The 30/30 Project: September 2019

Backup / Restore

TP3030-logo-360Welcome to the 30/30 Project, an extraordinary challenge and fundraiser for Tupelo Press, a nonprofit 501(c)(3) literary press. Each month, volunteer poets run the equivalent of a “poetry marathon,” writing 30 poems in 30 days, while the rest of us “sponsor” and encourage them every step of the way.

The volunteers for September 2019 are Roxanne Bogart, David Hall, Adam Hughes, Carol Jewell, Jennifer Santos Madriaga, Denise Miller, Matt Sadler, Vivian Sanchbraj, and Celia Stuart-Powles. Read their full bios here.

If you’d like to volunteer for a 30/30 Project month, please fill out our application here and and warm up your pen!

Poem 15 / Day 15

The Wish / by Roxanne Bogart

She sinks her hands deep into soil
gardening gloves left lying on the shelf
her skin longs for dirt’s cool sweat
feel worms wriggle.
Her nails fill with blackness.

After softening the soil
she shoves hard with the cylindrical trowel
creating deep round holes
squeezes flowers from their pots
tears roots before laying them
gently into the earth openings prepared
wild geranium here, verbena there
in beds of wetness and nourishment—
space to grow, absorb
from above and below
all they need to become.

When she is done
she leaves the yard for the forest trail
climbs the rutted, rocky hill
rising along Dean’s Brook
reaches the right-of-way
that opens wide with western views
of undulating, green hills
plants herself on a fallen log.

A raven lands on a nearby tree branch,
joining another, black feathers gleam
in late day sun. She hears them growl
to one another, low tones of a secret language.
She looks down at her black fingernails
remembers why she has come
as the edges of her body dissolve
and she becomes a wish
to assimilate the avian discourse
the world all around her.

The lion and the semicolon / by David C. Hall

The lion and the semicolon
went to dinner one evening.
Wishing to be comfortable and undisturbed,
they chose a restaurant known
for its eccentric clientele.
The waitresses in their black trousers,
men’s white shirts
with cufflinks,
and little black ties
were too cool to seem to notice.
The semicolon fed on abstractions.
The lion ate grammarians.

Herb Ritts’ Janet / by Carol Jewell

Herb Ritts’ Janet looks at you
from her frame on the wall.
She’s black and white,
but I can see the
chocolate velvet of her skin.
Her eyes are kind, her smile,
I can see the wind
running its fingers through
her hair.
My friend calls her,
“my girl,” and
my friend
is right.

When I met you / by Jennifer Santos Madriaga

Some big things happen quieter than a whisper.
Witness the sprout pushing through the husk,
the declaration of existence in tiny unfolding.
Who would suspect that something so miniscule would
grow into an entity of beautiful substance?
I still remember the moment before I knew you.
I saw the back of your head as you walked
through the door, and realized you were the one
I was supposed to meet. I had a fleeting thought
that you were a dark horse as I walked through
the entrance. The light was dim. Initially
I could not find you.

In that space before knowing
floated mystery.
There is before
and after and that space
in between.
The space before knowledge.
The space where change
is already happening but not
recognized until hindsight happens.
I stepped into that space and
then turned a corner.

You were sitting there, waiting for me.
You had been waiting your entire life.
And I had been waiting too.
We both didn’t know this
until we saw each other.

What else about that night
when we kissed and laughed?
And how we felt fear because there is still
surprise at an answered prayer,
especially a prayer you never knew you had
but your heart had been hoping all this time.
Oh, heart, betraying me, opening
the high walls I built so carefully through the years.
How you opened the door without my knowing
and said, “Come in. This door was meant for you.”

Without Regretting: How to Make an American Mass Shooter, a 30-Day Primer / by Denise Miller

Name them hero— a white knight in a
too black, too brown, too female, too
immigrant world. Make them believe
they are Arthur and label the sword pulled
from that stone the Ruger AR-15 bullet
fished from the flesh of their first kill—

Teach them to eliminate failure
by eliminating the origin of the no—
the girlfriend or wife— estranged or
restraining order— the boss or the boot
camp— let go or disciplined will all
disappear with the snap of a trigger finger.

The look just before the happening / by Matt Sadler

The creek is a gift if
you let it sing to you
about what’s up there-

its past
is a kind of future,
echoes and musty brightness,

hope if you point yourself
the right direction and
smell the water’s clear,

crisp, blunt refusal
of the life it’s
barrelling toward.

*title from a line in Long Live the Tribe of Fatherless Girls, by T Kira Madden

The visitor / by Vivian Sanchbraj

Between sunset and sunrise
the constant monster arrives at three a.m.
the Cyclades gale-force winds sound
like witches yawns and slaughterhouse howls.
Desert dust swirls under the moonlight,
he closes the door, crumbles and ashes blow,
silently enters but his bellowed breathing
never cease and sits at the edge of the couch.
Lays his hands on the dormant prisoner
he kisses her closed eyes and hair
he kisses everything that is dead
and wakes up entangled in alga bloom.

SUMMER / by Celia Stuart-Powles

Summer is hanging heavy and sullen
With heat, and as days shorten she is
Undaunted, flinging flower after flower:
Thirty moon-lilies this morning, waning
East to west; hot afternoons, the passion
Flower squanders pristine blooms: ten or so
Today—and even the Persian lilac is
Giving it another go. One chrysanthemum
Is anxious: a flash of yellow here, there,
As temperatures soar—and if there’s rain,
Mosquitoes ruin the game—and yet,
As Monarchs pass this way again,
There’s no denying summer’s end.

Poem 14 / Day 14

Soul Sonnet / by Roxanne Bogart

I wait for my soul to rise into the day
exert body and mind till both have done
their duty, their fill, grow weary and forfeit the rest
opening space amid the heaviness of both
for a sinking in, a lightness, and then a sudden
lifting into the wind where vultures soar
above sky-filled water, summoning a winged life.

Above sky-filled water, summoning a winged life
lifting into the wind where vultures soar
for a sinking in, a lightness, and then a sudden
opening space amid the heaviness of both
their duty, their fill, grow weary and forfeit the rest
exert body and mind till both have done
I wait for my soul to rise into the day.

Brief history / by David C. Hall

A column of ants marches determinedly
across the gravel driveway
in more or less single file, unaware
that all around them the Empire is falling
and the streets are filled with people
struggling to strap Steinway pianos
on top of their Mercedes.
The ants, when they reach their destination,
have still not evolved sufficiently
to feel a sense of satisfaction,
as far as we know.

Origin / by Carol Jewell

My mother’s and father’s fluids, energies, co-mingling, formed my sister, my
brother, me,
and a non-gendered sibling I never knew; miscarried.

Emerging / by Jennifer Santos Madriaga

I know working the shrapnel of sorrow
out of my heart takes time.
When that metal surfaces,
it’s grief all over again,
the sharpest of pain where
no forgiveness exists,
for myself or others.
But then that hollow in my heart
becomes open again,
ready to be filled with something
of my own choosing.
And what will go there?
It’s September and the harvest moon
is rising over the road, between
the trees, and that sight
is both familiar and brand new.
The leaves aren’t changing yet,
but they will, and I am changing
in ways I don’t know yet,
my body still healing from near death,
my heart still recovering from
having all its buried detritus
exposed by the shock
that all of this, everything I know
will end in some way that
is mysterious and inevitable.
My dog rides in the front passenger seat,
looking out the window.
My son reads in a book in the back seat.
Before, all of this was mundane.
After, all of this is miraculous,
to be able experience life as normal
right now, despite the realization
it is all leaving in a quiet way.

Reductio Ad Absurdum / by Matt Sadler

You can’t put water in a box
then call the water itself a box
because of its shape. Instead,
you’d say water in a box, or perhaps

a box of water, and I bet
you can’t step into the same
box of water twice, but it’s
gotta be statistically easier

to do than in a river. Imagine
the universe aligning just for you
to have your special moment
of return, only to find

the molecules, fussily arranged
into their previous positions,
refusing to hold their shape,
because of nature and fluidity,

because of the way things are.
This is when Heraclitus and Zeno
start dueling like clown cowboys
inside your brain as you

nervously step into your slightly
different box of water, you brand-
new master of ceremonies,
center ring and the mustachioed

waiters begin freezing your water
into ice- ice we call cubes because
of their shape!- To plop into the
highballs they keep delivering you there.

In the realm of death / by Vivian Sanchbraj

In the realm of death
my father appeared in front of me
in the middle of the desert
He wanted (he was downhearted)
to say something
but didn’t dare.
He looked at me,
and then lowered his chin
touching his chest.

I asked him –do you like that realm-
I understood him perfectly:
he despises being dead.
And then I embraced him
and his muscles and bones
felt hollow
like paperboard.

I sobbed like a young girl, and saw
him no more, just an empty space
shattered by knowing
that I will never see
the genuine smile, that showed
how charismatic he was.
Awaken by sobbing,
my father has abandoned
the realm of my dreams.

SUNRISE / by Celia Stuart-Powles

Compared to yester morn’s display:
Flame and fire against the slate smoke
Of a cloud bank—today’s is quite humdrum,
With naught but a low lying lavender
Dragon, not yet awake as the sun
Breaks from citrine to ruby, the serpent’s
Hoard escapes, abetted by a gnome?
Or does she doze and watch with pride
As her egg hatches from the ashes:
Phoenix rising, as each orbit proves
This alchemy, sure and true, makes gold,
Makes light—and so she rests,
A gentle amethyst, silent, slightly dazed,
But nonetheless, amazed.

Poem 13 / Day 13

Four Morning Haiku / by Roxanne Bogart

Two ravens fly past
a glowing belt of salmon
the early sunrise

Thousands of green fans
a phoebe alights on the branch
Ginkgo is adorned

Giant sentinels
by the dark pond of morning
two oaks, two hemlocks

Maples leaves hover
over the chattering stream
winter wren arrives

I knew / by David C. Hall

I knew what I had to do.
I was already high above
the land below.
I still had to climb the mountain.
There was a path, a trail, then steps.
It was a long way,
but it was not a difficult climb.
When I got to the top
I had to walk out onto a ledge.
I have always been afraid in high places.
I looked down from that immense height
and felt terror.
Then it passed.
I must have become a god.
I would have thought there would be
a crowd of worshipers
gazing up at me from down below,
but when I saw there was no one there
I was not disappointed.
I looked down from that immense height,
and knew what I had to do.
I knew.

Missing You on Your Birthday / by Carol Jewell

I’m missing you, Dad, on
what would have been your 111th

Your mind was starting to go,
when you left me,
and I sometimes wish I could talk to you,
find some sense
in this world.

I asked, a long time ago,
whether there was an afterlife even
for people who didn’t believe
in one.
I never got an answer.

What would you have to say
about all the messes we’re in?

you have a beautiful great grandson;
someday I will tell him
about you. If only
you were here to
read to him.
I can still hear your voice.

The Slow Trek / by Jennifer Santos Madriaga

Some days I manage better than others.
I cried everyday for weeks
after being discharged,
not even sure what I was grieving
though every past mistake
came back to haunt me,
every fear came back
to live in the gut, stretching it
to the point that I wanted to vomit.
Did I stand in front of you, fully intact?
Or was it just a convincing illusion
of who I was before?
And to whom am I addressing
these questions?
The imaginary audience
judges harshly, deeming
everything as failure.
How to overcome this loud
and self-inflicted penalty
is something I am still learning.
I place my hand over my heart to
feel the rise of my own chest.
Breathing in, breathing out–
an act so simple and miraculous,
refuting the silence of the abyss
where no songs exist.
I prefer the sound of the dirge
to the vacant void.
Let the quiet always be punctuated
by the sonatas of heartbeats.

The Myth of the Penobscot Building Destroyed by a PoemTitle / by Matt Sadler

The Penobscot rises like a cubed beacon
into the Detroit skyline, its edges melty in
perfect curves, an art deco masterpiece,
it’s hundred foot top hat emblazoned like
Rudolf with a blinking red jewel, an aviator’s
lighthouse back in the day. The heart of
our grit, built by a lumber baron
from Maine & named after the Penobscot
tribe he helped destroy as he rose from
working the river to exploiting it.

If I could name a thing after what
I’ve destroyed I would write a
poem called My Lack of Confidence &
add a tower on my dalliance
with the wrong girl back then and then
trellis the thing with reflective windows
and then try to make eye contact with
myself. There’d be a weedy river inside
full of bass & we’d sing the thing to
sleep. I couldn’t name it

Insomnia or Anxiety but they know
their names already, they’ve built
palaces inside me, they don’t need
my tower they are moons
in orbit, and I think about honor &
naming & know this rich dude & his
architect didn’t know shit about
rivers. Not the Detroit. Definitely not
the Penobscot, running
from God all the way down

to the ocean. Not about sustenance.
not about family. Only about
desire, at any cost. You can’t build
a monument to exploitation.
You can take something, but you’ll
never own its truth.

Athens 2007 / by Vivian Sanchbraj

Every day he leaves me alone and I walk through the streets

following my instinct. I like to photograph children

playing football, and lonely old women. I drink coffee

among the Greeks and I observe. The heat, and the reminder

of his promises strike upon me, evoking the desert

where I was born. I vindicate the mistake that I’ve have made

since ever, falling in love at the speed of light

with my best wishes in vain. My loneliness is more hurtful

and I move forward with everything I’ve lost and won.

The images in the Greek T.V.: fires among hundreds

of trembling trees arrive at the edge of the city.

The flames spread like the arms of the dead

snatching more men turning them into a constellation of stars.

ROAD WITH CYPRESS AND STAR / by Celia Stuart-Powles
Vincent Van Gogh, 1890

It is a wild road, more like a torrent
Of water, and yet two workers stroll
Unperturbed and perhaps thinking of dinner;
And the horse drawing a surrey isn’t balking
At the odd cant of the slope just ahead.
Is that corn is ripe and tall in its disarray?
Is that a river and mountains in the distance?
But why is no one looking up? And is that
Crescent touched with scarlet the moon?
The Cypress separates them, snaking up and
Out of sight, making the small distant house,
(The asylum?), insignificant—the travelers as well.
Yes, the Cypress dominates—challenging
Star, moon, wind, like a Druid priest;
Rooted in earth, yet wending its will
Towards the heavens—a prayer or a spell?
You choose.

Poem 12 / Day 12

The Number Two / by Roxanne Bogart

Grasshopper, I see you
everywhere I go
here in Chesterfield (sorry for the cricket reference)
on the porch climbing away from me
on the railing, you stop then turn around
face me with your big (relatively speaking) mandibular head
topped with lenses by the thousands
fused in two obsidian eyes
with two more at the base of and one in between
your stubby horns that set you apart
from your Locust and Katydid cousins.

Here we are, just you and me
and the occasional chickadee
basking on this sunny morning (sorry for the reptile reference)
after a cool New England evening.

So many of you irrupted this wet year (sorry for the bird reference)
especially out West
where you swarmed, migrated north
invaded the skies of Las Vegas
hit the casino-lined strip
gathered and swirled in hotel lights–
“a living snow,” they called you,
caused quite an uproar.

You were just searching for some grub
leaf and vine in the city’s lush green spaces
where water is shunted–and why not?
Your species is pretty darn old
has been around the block a few times
for like three hundred million years
since the Carboniferous period
and now, in my estimation,
just reclaiming what’s yours too.

Some of us sprayed you
some took you in, adopted you
others stir-fried you
birds and coyotes also
partook of the Acrididae feast.
But you were mild-mannered
only stayed a few weeks
didn’t eat too much (unlike some of your relatives)
didn’t bite or infect anybody
but didn’t entertain either
for you are not musically inclined
like Chester, sorry
but you do listen well
sense vibrations
with your low-lying belly ears.

Here in the Northeast
you can spread out a bit more
it’s nice isn’t it–so much green and growing?
Perhaps that’s why I don’t get to see you
in such fantastic numbers.
But I’m happy with the number two.
Just you and me on the cupola.

Something breaks / by David C. Hall

Remembering Ingmar Bergman’s “Persona” (1966)

When the actress falls silent
in the midst of the play
something breaks.
This is not what anyone bargained for,
not even her.
A kind of perfect moment,
time stops,
there is nothing
except what is.

As if one day
a great hole opened up
in the middle of town
and we all stood around
for something terrible
that didn’t happen.

Between Seasons (Haibun) / by Carol Jewell

Yesterday was unbearably hot. I’d almost forgotten what summer felt like, because the days had gotten cooler. Sweat poured down my face with my first step outside. My roses, almost dormant for a month, bloomed as if it was spring again. I noticed, though, that the maple across the cul-de-sac had started to fade from summer green to autumn red, in an in-between color melding of the two; dappled. We had a lot of rain this year. Supposedly that foretells a vibrant autumn. And here, on the edge of New England, I know we’re in for quite a show.

I often think of
that well-worn song, Och’s, “Changes,”
as the year deepens.

Burst / by Jennifer Santos Madriaga

I hardly knew him.
I just remember his smile
and how he dispensed hugs
like candy, and you were filled
with well-being as a result.
He was always smiling.
His face was that of a happy buddha.
But sometimes when he talked,
he said things that made me wonder.
He told me he was working
as hard he could on keeping his shit
together. Sometimes
it’s such a hell to be here, he said
and even while being fearless,
he was pushing through fear.
I could relate. I could feel the anxiety.
But even then I never thought
he would drop out of life.
I didn’t know that flying too close
to the sun was always the plan.
What was he touching when
he got that close?
And could he still feel it as he fell
from the sky?

Without Precluding*: How to Make an American Mass Shooter, a 30-Day Primer / by Denise Miller

Teach them that their maleness or whiteness
or both will be bent around their bodies tighter
than armor— will shield them from laws that
should lay visible their lawlessness. Although
they’ve transgressed, their principles, parents,
police will protect so we are none the wiser.

*The accounts by two former classmates emerged after police said there was nothing in the background of 24-year-old Connor Betts that would have prevented him from purchasing the .223-caliber rifle with extended ammunition magazines that he used to open fire outside a crowded bar. From “Dayton shooter kept a ‘hit list’ and a ‘rape list,’ classmates say” (Cincinnati Enquirer) By ASSOCIATED PRESS AUG. 4, 2019 10:47 PM

Poem in which Hope ends up being a thing with feathers and then it lights off across the yard / by Matt Sadler

If hope were a shape, it’d be a stack
or a heap, something tells me
is already taken by the crow,
but that’s a kind of hope, too,
passing something along, that your use
will outlive you.

If hope were a steak, it’d be a flank
or a hanger, but the line of saws and
knives is too long for hope, and we
skipped dinner anyway to gather
grape leaves and purslane from all
the neighbors’ yards, that crow still judging us
from his perch on our fence, & telling
his daughters no more, stop growing,
it’s going too fast.

And if hope were a child, it’d be ugly
and loved, & you could just name it Hope
because that’s a name & just because
it’s hard to be optimistic. A name is an
expectation, the first in a line of years
that are really dreams, dreams that are
stars in our eyes, stars created by the big
bang of a little one crashing into an us.

And if hope were a bird, it’d be a crow
bringing a ribbon to its nest, paying
a pop top for some bread crumbs, giving
life a fierce bet on its own.
Its darkness glows from within,
not absence but excess. At any moment
she could burst open & glide like
lightning across the yard, toward home.

Little poem / by Vivian Sanchbraj

The fatal union of desire and loneliness
are like the waves and the burning sand.
I have thought that my sex is a cistern
of bitter honey and poisoned water.

I carry the desert inside me,
in my red-purple blood
the extremes cohabit.
The double face of  love and pleasures
will be with me until my last day.

THE DANCER / by Celia Stuart-Powles
For Susan

A gift from a friend, she flies
Suspended from a ribbon, her
Legs stretched in a grand jete,
Arms as well: perfection in
Purple toe-shoes, laced and
Matching her dress, the sweet-heart.
Neckline studded with gems—her
Tights too, delicately trimmed
With sequined vines and sequins,
Leggings themselves in rose
To match the cummerbund
Holding her flight fast.
Her face is in ecstasy:
Eyes closed, smiling—and perfect
Whiskers, oh yes, they go with
The cat ears rising out of her
Cerulean blue hair. Her hands
Have perfect black pads.

Yes, there I am, as I should be—
Not holding a sore hip or keeping
My arms down to avoid pain,
No hands curled like claws.
That face, that form: that’s me
Suspended by a ribbon;
Watch me fly!

Poem 11 / Day 11

Two Questions / by Roxanne Bogart

Why bend to forces of the world
that disguise self beyond remembrance

bury early seeds of imagination, belonging
to decay in dry abandoned territories

erode the slow gathering of wonder
under incessant waves of acquiescence?

Why not stand tall in open air
like the Ash trees of Abenaki origin

step beyond screens of no reflection uncover what lives in Nature’s mirror

where arise the languages of currents and stone, unremitting song and silence

lessons of quick and wary Wren
plain and persistent Peewee

messages of Raven to feel
the unsettling, what struggles

underground, open wide, let roots cotyledons, thick and firm, emerge

nourish the life that has
been waiting?

Of course it was raining / by David C. Hall

Of course it was raining that night,
and the music sounded
just like the music
the last time I walked into a bar.
Writers used to hang out there
back then.
I sat down and ordered,
a Cutty Sark and soda.
I am a chronicler of the human condition,
the guy next to me said.
He’d had a few.
Is there money in that?
I asked him.

Wondering (September 11th, 2019) / by Carol Jewell

As hard as this day is for me, and millions more, it must still be
devastating to others:
friends who lost family, and family who lost friends
nearly twenty years ago. Twenty years; it seems
improbable, but it’s true.

I later found out that another friend,
who would’ve been covered with the dust of co-workers,
never even went to work that day;
how must he feel?

I hugged my daughter, then fifteen, very tightly.
She said something like, “Hey, Ma! Stop; I’m safe!” her adolescent self acting more entitled than she actually felt.
And we were, 130 miles north of New York City.
But I knew that one day she would completely
understand, as she sent her son off to school,
wanting to hug him until he, too, rebuffed her,
wondering at his small self, growing up in
our changed world.

After / by Jennifer Santos Madriaga

The flesh has failed us.
We are only spirit now.
For what is life ?
I am leaning with my head
against the door listening to its
humming on the other side.
And I do not have the key
to unlock the door.

I searched for some trace of you
but found nothing.
The floors were swept,
the cupboards emptied,
the sheets changed, the walls painted.
But here is the room where we once lived,
where we once made love, where we ate figs
and tasted sweetness.
Yet how can I even be sure
that you existed?

Tell me, did this happen?
It was summer and we lay
in the green, green grass on a hillside.
But we were burning, you and me.
We were one flame that set the world afire.
Did we consume each other?
Did we become blackened bone?
Did something remain other than
scorched earth and smoky vestiges?

I remember the taste of you as we burned.
You were flavored with yellow ardor and salt.
I make no claims on my own heart.
It has been incinerated, and
where is the vessel for its ashes?

90s Mixtape / by Matt Sadler

Do you remember hand writing the names of the songs you copied onto the little lined insert of the cassette, how your hand shook trying to get the print so small, how your stomach fluttered because you really liked the person you were giving it to, how nervous you felt because you were so sure the songs you picked said something real about who you were as a person, how you were scared that the songs were right about you, how you risked a smiley face and a punker X, but not a heart, and how you stowed it in the smaller front pocket of your backpack before moving it to your coat pocket because that’d be smoother, how you planned your route in tomorrow’s hallway, how nervous that made you, how you dreamed before sleeping, how, when you couldn’t sleep that night, you put in the tape, the copy you made for yourself, and listened to to the same music, and it was like listening to a special part of yourself, the future part, the together part, the part that was really really real and not fake, and how that’s how you finally fell asleep?

Nine-eleven two thousand one in America / by Vivian Sanchbraj

Among the shiny towers

the monstrous mechanical believers

in the race to gain glory beyond death

timed to cause as much carnage as possible

in the land of banners and stars

shuddering amid American skies


Our scarlet and grey entrails

burst in anguish watching the horror

everywhere in the world news

pure martyrs leaped first into the smoke

and the others sent their blackened hearts

to the far horizons of their love ones.

DATURA INOXIA / by Celia Stuart-Powles

Owl-light: they stand poised and folded
Like small pleated fans,
Candles, or dancers
Waiting in the wings—ready.
Come night, come moon—they unfurl,
Slowly spreading their creamy gowns
Among a flurry of perfume, sweet
Debutantes making their debut.
It’s only one night, one chance
To fill their dance card—one chance,
But look! A suitor comes winging.
Dark above the beauties: the Sphinx
Moth, hovering like a hummingbird,
Whispering (perhaps) sweet nothings
As he dips his long proboscis deep
Inside each lily’s silent trumpet. Yes,
The princesses will dance all night,
Grow weary by the morn—when yet,
A thin gown may reveal
The shadow of a bee, before
They take their final bow, and fold in reverie.

Poem 10 / Day 10

The Invader / by Roxanne Bogart

In the morning I advance
             through woods, noisy

                            break things as I step

                hear strident alarms
the rustling of retreat.

The pond surface, alive, also
                            a microcosm of interplay

dragonflies tap tips of
                long tubular abdomens

falling leaf reflections dance, dark
                before silent green arrivals

frogs squeak, plunge
                as I near the granite edge

water striders echo my body
                 glide when I stride, stop when I still

Sensed by more then I sense
                  I become the invader

the world shrinks back from me.

Nobody ever asks / by David C. Hall

Nobody ever asks
where the mouse that lived in the cupboard
has gone.
I guess they think it wouldn’t be decent.
We never talk
about anything that matters any more.

Shopping/To Do List / by Carol Jewell

2 bags Macintosh Apples (go to an orchard? Which one?)
5 lbs. flour (white. Otherwise I would have written “whole wheat.” Or maybe even “Rye.”)
Sugar (white. Otherwise I would have written “brown.”)
3 pie pans (large) (Preferably glass, even though they cost more.)
1 big can shortening
1 bag roasted and salted pumpkin seeds (because, why not?)
heavy cream
ice cream? Vanilla? Coffee? Chocolate? (yes, yes, and yes)
time to read while the pies bake
A nap

Without Failing: How to Make an American Mass Shooter, a 30-Day Primer / by Denise Miller

Convince them they must draw breath
from the muzzle of Smith or Wesson—
Ensure they learn the lesson: breath in slowly
while you identify your target beyond any doubt.
Exhale squeeze the trigger before they’ve
had a chance to run—a chance to shout.

Expanse / by Jennifer Santos Madriaga

Just know that the way I gaze at you,
I have gazed at no other in that same way.
Don’t mistake my silence for lack of feeling.
If I’m tongue-tied, it’s because I lack
the vocabulary for the newness of how I feel.
When our hands meet, I am rendered mute,
no better than that little mermaid,
who sold her voice for love.
But I have made no such bargain.
Part of me is unwilling to compromise anything.
Yet I yield, my eyes full of salty rivers.
No one is more surprised than me
at my willingness to open up like
the skies after the darkest and meanest of storms.
Witness how my heart has blinked open
and is displaying the boldest of colors
that even I am beyond amazed–
the vision for the largest of loves
has ravaged my own corruption
back into innocence.

Winter Poem / by Matt Sadler

We are not a greedy
species, we give freely
our suffering
to others
like a river
to a lake.
So in winter at
deep freeze
remain calm.
In the cold
we give each other
warm breath frozen
into little puffs,
clouds that rise,
they could be
thought bubbles
in a comic, full
of hearts.

The lover / by Vivian Sanchbraj

In the morning mist of the volcanic island
a bitter awakening from the caresses
of my lover. Shivering amid pleasure
I’ve never bared myself to the bone
of my existence for a stranger.

For what purpose; to be remembered
For what purpose; to be loved
But I embraced him like a volcano
to alter the finite into unbroken

and all I see now
is from my own funeral procession.

AUTUMN SONG / by Celia Stuart-Powles

As doe-footed days relent to the call
Of Herne, that seven-tined stag—and
Summer’s low hum to the wild ride,
The Monarchs pass through, once again.
Now frill-skirted chrysanthemums,
Frolic like gypsies, gay in the newly-cooled air,
And even the old trees grow wanton in hennas
And gold as they shed all pretensions:
Practiced old souls in their dying:
Discarding what’s left of spring-times disorder
And late summer’s fruited remains.
Day tip-toes out clad in sunset hues,
Owls lament and spiders web doors,
As the walls between worlds start to thin:
The dark lord now reigns, Persephone
Enthroned—and the dead start to wend
Their way back, as they whisper:
Dance, while you can and sing, sing into the wind.

Poem 9 / Day 9

On the Cupola / by Roxanne Bogart

Holding a long pole punctuated
with a small metal hook, I pull
down the wooden ceiling
door, unfold shaky, orange and white
metal steps, then climb up
the jittery contraption
to a rectangular, steel
hatch that pushes open
like a freezer lid

revealing sky, clouds
bushy treetops
of oak, maple, ash
and sensuous Ginkgo
so near at hand with
thousands of tiny green fans
all along branching
arms that grace
the dark wooden railing.

I bend my knee
in a tall step, rise up
out onto the deck
closer now to the
slow cumulus migration,
and though the air
above this hill
this farmhouse
is cooler than below
where gardens flourish,
a bumblebee hums
explores the flowerless
floorboard, my toes,
and I start to wonder
why we are both here

as guilt seeps in
for the sudden
emergence of comfort
and inspiration
in my struggle
to release netted
tangled thoughts
of demands I’ve left
behind in the valley
that lies below
distant mountains

as pulsating crickets
and long locust songlines
reel me in to present
page and pen
as a chime sounds
three times
then fades
on the awakening
breeze that I pray
carries me

Surrender / by David C. Hall

You’ve lived this long,
never seen a war,
a famine or a plague,
never even got beat up
since you were a kid,
never had electric cable
wrapped around your balls.
You scribble your stuff
in a lambswool sweater
with your view of the trees.
Did you really think
you get all that for nothing?
It’s time for you to do something
for your country.
You got Facebook, Google, Twitter,
so who do you think you are?
Just give us some names,
tell us what they did –
or didn’t do.
It doesn’t matter,
we don’t care.
Sign here.

Saudade for Marc / by Carol Jewell

All it takes
for me to remember you,
for me to miss you,
in an instant,
is for me to inhale the
Northern, familiar scent
of Paine’s Balsam Fir
incense; the kind you burned.
One whiff is all it takes
and you appear in
front of me; you smile, guitar
in your lap,
fingerpicks scattered
on the table beside you,
your head thrown
back in laughter,
in song.

Banished/Vanished / by Jennifer Santos Madriaga

The body contains memory
that the conscious mind has forgotten.
In my dreams my mouth
speaks Ilocano fluently,
and I can sing the highest
notes on pitch.
And my body is pliable
and able to climb high places
without fear.

I am haunted by the shadows
of large mango trees
in passing. I can still remember
the juice that overflowed
upon peeling their fruit,
my mouth and hands always
grateful and sticky.
The emerald world was full
of noise and talking in
my native dialect.
People I loved were still alive,
laughing and smoking
brown cigarettes, and
the air hazy with burning
and a pending rain.

All these things are buried now
and belong to an amnesiac earth.
Certain moments I feel
the full weight of their disappearance.
Like when it is quiet at night,
and I realize returning is only illusion.

On being asked why most artists and musicians are liberal / by Matt Sadler

When I tell you
you are the molted
skin of a cicada,
an empty husk
clinging fast
to a dead post,
I mean it
I know that you are actually

a person
with skin and eyes
and I know that fear
is a burden
we wear
in heavy robes,
that we imagine
each other
shedding, emerging

wan, pale, emaciated
vulnerable not
full and right and true,
that it’s the burden
of skin
to hold us
when we wont
hold each
other anymore.

The Unloved Lover* / by Vivian Sanchbraj


Inside me there is guilt, ancient, strong.

As for love, time will tell. The truth is

they call me spinster, bitter childless woman,

and witch who bathes in herbs.

If you could only know

how tender I am still inside.

In my wine-filled chant

I am made of moon flowers

and horse’s blood.


Misfortune, my great companion,

when will you leave me?

During this dialogue with misfortune

body of mine stay away

from lovers …

Time to time rest
defeated confused and hurt
embraced yourself
unloved lover
invite your heart to join
and rest together.

My heart will testify,
I am indeed my worst enemy.

There is a slow spinning wheel of beds

and I see a little girl
jumping on them under the rain
lost in her own game

her parents have forsaken her
she is utterly alone and her desires are insane.

*Some words taken as a practice of appropriation from poems by Henri Michaux.

I AM THE ROAD / by Celia Stuart-Powles

To hell, paved with good
Intentions: the kind letter
In my head, the hand-made
Cards: un-made, photos
Still in boxes: albums
Empty, phone call not
Made and emails unsent.
The child’s unfinished
Bunny in the sewing basket
(Child now with children
Of her own,) embroidery
Stranded on a shelf with
The nearly knitted muffler.
Poems abandoned in a file,
The novella wasting away,
While short stories hang
Around in silence. The
Novel needing one last
Edit, the half-illustrated
Children’s book—and the
Other. The requested presentation,
Now lost for years (I know
It is here,) and let’s not
Mention research, languishing
In notebooks: like the Lost
Boys, not yet flown..

Poem 8 / Day 8

Red Efts / by Roxanne Bogart

In balmy seasons,
on soggy days
in the many places
I call home,
I step carefully
to avoid the demise
of red efts en route
that crawl for years
on needle strewn ground
or warm pavement
tiny glowing embers
that one day will relinquish
land living
for the way of water
bloom spots on toxic
osmotic skin
become the newts
of their amphibious

When the soldiers / by David C. Hall

When the soldiers burst in
there is a small boy
cowering in the corner of the kitchen.
He’s seen stuff like this
on television
plenty of times before.
It doesn’t help.

Contents / by Adam Hughes

I am terrified that I will back over
my daughter with my car.
I’m even more terrified someone I love
will back over my daughter with their car.
These are the thoughts that make me
shake my head the way I do when I think
of the story of the man who had
a three-inch cricket pulled from his ear.
Our bodies possess such ability
to hold things within ourselves-
a Russian man had emergency surgery
to remove a two-inch fir tree growing
in his left lung-to hide them away
in distant ventricles and abscesses
like damp caves full of paleolithic paintings
and pirate ships. The longest
tapeworm ever removed from a human
was eighty-two feet long. A friend
told me that tapeworms have to be removed
inch by inch because they are actively
feeding on the body and if you rip
them out, they bring organs and tissue
with them. We contain horrors.
When I am supposed to be sleeping
I am thinking instead of watching
a loved one get in an accident
in the rearview mirror. I am the best
torturer I know. I fear
myself more than anything.
When I close my eyes, I see
a God who holds the reigns
lightly and smiles with the edges
of his fingertips and whose hair
smells like wildfire. My daughter
has almost gone ten years without
being run over. Kyrie Eleison
and the peaceful extraction
of all parasites and foliage.

Untitled / by Carol Jewell

Oh my.
Now the sky
is cotton candy: pink and blue,
O’Keefe memory:
and music,
and you.

Only to be with you / by Jennifer Santos Madriaga

I know I am full of excuses
of why I can’t love you.
Life has been so hard,
full of dark obstacles that
make it easy to shutter my heart.
I know you’re asking me
to say yes, a word so loaded
that it brings me to my knees.

If I thought this love was a slow burn,
I was wrong. All that I have known
is being incinerated, and I am standing
in this collapsing world, unsure and trembling.
You want to kiss glowing embers
in my mouth, the wet sparks from my eyes,
and be consumed by the inferno,
so that we are ash, disappeared
from what we used to know and no longer need.
Your unspoken promises tell me that
the residue of this demolition contains
everything we need to grow anew.

So yes, I choose you.
The wreckage of our past is not what
we will sail on. We’ll let the wind
of uncertainty blow these ashes
to wherever we are supposed to start again.
And it will be to a place that
neither of us has ever seen.
We will be carried above the waves
of sorrow as a milled single flour
that Neruda once spoke about
in a sonnet about springtime and light.

Without Humanizing: How to Make an American Mass Shooter, a 30-Day Primer / by Denise Miller

Step 1:

Give them something to put in their crosshairs—
a tin can atop a fallen log, a stray cat cutting
through grass, a baby robin— their belly not
yet rust colored. Later, let them site their own
targets— a student standing in a hallway, a black
man in a church pew, a baby in its parents’ arms.

Step 2:

Teach them
to stockpile
steel, iron, Kevlar.
Teach them
to buy their
guns legally*.

* WITHIN A YEAR OF THE SHOOTING: Mr. Paddock legally purchased 33 firearms from Oct. 2016 to Sept. 2017, Ms. Snyder said. Most of those guns were rifles. Such purchases do not prompt reports to the bureau because there is no federal law requiring a seller to alert the bureau when a person buys multiple rifles. From “How They Got Their Guns” By LARRY BUCHANAN, JOSH KELLER, RICHARD A. OPPEL JR. and DANIEL VICTOR UPDATED FEB. 16, 2018

Blueing Bolete / by Matt Sadler

Is everything a test these days? My students
ask because they want more-
seventeen like a knife edge
to them- perched at the crevice
between everything and freedom.
I ask because I’m halfway, if you
consider my genes and allow
for some good luck. So many things
feel like it, so let this be the test:
First, you must wander the forest
until you find a Blueing Bolete
emerging knobby and bulbous
from the forest floor. Then
smell it’s spongy underside
and realize what soil really is
in the depth of that mustiness.
Cut it open, and hurry, before
the flesh oxidizes to its sheeny
deep metallic blue, pop it in your
mouth and chew it to a pulp,
swallow, and then stick out
your tongue. Does it turn
your teeth popsicle blue?
I’m just a teacher.
But that’s the question
you have to answer now.

Crushed flowers / by Vivian Sanchbraj

Now, that she is gone, and have lost
Her fire within, and neglect tonight’s memories;
Candles and dinner, enclosed in the beast’s burrow
Upon every corner of hell, among a bed of poison ivies
Crystal iced limbs of her warm life flesh
But oh, her fear spreads like titanium.
The demoniacal huntsman with sour breath
Carries on, and harms something beyond words
But doesn’t kill
Just leaves null evidence of crushed flowers
But their stain is in his guilty hands.

MALKUTH / by Celia Stuart-Powles

She sits at the foot of the Tree of Life,
Malkuth, the fruit of creation:
Earth pregnant and ready to wife.
A bountiful garden, an Eden,
All round us, you just have to look.
It’s also our heaven—or could be:
Potential will always take work—.
But work’s what we do, watch the honey bee
As it peacefully tends the hive.
See the eiderdown nest, hawk feather, and snail,
And possums and bears: Oh my!
Tides rising and ebbing, the moon’s changing face,
Rainforests burning, the whole human race.

Poem 7 / Day 7

Ode to Cottongrass / by Roxanne Bogart

Your untidy, white tufts sit high
on long, lean polyhedrons
a common misnomer, indeed
for your Cyperaceae stems
are not soft and round but sturdy
and edged—sedge siblings
at home in moors, bogs, tundra,
earth’s elevated, harsh places
exposed to wild winds
in open spaces
tucked amid dry boulders.

Albino Truffula trees in miniature
your lackluster flowers
give way to animation
and purpose: cotton-like wisps
Harry Potter mops
warm, fibrous blankets for bristly seeds
that emerge as fall temperatures drop
protect your next generation
on their descending journeys

to soils of lack, if not picked
along mountain trails
by small hands enticed
by your playful head
of fluff.

Outside / by David C. Hall

The poem is printed
on glass,
thick, inky black letters
on a glass wall.

A man, whom we may assume to be the poet,
seen from behind in a shabby brown overcoat
(though that is probably not important)
one hand out, reaching toward it.
Perhaps he is already touching the glass.

This image would seem to suggest
the poet is trying to get back
inside the poem
or to take the poem
inside himself.
Fingertips scrabbling
at the cold still glass.

American Sentence, Almost Last-Minute / by Carol Jewell

Shit; I slept all day, and now dinner’s been ordered–can’t wait to eat it.

Words fail me, but I will continue to try / by Jennifer Santos Madriaga

My life has encompassed
thousands of moonless nights,
containing kisses tasting of wine
and poison and definite regret.
I collected hearts on a string,
dissecting them with spare satisfaction.
Sometimes I gave mine up
for similar disfigurement.
And for a time I moved through bodies,
and they moved through mine,
inhabiting universes in ways
that could be elation or pleasure or pain.
There would always be the leaving,
and I collected flasks of disappointment,
from which I would sip.
I had no faith it could be different.
And then I met you, and you loved
my brutal heart from the start.
Because yours was brutal too.
But brutality has made us tender
in our older age and wiser in recognition.
And love, which always lived
in a distant port, too far away
to visit, finally came my way,
beguiled by the lighthouse
of longing on my eroding shores.
Forehead to forehead,
we inhaled and exhaled
each other’s breaths
as all past cruelties fell away
from our hearts to make room
for something that I previously
believed was fiction.
In your arms, I am always wordless
with tears. How can I explain
how every wounded winter
within me has now bloomed without effort?

Without Acknowledging*: How to Make an American Mass Shooter, a 30-Day Primer / by Denise Miller

Teach them, that a gun in the hand
is worth two bodies in the grave: First—
their sibling shot accidentally, in the stomach
at playtime. Later— their lover’s co-worker caught in the crossfire of their “if I can’t have her” bullet-riddled display of affection.

*Taken from the proverb “a bird in the hand is worth two in the bush,” which means that having something, even if it is a lesser quantity, is better than taking the chance of losing it in order to attain something else that seems more desirable.

One small day after another / by Matt Sadler

One small day after another
and you refuse to thank
the big cedars peering in
off the balcony.
Instead of listening to the near
constant bird calls
from the garden,
you are inside yourself,
making the emptiness bigger,
peering into the microscope
at your transgressions.
The price of being alive
is the pathway ends
at the abyss.
That’s why the birds
are yapping at each other
to get their work done,
and why you are trying
to make them into a metaphor.
And that’s what the tall cedar
is running from,
despite its roots
holding it deep
in the ground.

In the land / by Vivian Sanchbraj

I am non-existent
in the land of my birth
abandoned am I am I am I —
tormented dreamer.

I am an idiotic phantom
in the land of my death
already am I am I am I —
utterly alone.

I am transient
in a faraway land of my rebirth
intoxicated I am I am I am –
a sheer stranger.

TALISMAN / by Celia Stuart-Powles

A talisman is like a poem, or rather
The magician’s equivalent equipment
Imbued with sigils, names, and gesture
To contain a power—an embodiment
Like a metaphor to coax a less concrete
Notion into a more corporeal existence,
Ensuring the purpose is pure and complete
And like poetry, honed with persistence.
For all arts demand some practice and cunning
To translate the meaning to others,
A tool of the trade, a good go-between
Wrought with aforethought, potent not rough—
Magicians, like poets, have to be tough.

Poem 6 / Day 6

The Good Red Road / by Roxanne Bogart

Broad-winged Hawk cries
from above the thick woods
from within its secret spaces
pierce the skies of morning
pierce the sighs of early evening
transform unawareness into perception
signal the time to let go
of narrow thoughts.

Feathered messenger of wisdom
with tidings for journeying the Good Red Road
keen eyes and a bold heart
from time spent close to sunlight
share your vantage point
your higher perspective
from beholding the vast vistas
of your wide open circle of flight
your flight of freedom.

Of what was coming / by David C. Hall

One day the thunder god and a bacteria fell in love. No good will come of this, the man from the Weather Bureau said, shutting his briefcase with a click, and shook his head. That night, as he lay in bed with his young wife, he would have liked to warn her about what was coming, but, unfortunately, he had been sworn to secrecy.

Migration / by Carol Jewell

With nary a wall for keeping them out
Monarchs float on a cool autumn breeze.
Every year they make their treks,
return in more numbers than when they left.

Monarchs float on cool autumn breezes
lighting here and there at will.
Returning in higher numbers in the spring,
their color makes me want to follow.

Lighting here and there, testing, at will;
something to eat, here, perhaps?
Their orange color will become a mass
of fluttering wing and dizzying hue.

Looking for something to eat,
–I grow milkweed for them each year–
fluttering wings and dizzying hue
reminds us of snowy winter to come.

I grow milkweed for them every year
and every year they make their treks
reminding us of winter coming,
with nary a wall to keep them out.

Without Thinking: How to Make an American Shooter, A 30 Day Primer / by Denise Miller

Bleach their vision so all they
see is teeth white skin— ordain
every other color, sin. Begin when
infant skulls are still soft enough
to bend. Make sure there is no mending wall.

The Truth / by Jennifer Santos Madriaga

So many things I want to say
can only be whispered in the dark.
And can’t be said with words at all.
All I know is that I can already feel
everything with you–
all to be gained, all to be lost,
the feeling of the first and last sunrises
spent with you.
Your hands in my hair
is the most tender greeting.
And everything I have ever done
or will ever do to disappoint is already forgiven.
What did I ever do to deserve
a love like this?
The answer is nothing, and
yet it still arrived.
And now I understand when Rumi said,
“Your calling my name is My reply.
Your longing for Me is My message to you.”

That Time When Grace Lee Boggs Stopped Time / by Matt Sadler

Instead of quoting Marx
at the cerebral bar,
shake your neighbors hand
and pick at the grass
while she hovers over
her blooming savory.
Take a leaf. Eat it.
There is nothing left of print
after it’s processed
but the contradictions.
So meet me at the hammock
and you’ll see me there
frozen, mid-sway, another
book in my lap, a decade
younger. It seemed
like life went on back then
but I am still there
with her book, looking out
at the yard, trying
to summon my will
to change what’s real.

(In small, local ways, without globalized corporate autocracies- or in spite of them- through the radical transformation of a vast network of small relations, one community at a time.)

Santorini / by Vivian Sanchbraj

At two p.m. I arrived in Santorini alone
when the summer sun was at its utmost.

The turquoise sea and its thousand mirrors
blinded me for a moment.

I looked up at the gigantic volcanic island,
and felt smaller and lonelier.
Santorini, dormant Titan made of multi-layered creases
colorful quartz, red, citrine, amethyst.

A bouquet of white houses speckled the island’s crest.
I drove up the zigzagged road in a rented black Fiat

terrified by the unknown, led by scarce road signs,
and despite my bad sense of direction

I found Mathios Village hotel in Akrotiri,
an archeological site in the south of the island.

The lava fragments in the facades of most houses
remain like ornamental scars.

My room was a humble haven with wooden blinds
shut against the heartless Aegean sun.

I’ve been longing for darkness to restore my sleep,
and I laid down for a nap that turned in a long good sleep.

Next morning, I woke up in haste to catch up the caldera tour.
I got in the minivan a few minutes late, and the tourists ireful

stares on me felt like needles, I said kalimera with a smile
but no one answered back. All coupled up, and I was alone.

REDBUD VALLEY / by Celia Stuart-Powles

in hiking boots
              but me

mushroom patch
a young boy looks
             for Smurfs

above the trees
      a bee swarm

steep and muddy
the Smurf hunter
         lends a hand

going back down
                   his dad
      does the same

rock outcropping
a copperhead basks
                in the sun

back at last
someone suggests
         a hiking stick

I nod and grin
   but think not

Poem 5 / Day 5

Unveiled / by Roxanne Bogart

The day begins with such vibrant clarity
that trees, stones, water, sky
appear as if polished with morning dew.
I barely notice my skin
touched only by the faint breath
of tepid air: ‘Skin weather’
we used to say as kids.

Dry, brown pine needles
lie at all angles on the forest floor
amid a patchwork of shadow and light
like the windows we choose to close
and those we choose to open
to seek out the places
that can unveil us.

I make my way along a spit of land
that is usually flooded
but now in the height of summer
is covered with tiny yellow blossoms.
I step onto the tethered island
sit facing southwest
near an aspen tree with trembling leaves
lit by late morning sunlight.
On the reservoir’s blue canvas
hundreds of black striders
in dense congregations
skate in all directions
in short, erratic lines.

To my right, a low blueberry bush
holds pale pink fruit
and the occasional ripe blue.
My brown hand picks
one small berry
places it into my mouth.
I press down
the skin breaks
and the tang of soft, moist flesh
spreads across my tongue
as the shoreline of the world fades
and all I taste is blueberry
and all I hear is kingbird call
as she lifts off a high branch
flutters for a moment
to seize her prey
then crosses the still
and shallow water.

Knock on the door / by David C. Hall

There was a knock on the door,
and when I opened it

three men were standing there
in not very nice suits.

I thought they were salesmen
or maybe Mormons.

We’d like to change your mind,
the first man said.

It’s just an experiment,
the second one explained.

You’d better come with us,
the third man told me.

FRAGMENT / by Adam Hughes

I wonder
if the moth
with the owl-

eyed wings
its own illusion

or if it knows
that deception
is worn

like a mantle
of dust
and an epaulet

of war paint,
the sad eyes
of make-believe

Weather / by Carol Jewell

Oyster-colored sky,
premonition of something:
autumn denial?

Obscuring / by Jennifer Santos Madriaga

In between birth and death
are the spaces too many to count
and remember, but some survive
the abyss.
Like the time I saw the sun’s delicate corona,
gray and green, tendrils so fine
that no photograph can capture it.
The moon’s shadow
cooled the afternoon by 20 degrees,
and the insects hummed in
the most surreal twilight I will ever know
during an early August afternoon
in Greenville, South Carolina.
Beside me stood a man
who could never love me,
but he placed his arm around me
as I shed tears at the sight
of a fully blocked sun.
He could not love me, and yet
he was here, locked with the unforgettable.
I looked over to my son,
who loved us both, his face
bathed in streetlight and eclipse
shadow, and I hoped he
would only remember the purity
of the moment, not the fighting
beforehand or the trip home after
(where we struggled through backroads
traffic, so terrible that some cars pulled over
in surrender to wait it out.)
That man could never love me
but he knew enough to be tender,
to walk over to kiss my son
on the forehead. Some moments
are so quiet. Those are the ones
that break me wide open
with the strength of their staying.

Questions for Mortals / by Matt Sadler

One of Mary’s sunflowers
this year, a volunteer,
hit 14 feet before
she bloomed the smallest
head of any – one little
unblinking eye looking
down over her queendom.
Sunflowers are made
to bend, their old heads
kiss the ground
with seeds. She stands
tall, perched on
her beanstalk, watching
her old sisters plant
themselves for next

September Second / by Vivian Sanchbraj


I’m having exotic cocktails

with friends, in a vintage bar

strangely happy and ignorant

while on the other side of the world

my father agonizes alone.


The heat is unbearable,

this is Hanoi and it feels like summer;

Vietnamese eternal humidity

circulates into my clothes

and penetrates my bones.


Every day in a suffocated state

mugginess slender fingers

block nostrils and I open my mouth

to grasp for air aware of the imagines

that aren’t judgmental beings.


Next day, Sunday, September third

after teaching English to little children

a phone call from home

violent as a cold knife in the jugular;

the unimaginable tricks of Death


revolted in me by not being there

for everything I did wrong to my father

from the last years until now, for moments

pain changes our red blood to pale

disarray and grief: I must leave in the first plane.

My closed fist into the family photos wall

as wind struggles to shake trees.

I have never despised being alive until now:

Those whom emotions do not control

become borderline in return.


Thousand faces per blink of an eye

surround me, I am the stranger sobbing

and waiting for my flight to the USA.

Agony of birth, ache of death

intertwine in my gut, defenseless.


What is true of the death of a loved one;

we’ll never understand it.

I have to live the rest of my life

without his voice and presence

I must pretend I’ve gotten used to it…



Dog days, and it travels
Like a great poly-footed,
Three-toed green-dragon,
Which having conquered
The brickwork castle,
Sprawls lazily over a bench
And creeps towards the next.

Prolific, is too weak a word
For such an invader: think
Roman Army—or Alexander
With his elephants—and indeed,
Those feet were deemed
Lances by Spanish missionaries,
Eager to compare symbols
To convert. It’s Nature—

Written by experience,
And who am I to argue
What meaning we attach?
In India it is Krishna—for me
A great-green dragon—yet
Nature’s rife with symbols,
Numbers, shapes, make of them
What you will: stories, omens, lore.

But now, in the afterglow,
Comfrey is laying down, wilted
For the day, while Passaflora
Is pristine in her well-starched
Pinafore: a ballerina dancing
Unfazed by day’s hot breath.
And she has suitors—oh yes,
The velvet-vested Dumbledore

Calls each afternoon, sporting a
Jaunty yellow spot, a touch sun,
To pollinate and carry, each to
Each, each flower a constellation
Of white and lavender: ten
Petals, over one-hundred
Perfectly permed radial filaments.

And above them all, three
Graceful stamens taking a bow.
And there is fruit, egg-shaped
And always green when I find it,
Because other creatures prize
The maypops. And this is fine,
With me.

Poem 4 / Day 4

Living Color / by Roxanne Bogart

A blue marble held between fingertips
          so simple, see-through
                    as deep blue as night sky from some angles
                                as pale blue as robin’s egg from others.

I tilt my head to change perspective
          shift the tiny sphere to see possibility
                    in the depths of understanding
                              or the buoyancy of light.

It’s easy to not see
          what is beyond time and place
                    as Earth rotates in and out of days
                              and time’s overlay brings season after season

Nature’s imperative remains the same: adapt
          to a world in motion, in greenhouse overload
                    where aging bodies swirling
                              with a myriad chemical interactions

let us feel the sparrow in hand
          hear the cuckoo calling from the wood
                    taste the sweetness of ripe peaches
                              perceive lost synchronicities and inundated shorelines.

I rotate the marble, see through it clearly—with more than open eyes
          to a world where foresight and compassion
                    prevent destruction of the spectrum of living color
                              on the blue sphere beyond my grasp.

In our neighborhood these days / by David C. Hall

In our neighborhood these days
we’re all building machines in our basements.
We don’t talk about it, but we all know.
You can see it in those furtive glances,
crooked smiles, in the supermarket,
at the mall. But I can tell you, I don’t mind.
Sometimes at night when I can’t sleep
I like to go down those creaky basement stairs
in pajamas and a robe
and just sit with my cup of tea
and listen to it hum.

Gas Tears / by Adam Hughes

There is no beauty in the shattering
of bones, the snapping off
of grass blades so few you can count
their serrated edges like the legs
of a grasshopper. There is no warmth

in this sun, only heat. No comfort
in this blanket of cloud. No rest
in this sleep. No voice in this oracle.

We are all pilgrims with no destination,
shadows without solid figures to give
us meaning. We are the spent
shells of warning shots, the skins
of wolves found dead full of lambs.
These days are days of not-from-here

and tear gas, thirst and smoke
to drink, when I was hungry you
shot me, when I was naked
you covered me with gravefill,
when I was a stranger you named me
after your enemies. Tomorrow
you might die and I will hold
the water. You can have its shadow.

Cinquain / by Carol Jewell

exhausted, unmotivated
depressing, demoralizing, distracting
Believe it: here again:

Schema / by Jennifer Santos Madriaga

The exoskeleton of ego is so brittle
but comes in layers. We should all be
wearing signs that say
“Fragile: But break at your own peril.”
Look at all the chipping and chafing
and cracking that each of us have.
But we all have fangs, even if
we should deny it.
And some of us have poison
but use it against ourselves.


Depending on the definition of heart,
the earthworm has 10 or none.
Situation defines whether or not
I have one heart or none.
If I leave without looking back,
my chest may be empty.


The soul is dissected successfully
from the body in many cases everyday.
However, no one has yet managed
to bottle it for viewing and scrutiny.
I’m sure of the existence of many
empty bottles that have failed to capture
the soul upon exit.
I know someone is crying about
at least one empty bottle.

Without Connecting: A 30-day primer on How to Make an American Mass Shooter / by Denise Miller

Teach them— the god-whittled white
of Adam’s flesh and cartilage split then
fitted to make Eve is the only rib divine
enough not to divide by bullet, then table
knife, then teeth, then tongue— teach them that their
young are the only ones to keep whole and breathing.

It’s only because I love you so much / by Matt Sadler

Is our life fraught with a kind of
existential absurdity like
you and I trying to convince ourselves
we are a fuzzy little
caterpillar inching towards
metaphorical greatness, when we
know we are just middle-
aged humans, globs of excess
flesh pooling in our
problem areas, baby grey hairs beginning
to emerge from the chrysalis
of each mole. Every year feels
like the previous year if
you take enough ibuprofen, and vitamins
are bullshit but they help you
believe. You have been complaining
about my memory but
my confusion is also
existential. When I’m in
I want to be out. When I’m out
I want to be in. And I will tell you this
only in tortured yowls, pawing
at each side of every
door, like a cat.

He seems to me* / by Vivian Sanchbraj

He sauntered into the boat,
whoever he is who eclipses the sky
casts a shadow over the Aegean
talks to all and drops of fiery water
slip down his neck

and his voice and laughter – Oh it
plays the song of earthquakes into my core
and suddenly his face, he is the bravest son
he just entered my dreams

I am speechless in his presence
afraid of being a fool, he is unnamed
and already my fertile blood is sand
longing for him
who tames the sea

And violent sweat had taken hold of me
shaking, ashes warmer than molten rock
Is my rebirth or death ——something in me aches
indomitable seems to me.

But all this desire is to be dared even if it is sea-risen…

*Poem inspired and partially appropriated from one of Sappho’s untitled poem.

HER #ME TOO / by Celia Stuart-Powles

It was a small party, and cozy,
But I’d not seen HER before
Yet the attraction was so heady,
I was eager to know more

And I’d not seen HER before
So when I did, I headed over,
Quite eager to know more
But was cautioned: SHE is shy.

Nonetheless, I headed over,
Victim of HER wide round eyes
Although cautioned SHE was shy,
SHE was fetching dressed in black.

Victim of HER wide round eyes
I sought an introduction
SHE was fetching dressed in black;
I threw caution to the wind

And received an introduction.
Perceptibly excited
I threw caution to the wind
And moved in—far too fast

Perceptibly excited
I fancied SHE liked me,
And moved in, far too fast.
But I wanted to caress HER

And fancied SHE liked me,
So I sweet talked, made a pass.
I wanted to caress HER,
SHE seemed amenable to

Sweet talk, and so I made a pass.
Yes, I touched HER, I confess,
SHE seemed amenable . . .
But no I got a slap.

Yes, I touched HER, I confess,
And stroked HER lovely back
But then I got a slap—.
At least SHE did not scratch.

I stroked HER lovely back
It was forward—and yes tacky,
At least SHE did not scratch.
Just turned and left the party

It was forward—and yes tacky
And I do apologize.
SHE turned and left the party
And me wiser, if bereft

And I do apologize
The attraction was too heady,
Now I’m wiser, if bereft, and
The party not as cozy—less the CAT.

Poem 3 / Day 3

Across the Road / by Roxanne Bogart

In the season of birth and growth
I am drawn to accidental death.
I drive to the store and before me
a chipmunk crossing the road
is frantic, scurries right then left
eyes wide, limbs stiff
from the giant form of my car
the roaring of its engine.
He turns toward
the safety of the curb
but at the last second
guesses wrong
runs right, across the road
and before I can stop
is under me.

Many make it
to the other side
but today I feel and hear
the dreaded bump
look in the rearview mirror
see his small striped body
splayed and still.

When I return later, it is gone
food for some hungry jaw or beak
as I continue to see
more of the same:
the motionless lump of a possum
a bloodied deer
a flattened frog dried out
almost beyond recognition—
all on their way
to dust
from the sun’s heat
that is being trapped
on this warming world
where so much life
cannot adapt
cannot make it
across the road
of global greed.

Metaphysical considerations of the third kind / by David C. Hall

It’s not that I want to deny anything,
but where else are you going to start?
says Descartes, as he deals the cards,
though the problem, when you start,
is that there must be somewhere to go.

In fact, he says, meaning,
or implying,
that there are facts
that there are not…

The journey is a tired metaphor.
Somewhere along the way
you come upon a pigeon
gazing at the breadcrumbs
in a birdbath.
Early morning,
mist on the gray air.

The journey is a tired metaphor
of one beginning after another,
of suitcases left behind
in sordid hotel rooms
full of love letters
that never got written.

There is one story I want to tell,
and in this story there is a man in a hat.
That’s all I know, so all the rest
I’ll just have to make up as I go along.

Already I’m disappointed.

There was a time
I lived in rooming houses
and moved from town to town
looking for a story to be in.

Psalm / by Adam Hughes

God, I’ve gone and done it again.
I was supposed to write a poem
today but the sky was brighter
than blue and my sandwiches
were a minor miracle, one
performed by one of the minor
saints, but still a holy type
of satisfying and work was hot
and dirty and there was
an accident on the way home
and now, here I am,
typing these lines into a cell phone
wandering Walmart two steps behind
my fiance, hoping not to run into anything
and there you are, God somewhere
between the ice cream
and the novelty fruit hanger called
a Banana Keeper and I’m suddenly
present and hungry and aware
that sometimes life
is a mix of ingredients that might
go together and if all else fails
grabbing a frozen pizza.

Remnant Snow / by Carol Jewell

It’s another January thaw; it’s nothing new
(like this, another winter poem, nothing new).
It’s just that we haven’t had one in years.
Today, many are worried about flooding.
Today, I am concerned with fog.
Fog of a dubious nature, rising from the
remnant snow, taking on odd shapes:
a chimera,
an apparition,
a sigh.

At 2 a.m. / by Jennifer Santos Madriaga

When grief burst full blossom,
I wondered if I had loved too much.
That large sliver of moon,
a hook to stab the starless sky,

seemed agreeable to this conclusion.

That exquisite bloom inside my chest
had devastation in each petal.

To feel your own dying
amplifies everything–
how you could do no better
even with your best trying.

In the hospital room,
I struggled for breath
though I had all the space
for thinking.
Feeling too.

Human is all you can be,
even when you touch the divine.

The endless apology on repeat
in sync with beeping monitors:
Look, I said the wrong words.
Or said the truth at the wrong time.
Or became fearful so I sliced you open
and now your heart can never feel safe again.
I know this and regret everything.

I won’t see you again–
those that I left and those that left me,
either through choice or circumstance.

Does one meet wholeness
ever again, or are the cracks permanent?
I helped carve those cracks.
It does hurt knowing the skill
of my own hand doing permanent damage.
I couldn’t help loving,
sometimes loving badly.

I can take nothing back,
even if I wanted.
There is no do-over, so I have to live
with what is done. If the night permits it.

Without Loving: A 30-day primer on How to Make an American Mass Shooter / by Denise Miller

Step 3:

Tattoo XY on the eye lids and cheeks
of the one whose body birthed them—
make your fists the kiss they see you
leave morning and evening before
breaking bones and leaving, mirror
her inferior— damage domesticity.

“And if there are no secrets/ what is that smell that sweetness rising?” – Mary Oliver / by Matt Sadler

Is there a term for enthusiasm masked
by wry hopelessness?

That’s what I feel
when I dig.

The soil is not
some metaphor
as the sweat starts
to pool and stain my
t-shirt a darker shade,
but the soil
isn’t real yet

I am going
to do something.

Upsetting the level
plane is the first

When I dig
I want to dream,
have faith,
use science and logic and
magic. When I dig
I melt into
dehydrated Matt, a husk
of leather inside
wet clothes. I know

I am disappearing. You
can barely hear
me now as I
fade. Please, if
you can, finish
moving this
dirt for me.

Throw these specs
on it.

I think, then,
something will

Little Venice: South of Mykonos / by Vivian Sanchbraj


I’m wearing a dress the color of dreams,

as the moon changes in the summer sky.

The sunlight rays descend on my olive skin

and lascivious curves with grace.

My hair combed by the sea liberates me from grief

and I behave like a nymph in the moor.

I am no longer afraid of getting lost, of never going back.


My diaphanous eyes are like small burning pyres

maneuvering my camera, I attempt to take self-portraits

with embittered serenity. Photographs have been a terrible mirror

that inhibits me. The camera is far more

like a victorious sea monster. I’ve learned to see myself

worst beauty and flaws and I am aware

that my heart and face will always be loaded with dusk.

WINGING / by Celia Stuart-Powles

Inseparable since birth
You’ve suddenly taken to winging
It’s annoying, for what it’s worth,
Like calling a crow’s caw singing
Though I admire your aspiration,
This came from reaching up too high
Now stretching’s an aggravation:
The shoulder’s not a butterfly.

Yet, within its limitation,
“Winging” still implies the sky:
Writing, that rough magic:
Carpet of imagination,
The dragon’s watchful eye,
The flight fantastic.

Poem 2 / Day 2

The Merganser / by Roxanne Bogart

The reservoir called me to its service
as a wide open carpet of still gray water
that stretched out before me
enticed me to its edge
where ripples from a fallen petal
rolled along its surface
bringing it to life.

I took the trail to a small spit of land
that felt like an island
surrounded by water on three sides
when a sudden splashing
stirred up white foam and wavelets
revealing the ivory breast and pale red-brown head
of a female merganser
who had just glided in
from a splashdown.

I watched her sleek, flexible body
bend into a tight U
then disappear bill-first into the depths
to appear a little while later
as a silent feathered ship
that melted into another curvaceous
and willful dive.

She lives as her body intends
made exquisitely for a piscivorous livelihood:
legs and feet—not made for walking
lay farther back toward her tail
as muscular levers that thrust
her submerged body downward,
her bill, long and serrated
holds firmly the squirming catch.

She lives with innate respect
for all her body can do
without questioning
what her body does
in the watery world
that has shaped her
with focus and passion
to ensure she will have
yet another day to live.

In a land of empty swimming pools / by David C. Hall

In a land of empty swimming pools
music and lawnmowers are no longer to be heard.
As if all these homes had been foreclosed at once
and then the bank died suddenly
of natural causes.
Stray dogs dig for bones
in the flowerbeds and growl
at the lonely police car
that cruises at a crawl
down silent streets.
Nothing much has been left behind,
dead laptops,
a blue plastic dragon
on the unkempt grass
shriveling slowly due
to an inevitable deflation.

Psalm / by Adam Hughes


is getting full

of ponder. My eyes

are heavy with

September’s maybes.




Last night I thought

I heard you

but maybe

that was just the echo

in my chest—


I don’t ask for much—

only to glimpse

that which I’m not sure

I believe in anymore—like seeing

a wisp of thylacine.


Today I’m collecting

all the pieces of you—

sinew, tendon, timber and sea—

tomorrow I’ll assemble



into what I want you to be.


When Help Didn’t Come / by Carol Jewell

They yelled every day, sometimes all day: help me, help me, hurry.
Why were they being ignored?
Why was no one helping them?
Nighttime meds brought silence, at last.

Why were they being ignored?
How could a person not be heard?
Nighttime meds brought silence, at least.
A shock of no sounds at all; almost…freedom.

Their voice resounded above all others.
Seemed like everyone (but I) ignored this guy.
At night, a shock of no sounds; freedom; all slept.
I rushed to get stronger, to leave, to never return.

Why did everyone here ignore this guy,
this guy who called for help so often?
I rushed to get stronger, to leave, to never return.
To my surprise, “he” was a “she.”

This guy, calling for help, all day,
wasn’t helped by anyone.
To my utter surprise, “he” was a “she.”
Help me, help me. Hurry, hurry.

Sepsis/Bridge-Passage / by Jennifer Santos Madriaga

In the dark space between consciousness
and the inviting doorway to elsewhere,
I saw the dead, loving and aware,
and I knew who they were, despite
the years making their flesh charcoal
and their atoms swirling in places unknown.
For all I knew, I was breathing them in,
molecule by molecule–oxygen, nitrogen, vapor.

I knew the dead by their utmost tenderness
and lack of judgment, and by the way
things had fallen away from them so
that they were unencumbered by
obligations and resentments, naked
in intention, holding out support
as parts of me died and became re-born.

I marveled at the purity of their presence.
I was dying but not yet dead.
The body had betrayed me but could
still forgive and heal itself.

It’s true that your life flashes in review.
But it was not just my life that flashed
before me, but the lives of others, including
those I had only grazed for moments, such as
in elevators and sidewalks and waiting rooms.
I saw that I knew them all and their walking wounds,
concealed scars and broken hearts,
their momentary joys, and more scarcely, contentment.
I knew them as well as I knew myself,
which also meant not at all.

And I loved them beyond belief even
if no word of greeting was ever uttered
between us. I saw the tether that held us
all together, threaded like notes in
melody, sometimes minor key.

My grandparents were there by my shoulders.
I felt the cool mud of where we sprang from,
derived from volcanic ash and fallen grasses.
They said I was made of fire, and yes, I was burning,
but I should not fear it. I would rise again
on the third day and that is when the fever broke.

Without Weeping: A 30-day primer on How to Make an American Mass Shooter / by Denise Miller

Step 2:

Teach their hands to hunt for
the tug of a trigger in the toy
chest— make sure they muddy
their hunting vest— let them
rest only after drawing blood
             — not after bleeding.

6th grade is as afraid of us as we are afraid of 6th grade / by Matt Sadler

I am about to do something
you won’t believe. I am going
to sing along with Taylor
I don’t know about you,
no no not forty-two-oo,
on my solo ride home then
plop down & unwind watching
Arthur & Cupcake & Dino & Hilda,
binge my girls’ whole childhood
at once, the browned milk from
generic Trader Joe’s coco pops
dribbling down my greying
furry chest & pooling in the
indent atop my beer belly &
nostalgia is this majestic, pathetic
corn-syrup-sweetened waterfall
that will sing me to sleep,
sling me past middle school &
into a horizon without any stars, just
floating stringy kombucha globules
decaying in the shadows & smelling
like pain, and I will scream
I am ready for you, life
into that abyss, after my nap.

Little Venice: South of Mykonos / by Vivian Sanchbraj


Five windmills face the Aegean sea

as revered guardians oversee

the deserted island of Etesian winds

strike algid blows upon the flesh and lips

lift my dress, make me tremble with silent laments.


Walking into the narrow streets whiter than alabaster

along the houses brushed with stoic blue

these are corridors leading into a labyrinth

and I follow the gray cobbles

but someone repaints them as painting the faces of the dead


During these hours, Greeks are napping,

only the sound of the wind and tree leaves rumble

pass by the silent souvenir shops, the white houses

crowned with bougainvillea and luminescent blue

this is the heart of Mykonos, and I already know the island dark limbs.


CAT BOX VILLANELLE / by Celia Stuart-Powles

Cat boxes never relent
As with shovel and scoop I uncover
Remains of Fancy Feast spent.

Yet I doubt Pablo N. ever bent
Over one box, and then another,
Though cat boxes never relent.

And Hemingway—too much a gent?
And boxes too much of a bother
With remains of fifty feasts spent.

But I try to be diligent:
Or at least a loving cat mother
For cat boxes never relent,

Nor litter quite cover the scent,
So for the future, I am the remover
And scooper of Fancy Feast spent.

Though yes, at times I lament
The remains of Fancy Feast spent
The cat boxes never relent.

Poem 1 / Day 1

Hilltop Desire / by Roxanne Bogart

On the hilltop porch
a chime sways and gongs
yellow-petaled pansies
on long green stems
wave and toss
as the wind of the world
dons tangible life
a body perceived
rises over the hills
moves through branches
growling, groaning, howling
faceless, unknowable except
for what its long, wide hands

can caress, as the woman sits
fondling dense clay
made from the world,
molds its rich brown, pliable body
into shapes of her own desire
wonders if wind craves
more than just leaves, grass,
flowers, chimes, if it longs to go
where it cannot, as she dares
mold the clay into open lips
that she may kiss

the earth, as she hears ovenbirds sound
from deep in the lower woods
having faced the skies
of so many days
to arrive here on this hill
fulfilling an ancient longing
a desire deeply embedded
in feathered bodies to journey far
return to reconnoitered groves
create more tiny, hollow-boned
winged-ones that will live
off this rich carving of earth
and one day lift off
into the restless wind.

The party’s over / by David C. Hall

The party’s over.
Those of us that are left,
nobody’s talking.
I was drunk for a while,
but I’m not now.
Most of us live lives in black and white
with an occasional splash of Technicolor
that’s not always very nice.
Like riding on a train,
and most of what is going on
is on the other side of the windowpane.

Once there were club cars
where you could get a drink
and watch the lights go by
and gritty old stations
with great high ceilings,
all naked black steel girders
and glass,
built for goodbyes.

Psalm / by Adam Hughes

If you are the fire
falling on this over-soaked
altar, and if I am

the bloody butchered
beast upon
the earth-cool
stones, what about me

makes you want
to consume me? What
aroma, raw and recent,
drives your hunger?

When all of me has been
returned to vapor
and soaked into your
pores, when all that’s left
are teeth to cast lots
and clatter new
dead languages, will you

then be satisfied?
Or will you hang
your head
and whisper softly

the rains
to clean up
what remains
of the ashes?

In Gloved Hand / by Carol Jewell

Sasha, last name not remembered, a
Russian boyfriend, once described a winter scene:
“wind-blown, dry snow snakes across the road.” He said
there was a specific Russian word or phrase for
“snaking across the road,” but I can’t remember
what it is. Anyway, whenever I see that kind of snow,
I think of him, telling me that, as we walked,
gloved hand in gloved hand,
on a cold, vodka-fueled, probably-January night,
in New York City,
he in the moment, in New York, and me pretending to be in Russia,
forty years ago…”tomu nazad… тому назад.”

I wonder where he is now, what career he chose, if he has a spouse, kids, and where he lives. How
different are
our lives, of that I am sure.
Does he have
a vodka-fueled memory
of me?
Does snaking snow remind him
of me?
Who holds his hand,
in gloved hand?

Sepsis/Movement One / by Jennifer Santos Madriaga

I remained lucid through the delirium dream
as I was baptized in the saline waters of
Zoisin and Vancomycin, my biome of
living self and infection obliterating in layers
with each hourly infusion.
Whoever said death came easier
than one thought was right.
The space of being alive is so small and also
so infinite and then all at once not there–
awareness that came with each breath,
a white blood count of 20,000,
a resting heart rate at 153,
and a fever hovering around 103 F.
I marveled how numbers could define
near mortality so accurately.
Even though I felt no pain,
I felt contraction like a slug in salt.
I felt the body become primordial soup.
I saw how it was only fluid and carbon and salts
paired with a soul peering at what would happen next.
The body was a memory, but I could view
the last time it made love one early morning,
when it swam in the waters off Waikiki, when it rode
through a frozen countryside from Vienna,
when it birthed my son, bloodied and lacerated.
I saw I was not the body.
I felt love and loss and suffering and grief
and loneliness and belonging
and my universe so large it defied
my crying out, my helplessness
at seeing how it was too large to comprehend.

Without Signaling*: A 30-day primer on How to Make an American Mass Shooter / by Denise Miller

Step 1:

birth a being with one Y
chromosome— bend the X
in them to embrace the binary.
Bind them— in blue, both denim
and bruises. Tell them— “man
up” before they ever stand.

*The initial report over the Midland police radio came after two Department of Public Safety troopers stopped a white man in his 30s for making a left turn without signaling. – excerpt from ‘We Got One in a Ditch’: Inside the Odessa Shooting Rampage – The transcript of the Odessa Police dispatch during the initial moments when a shooter opened fire along a 20-mile stretch of road shows how the chaotic scene unfolded by Michael Daly, Special Correspondent – the Daily Beast Updated 09.01.19 12:04PM ET / Published 09.01.19 9:44AM ET

September / by Matt Sadler

The last days
of summer like
a watermelon
rind bit
to the quick-
only the
pickling left
to do

The tangle of
ferns like
frozen living
starting to brown
along the spines
of their

In the world
where dirt is
blood we live
thanks to
our eyes, darting
from bloom to
bloom and
never seeing
the ending

ODE TO A SWEET POTATO / by Celia Stuart-Powles

Late summer and here you are,
Nearly forgotten in the dog days
Of salads and sandwiches—still
Wearing your dull ocher jacket—
dusty but still plump,

A bit like Hansel in the cupboard
Waiting for your fate, and is that
Gretel beside you? That tiny spud,
Laying in the dim light? Perhaps
Tonight’s the night—

There’s no escaping—you’ve eyes
But no feet—the choice is mine
What will it be? Lovely in your
Oddity, like a refugee from
The Kuiper Belt—but your bulges

Are earth born, my Sweet: fit
For pie or casserole with pine-
Apple and marshmallow—or
Merely baked intact and peeled,
Yes, washed and scrubbed,

Rub-a-dub-dub: Hansel, your time
Has come. And Gretel cannot
Save you. She’s just a small
spud, after all. Your date is
With the oven—your fate

Is on my plate, and you’ll be.
Sweet with butter, my Yam,
Earth-apple, and Morning Glories kin.
Late summer, and here we are.