March 19, 2020

“The Woman of Kutch,” Poetry by Jonathan Lloyd

The Woman of Kutch The woman of Kutch, Living in grasslands Favored by raj And ibis, flees  The earthquake and Monsoon that leveled The Gujarat Three or four  Thousand years ago. For this occasion She wears a dress Embroidered in red And yellow cotton An aba covers The sakral which Begins the stem  Of a sunflower rising  To a shower  Of light, all in Mirrors, surrounded  By grassy fields. She carries three Steel pots of water On her head and  With her left arm She caresses another. With her right arm  She shields her eyes  Against the sun, Into which she races. ** At  the Track She crosses her legs, this girl of twelve, her hat A crown, brim bouncing in a breeze. She reads Her book, maybe–maybe not–lost in thought Or reverie, a boy…

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March 17, 2020

“To and Fro,” by Hayden Moore

Posted by Jack B. Rochester in Writing

Harmony is the strength of binding opposites: Heraclitus She knew the way, but the liquid path never failed to frighten her. Her arms were sure as she paddled from one to side to the other, left to right, to and fro until she convinced herself the fear was nothing more but adolescent excitement. In those rare moments of calm, something stirred within her chest as one arm gave way to the stroke of another, a harmonic song issuing forth from her sternum in a moment’s moment. But the song was too brief to name and the moment too fleeting to overtake the peril. Not a cloud in the sky. The girl swore she could see the curvature of the earth from her humble placement as she paddled across the shallow sea. When she dared to…

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March 15, 2020

“The Boggart” and other Poems by Julia Franklin

Posted by Jack B. Rochester in Writing

The Boggart There used to be this boggart in our house. Not a big thing, really; actually quite small. Of course, we didn’t used to see her that way; There was a time when we were the ones that were small. She had a row of teeth for every bit of flesh we bore. She’d bring them out, all neat and sharp and small. One day we stared her down and brought our own teeth out, And the growl that stirred in her throat was small. The night passed without incident. When the sun rose, We found footprints out the door. We thought, “Now who’s small?” I heard she found another house to haunt, Its occupants each Bambi-eyed and small. ** The Truckers It’s a world that…

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March 10, 2020

“Wordsmithing Past the Editor,” CNF* by Philip Gabbard

Posted by Mike Rochester in Writing

Editor’s Note: This post is an excerpt from: THISday-Words for the Vulnerable and the Venerable by Philip Gabbard, a book of essays and *creative nonfiction. Wordsmithing Past The Editor Could you imagine if Mark Twain or Pink Floyd wrote ad copy today? Although, while  sixty-second ad copy wasn’t a “thing” in Twain’s day—he was widely heralded for penning some poignant one-liners back in the late 1800s, like saying that  common sense ain’t so common. But even Twain had his  influencers. Perhaps it was Voltaire who similarly wrote the same line a century and a half earlier. Then in truth, the fact that common sense hasn’t been, well, common has been common since AD 130, when the Roman poet Juvenal first wrote that there was  not a more uncommon thing in the world than common sense. And I can only think that that was something Juvenal  heard…

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March 8, 2020

“Jacob the Lion Hearted,” Poetry by Thomas Piekarski

Posted by Mike Rochester in Writing

Jacob the Lion Hearted He started out trying to climb too high a ladder, fell off, smacked his head, knocked unconscious. But he wouldn’t give up just because the ladder was an obstacle. He wouldn’t give in although he had no grip on any world outside his head. Jacob took advantage of this transcendent state to luxuriate in the expanse of his imagination. He ventured like Alice through fabulous realms clinging to his unique ideals. No one else would ever understand what thoughts were propagated. Nor would he, for memory had fled in a flash. His mind a dream machine, body in suspension, Jacob manufactured fantasies, myths, religions, gave them life, far beyond anything he’d known during this his tenuous tenure on the road of life. ** Andronicus Returns to Earth A smooth landing, the toes…

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March 3, 2020

“I Shipped Myself Out of Folsom,” by Townsend Walker

Posted by Mike Rochester in Writing

Probably ought to start with how I got there. Driving up 395, stopped for coffee in Olancha. Tall, weathered man came into the diner, pulled up a stool like he owned the place. We started chatting—horses, construction, steel work. I’d done it all. Will Thornton had a big ranch out there in the high desert, east of the Sierras. He was looking for help and hired me on. That’s how I met his daughter Holly, not a pretty girl, but with a daddy owning fifteen hundred acres . . . I courted her, but she didn’t take to me much. With Will, I was getting along real well. He liked my work, we chatted about what I’d done, what he’d done, about desert life. One day setting fence posts, he eased into talking about his daughter. Too much a stay-at-home, would never find a man in their town of 192 people. I wasn’t shy about telling him I was sweet on Holly, “be happy to oblige” and he helped me convince her. We got hitched in Reno with Will and Holly’s sister as witnesses. Real soon it started not to…

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March 1, 2020

Milton P. Ehrlich — Poems of Rumination

Posted by Mike Rochester in Writing

ONCE Following orders on the battlefield, it was kill or be killed my sergeant said, no different than when he taught me to thrust and parry with fixed bayonet. The young soldier wore thick glasses and looked a lot like one of my classmates. Sergeant claimed Gooks don’t belong to the human race. Don’t ever feel sorry for killing an enemy, I can’t forgive myself. I look down at my finger, ready to squeeze the trigger, and hear my mother asking: What has become of you? ** THE MARITAL HAPPINESS QUOTIENT I Uber my way across the country in my Hugh Hefner silk pajamas to study happiness in marriages of all my old friends who are still walking and talking coherently. Computer porn ended a few bonds that had once bloomed like a flower. For those that served breakfast in bed, a lotus blossom was…

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February 25, 2020

“Broken Hearts & Dead Flowers,” by Michael Summerleigh

Posted by Mike Rochester in Writing

BROKEN HEARTS & DEAD FLOWERS (February 1970 – upstate New York) Josh stepped out into the beginning of the day, heard the steel door slam behind him as he pitched the black garbage bag into the dumpster. He checked the door once to make sure it had locked, buttoned his denim jacket up around the paper sack of unsold apple crisps and burgers, jammed his hands down into the pockets of his jeans. It had been a slow shift, some heavy wind and a couple of inches of snow discouraging the stoners from boarding the Midnight Munchie train that usually kept the Jack-in-the-Box busy through the night. He’d sent Kyle and Donnie home at two, started shutting everything down around three-thirty. . .picking up wax paper burger wraps and empty Zig Zag sleeves in the small…

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February 23, 2020

“Ethereal Tryst,” Poems by Horacio Chavez

Posted by Mike Rochester in Writing

Ethereal Tryst Meet me where the pink hued clouds entwine with infinity So, will we conjoin in our appointed waltz Upon that coral floor together in unity To enjoy what is and bemoan that which remains Our fate to hunger… Our union asunder Our feet skillful We dance the dance fate has called out Without malice though willful We are without doubt For all but our destiny… We step carefully Accepting that which is within our grasp In lieu of that wish that eludes Satisfied with the fortuitous clasp Of mind and spirit to conclude The interlude… Of our love subdued Perhaps fate will grant our desire Beyond the tryst that both plagues And blesses the fire Kindled by the wave That we may forever crave… Our ethereal tryst ** In Love With a Poet So you’re in love with a poet you say …

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February 20, 2020

“Dimples of Haiti,” Poetry by Mbizo Chirasha

Posted by Mike Rochester in Writing

DIMPLES OF HAITI Haiti, stink of sweat smelling millet slavery and the scent of blood revolutions. Slapped in the face with sanctions mud by hands under the influence of imperialistic alcohol. A super-concoction of propaganda maize porridge and Media yeast. Waterfalls of anger washing away your freedom dimples Handmaidens and mental epileptic waiters serving political syphilis in ideological cafes Children smelling stale ideological urine and dirt diplomatic cocaine Identities condomised with donor culture and sexual myopia Baboons eating colors of your flag, munching apples of your freedom Tongues kissing bottom streams of the state under the veil of democracy gospel Haiti, my pen is a weapon of mass instruction, I see the spreading yellow York of the sun, gently falling over the darkness of your skin, yawning off the old skin of dust, Regaining the lost richness of your dimples. ** DAWN OF…

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