Featured Works: Week of March 23 (Spring Thaw)
For many across the United States, winter has been relentless, but now we finally see hope for warmer days ahead. Our contributors this week take us through the seasonal change. Kevin Kiely’s poem, “Abstract Hangover with Glass of Water,” is a blurry landscape of a wintry morning, viewed from inside. Leslie Philibert’s poem, “Lost Time,” is a meditation on Spring and life’s journey. The short poem by TWIXT, “Nylon Rain,” captures the effects of lights during a rain...
Read MoreNylon Rain
The rain comes down on nylon lines as nylon rain, each fiber-optic strand a light shine- shrine, and a vibrating way.
Read MoreAbstract Hangover with Glass of Water
window streaked in winter’s glow four panes of glass, cruciform spine morning sunlight floods the room through closed eyelids a screen shows sky-canvases that Mark Rothko never got around to painting menacing red with swirling black streaks and below: a dull rectangular green shape next: a yellow landscape with bright green sunlight a merge of colours. A pink sea has a plughole vortex of grey: spyhole into some other zone, show the faces of the dead let every second be the last, and first. The radio music is fading. This might be the way to pass over and return, so often that it will be...
Read MoreLost Time
So at some point you start to notice the difference that makes this single; a sparrow on a fallen wall, the first change of glass to drops of water, loam broken from under in a garden’s warmer corner. You start to hold the finite a coin minted and shaped, held for a last time, then spent as your body; the past like the hidden part of an iceberg; lost in...
Read MoreFeatured Works: Week of March 9 (Music)
In his poem “Nameless Child,” Fred Dale contemplates the tantalizing promise of tuning up for a performance. In the short story by D.E. Fredd, “Full Frontal Idiocy,” a small-time journalist unwittingly causes tumult in a concert cellist’s life. In a poem by Sean Lause, “Leaving the Concert Hall,” a concert opens up worlds of imagination for a young...
Read MoreLeaving the Concert Hall
She is eleven, maybe twelve, but numbers no longer matter, for she has heard Bach and Mozart for the first time, has mastered the mathematics of the wind, the heart’s algebra, where A is not A and need not be, and now her fingers conduct the weather until it shivers with illuminations. She walks, then skips, then spins to a private pantomime that need not reveal itself, for she is the conductor. Silent notes come swirling around her in wizard colors of the new, and the ecstatic leaves whirl in xylophones of dance. She feels her joy float from breath to breath. Bezeled light dazzles round a...
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