Author Archive

Palm Tree Silhouettes, Sunset

By Janet Coontz-Stoneman

——————–
Janet Coontz-Stoneman is a mother of four and grandmother of three. She began taking photos with a Brownie box camera when she was eleven. Her pictures are a means of connecting with beauty in the present. She lives in Corona del Mar, California.

Orange Fanta

By Charles Elin

                      for the late Larry Fagin

 

Effervescence, had he thought of it. Out of the common can. By way of

Creeley, Beckett reports. One word. May that be the extent of language. A

bubble with benefits. Relations rising. It was quite a ride.

 

His peas run into the Bolognese. An offense worth noting. Each, of its own

character. He’d place himself in the audience. Embarrassed for the actor,

caught acting.

10 Selected Poems — Winter 2018

By Simon Perchik

*

Ear to ear though the tree

darkens the way this saw

no longer drifts alongside

 

in the open, clings

to wooden boats and the dead

you can touch with your tongue

 

once it’s morning and the blade

has nothing to do, already

half rainbow, half riverbank

 

low over your mouth

opened so you can read

between the lines, send back

 

a note smelling from wood

older than anything on Earth

stretching out till the dirt

 

overturns and you drown

swallowing leaves, branches

days –you cut with hours

 

that know each other

that bind and by themselves

filling with clear water.

 

 

 

*

For a time, carefully reduced

as if these shoes were watertight

and each price tag pointing out

 

–you don’t know where to dig

though dirt must mean something

motionless under the exact place

 

that could be anyone

the way nothing in this shop window

is left standing, needs more dirt

 

more and more and the hillside

that always falls backwards

refuses to get up, no longer tries

 

and all these passers-by two by two

in your arms already opened

for so many dead from just one grave.

 

 

 

*

With each hand the same turn

you learned to take apart

put together, tighten

 

and though the wrench holds on

the tire’s slowly going flat

the only way you know how

 

–you let go, circle

spring-like, for keeps

around the pin-hole leak

 

already planes falling into place

as a training song from the 40s

louder and louder, struggling for air

 

–at last the tire goes down

half under the ground

where you need both wrists

 

the way flowers wilt and each breath

takes in more smoke, still black

on course, end over end, almost there.

 

 

 

*

Not a chance! the gate

tries to open though rust

was already mixed in, drifting

 

till the Earth lay alongside

too weak to turn back

the way the lines on your palms

 

still flow close to riverbanks

and longing, struggle to pull

this mud soaked ironwork

 

into the darkness and turns

that stayed in the air

after it became the sky

 

even in the daytime

–you almost see the gate move

and with both hands, yell

 

you’re working on it, yell

anything! how the latch

is just about to loosen, yell

 

so the fence breaks apart

wading in dirt no longer the rain

that never lets go all the way down.

 

 

 

*

Again your shadow loose in the attic

as if more light could help

coming for old letters, broken frames

 

not sure what was torn apart

has healed by now, hidden

as sharp corners though you

 

still expect the some days

to climb alongside and the height

save them –it’s storage work

 

later work –Esther and you

on a pony that almost remembers the dust

it carried all the way down.

 

 

 

*

Everywhere at once, aimless

though the day lilies

no longer make a sound

 

are used to how the sun

can still be found in moonlight

that has no rain left to comfort

 

with warm stones and the mist

that is now your heart

is circling night over night

 

as some giant red cloud

listening for the scent

from when a flower held your hand

 

too long and the calm

that has its fragrance :your echo

faint from waving goodbye.

 

 

 

*

Not yet feathers though you

still breathe in the smoke

trailing from some climbing turn

 

hidden by clouds and weightless

circling this tree allowed at last

to shed its bark, warmed

 

the way each leaf expects

a better life somewhere, takes hold

with its wings around the Earth

 

carried up hillside over hillside

spurting more and more blood

from your eyes, your ears

 

till their shadow flies from under you

escapes this time, hovering overhead

as branches and evenings

 

and further though their roots

come by to remember why this sky

ended its wandering and closed.

 

 

 

*

Pulling this bowl to your lips

as if traction was needed

though it must know by now

 

why you dig with the same whisper

that once beat back the wind

and the sky changing direction

 

–you lift with what became

the moon, still crawling in its cage

one end to the other, that no longer

 

struts in the open, is terrified by air

wants to cool and in your throat

crumbles from exhaustion and splashing

 

–you make a spray so this spoon

will empty in your arms overflowing

as grass and so many fingers.

 

 

 

*

The door knows why it opens

and still you’re not used to it

could be a sound from the 40s

 

gutting this radio

the way all skies darken

fill with distances

 

–you listen for the slow turn

the Earth never forgot

though a hidden crack

 

keeps the room from exploding

and costs you nothing

has already started its climb

 

spreads out –with both arms

you begin to crawl

and not yet an old love song.

 

 

 

*

You begin to sweat, for hours

the way these stars poke through

and everything has come true

 

–it’s a knack you learn

quickly, pulling up small stones

–that’s it! afterwards

 

you bring back those same days

as evenings that no longer

say anything, the darkness

 

is enough, lets your fingertips

pin down the Earth, hold it

drain it –afterwards

 

you put back its night

as once and never again

though your shadow too

 

falls from a sky swept away

for rain and your hand

wider than usual, gone.

 

 

 

———————
Simon Perchik is an attorney whose poems have appeared in Partisan Review, Forge, Poetry, Osiris, The New Yorker and elsewhere. His most recent collection is The Osiris Poems published by boxofchalk, 2017. For more information, including free e-books, his essay titled “Magic, Illusion and Other Realities” please visit his website at www.simonperchik.com.

Largo in G Minor

By Suchoon Mo

If a musician is interested in performing this piece, he or she may contact Mr Mo for minimalist sheet music at suchoon@aol.com.

 

——————–
Suchoon Mo is a war veteran and a retired academic living in the semiarid part of Colorado.   He writes poetry and composes music.   Some of them appear in literary and cultural publications.   He has a PhD in psychology from University of Pennsylvania.   He authored a number of scholarly and research publications, mostly dealing with perception of time.

Dance of Swallows No. 2

By Suchoon Mo

If musicians are interested in performing this piece, they may contact Mr Mo for minimalist sheet music at suchoon@aol.com.

 

——————–
Suchoon Mo is a war veteran and a retired academic living in the semiarid part of Colorado.   He writes poetry and composes music.   Some of them appear in literary and cultural publications.   He has a PhD in psychology from University of Pennsylvania.   He authored a number of scholarly and research publications, mostly dealing with perception of time.

Alberta Clipper

By Eric Greinke

I wake to a white blizzard

blowing down from Canada.

My canine companion

wants me to stay in bed,

but the porch geraniums

want their curtains open

so they can bask in the light.

The weather-woman predicts

that lake-effect wind & snow

will accumulate all day.

The dog already knows.

She will be lazy & sweet

on my lap or at my feet,

so I won’t get a walk

unless I go by myself.

I know & accept the drill:

Michigan, mid-December.

We do it every year.

We dress in thick layers,

cling together for warmth,

long to see the nearest star.

 

 

——————–
Eric Greinke has been active on the literary scene for fifty years as a poet, publisher of over one hundred of his peers, collaborator with other poets, book reviewer and essayist.  In between, he wrote a fishing book, a funny service novel and a book that solves all the problems in the world.  He is a Contributing Writer for the Schuylkill Valley Journal and has new work coming in Cape Rock Poetry, Freshwater Journal, Gargoyle, Lake Effect, Lilipoh, Paterson Literary Review, Plainsongs and Trajectory.    New book: Masterplan – Collaborative Poems (with Alison Stone). www.ericgreinke.com

Fire Man

By Eric Greinke

When I see my old friend Bob

I always think of fire.  It’s not

just his red hair & beard.  It’s

something more.  He built

his first home on the ashes

of an old farmhouse that

he burned down.  I’ve seen him

start a bonfire in the middle

of a frozen lake, with nothing

but dead leaves, wet branches,

and a frail BIC lighter.

Now he lives alone with five cats

in a small cabin in the woods

that he heats with wood.

Firewood is stacked up all around it,

just waiting for a flame.

He doesn’t have electricity, or

watch television.  But

every night, when the woods

gets dark, & the coyotes howl,

Bob lights a fire.  He sits there

until the embers glow, often

in the company of refugees.

 

 

——————–
Eric Greinke has been active on the literary scene for fifty years as a poet, publisher of over one hundred of his peers, collaborator with other poets, book reviewer and essayist.  In between, he wrote a fishing book, a funny service novel and a book that solves all the problems in the world.  He is a Contributing Writer for the Schuylkill Valley Journal and has new work coming in Cape Rock Poetry, Freshwater Journal, Gargoyle, Lake Effect, Lilipoh, Paterson Literary Review, Plainsongs and Trajectory.    New book: Masterplan – Collaborative Poems (with Alison Stone). www.ericgreinke.com

Informality

By Eric Greinke

Prince Chuck stood at the entrance

To the St. Larry River.  He thought

Of his parents, Queen Liz & Phil,

Who were on informal vacation

In Flo, Italy.

 

Later, back in London, things returned

To normal.  The avenues

Were pockmarked with charles-holes,

& so he sent a harry of his hair

To an electric fan.

 

He just couldn’t get the henry of it.

The whole thing was gerald-rigged.

He wanted to be completely francis.

Then, in ernie, they threatened to susan.

There was no time to robert & weave,

 

No time for thomasfoolery,

No time for patricks on the head,

No time to go to the jonathan.

It was like something he eight

Was too richard for him.

 

 

——————–
Eric Greinke has been active on the literary scene for fifty years as a poet, publisher of over one hundred of his peers, collaborator with other poets, book reviewer and essayist.  In between, he wrote a fishing book, a funny service novel and a book that solves all the problems in the world.  He is a Contributing Writer for the Schuylkill Valley Journal and has new work coming in Cape Rock Poetry, Freshwater Journal, Gargoyle, Lake Effect, Lilipoh, Paterson Literary Review, Plainsongs and Trajectory.    New book: Masterplan – Collaborative Poems (with Alison Stone). www.ericgreinke.com

John The Booster

By Eric Greinke

John arose from his booster-seat & went up to
the bar.   He ordered a booster-shot.   Then, he
went  shoplifting  in  a  jon-boat.   He  brought
some  johnny-cake  along  for  a  snack.    After
that,  John  went  home  &  watched  television
through  a  booster-cable.     A  show  about   a
robbery  gave  him  a  boost.    He  went  to the
john.  Still later, he hired a hooker.

 

 

——————–
Eric Greinke has been active on the literary scene for fifty years as a poet, publisher of over one hundred of his peers, collaborator with other poets, book reviewer and essayist.  In between, he wrote a fishing book, a funny service novel and a book that solves all the problems in the world.  He is a Contributing Writer for the Schuylkill Valley Journal and has new work coming in Cape Rock Poetry, Freshwater Journal, Gargoyle, Lake Effect, Lilipoh, Paterson Literary Review, Plainsongs and Trajectory.    New book: Masterplan – Collaborative Poems (with Alison Stone). www.ericgreinke.com

Novel T

By Eric Greinke

The  toughest task was  keeping tabs  on Tom.
In  his  tight, Teutonic tunic,  his breath tainted
by  tabasco,  Tom   blended  in  like  a   broken
thumb.   Nothing  was  taboo  in  Tom’s  tablet.
He  put  it  on the  table, technically.  But when
the  table  talk  started,  Tom  became  taciturn.
He’d say he thought that type of talk was tacky.
He  was  frequently  tactless.   Or,  it could have
been  another  of his tactics,  tenacious  as cold
taffy.

 

We tagged along, all the way to Tahiti and back
to  Toledo,  until the  whole  thing  became too
tedious.

 

 

——————–
Eric Greinke has been active on the literary scene for fifty years as a poet, publisher of over one hundred of his peers, collaborator with other poets, book reviewer and essayist.  In between, he wrote a fishing book, a funny service novel and a book that solves all the problems in the world.  He is a Contributing Writer for the Schuylkill Valley Journal and has new work coming in Cape Rock Poetry, Freshwater Journal, Gargoyle, Lake Effect, Lilipoh, Paterson Literary Review, Plainsongs and Trajectory.    New book: Masterplan – Collaborative Poems (with Alison Stone). www.ericgreinke.com