Featured Works: Week of March 3 (Aging)
As Winter gradually ekes away and spring’s renewal approaches, it’s a good time to reflect on life cycles, and in particular, aging. “Recognized” by Michael Keshigian reflects on the nature of aging. Literally. In “Old Clyde and Mrs. Hill,” a short prose piece, David Sapp recalls elderly neighbors from childhood. “The Blurring of Edges” by David Sapp traces the changes in thinking from youth to maturity. “The Garden of Ramanatom” by Thomas Dorsett is a lyrical look at how nature’s life cycles mimic our...
Read MoreThe Garden of Ramanatom
I tell them about entropy—March buds ignore me— Boltzmann’s equation nobody believed, It killed him. Lawn’s growing verdant new hair— New strands shall wave at admiring chicks; the bald spot will vanish by June. (That’s not how it worked with me.) Each crocus emanating from old roots; morning glories shall hang from the trellis like a bunch of resurrecting kids— Rip van Winkle is a katydid, an old bug renewed by spring’s copy machine; even if a meadowlark devours him, his kin will look exactly like his parents, no rose would notice the difference. Like Dorian Gray, I’ve...
Read MoreThe Blurring of Edges
Much younger, first acquainted With certainty, it tasted as crisp And tart as a green apple, But its edges became precise, Interlocking gears, a vast machine. I governed impeccable itineraries, I tallied every petty minutia, Mortgages, insurance, taxes, Attempting to grasp water, Exceedingly specific molecules. Now, I have this urge To blur all edges, Debussy rather than Mozart, Monet rather than Ingres, The haze, the ubiquitous haze: A simmering August morning, Heat steaming off the dew, When the rasping din Of cicadas muddles the head In mesmerizing rhythm; When the fog is dense, Oceans...
Read MoreOld Clyde and Mrs. Hill
When I was a young man, Dad lost everything to the bank: Jet Cleaners, a marriage, our home on Glenn Road, our predictable, idyllic, suburban routine. When we moved to town, my little sister and I were decrepit, worn out after the catastrophe. Now everyone was too close together. We staggered up the broken, treacherously icy stairs, careening like Laurel and Hardy in winter to the apartment, the sagging, exhausted house on West Gambier Street. Jo’s Chateau of Beauty was in the back, Hyle’s Typewriter Repair in the front, Kenyon and civilization five miles east, the flat, monotonous...
Read MoreRecognized
He stood there, staring back at me, odd expression upon his face, smiling after I did from the other side of a huge pane window on the newly renovated office building, appearing a bit more disheveled than I remembered. More wrinkles supported his grimace and receding hairline, acknowledging me when I nodded hello. I used to know him well, athletic, sculpted, artistic, a well defined physique, but his apparent paunch negated any recent activity. This window man I thought I knew, musician, writer, runner, dreamer, now feasted off the stale menu of advancing age, aches, excuses,...
Read MoreFeatured Works: Week of Jan. 21 (Healing)
At some point, we all experience pain. Life is about how we get through it. This week’s contributors examine that process. “Scars” by DS Maolalai contemplates the different ways that hurt affects us over a lifetime. “Migraine” by Brian Cromwall recalls his sister’s bouts of chronic headaches. “Getting Back on My Feet” by Tony Howarth demonstrates how hope can help us to...
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