Press.