Journal

“Devotion to Silence”

Judith Sander‘s “Devotion to Silence” is her response to Terri Thomas’ poem “Silence”. Mixed media collage using papers, oil pastels, pencil and acrylic paint.  18”H x 24”W. She believes a few moments of silence in our noisy worlds is important for our well being.

 

Sherri Levine is an award-winning poet who lives in Oregon and teaches English to adult immigrants and refugees at Portland Community College. Levine’s work has been published in the Timberline Review, the Hartskill Review, VoiceCatcher, and The Sun Magazine. She left New York’s harsh winters for the Pacific Northwest where she walks in the rain without her umbrella. 

Widow’s Rags

I’m dressing like a man these days.
Wore out my husband’s flannel shirts,
bought my own in my own size.
I wear them over polo shirts and jeans
with lace-up leather hiking boots.
I let the girl cut my hair so short
there’s nothing to grab anymore.
The back of my neck is shaved. Like his.
Sure, I have breasts, but I hide them now
and yes, I have a fuzzy face. I do.
Without my earrings and my paint,
I could pass for a man, one of those
wrinkled, rugged cowboy types.
Just slap on a Stetson hat and let
my mustache have its way.
I’m turning butch in my old age,
but now I’m wife and husband, too
hauling the wood, cooking the steaks,
fixing the roof, driving the truck.
His clothes fit well and keep me warm.
A dress would feel foolish now,
and who is looking anyway? The dog.
What would you wear in my place?

 

Smoke Signals

Across the street, gray smoke
puffs out of the chimney,
threads through spruce and alder,
and spreads out, heading west.

The kitchen lights are on,
my neighbor at the sink,
making sandwiches at dawn,
her Lab alert for crumbs.

Over here, I start the fire,
turn on the kitchen lamp,
take my dog outside to pee,
put a kettle on for tea.

My smoke mingles with hers,
my lamp shines in the dark.
I look across the street and wave.
And so begins another day.

 

Sue Fagalde Lick escaped the Silicon Valley newspaper business, moved to the Oregon coast and earned an MFA from Antioch University Los Angeles. Now she writes poetry, blog posts, and books. Her poems have appeared in Cloudbank, New Letters, Temenos, The American Journal of Poetry, Diode Poetry Journal, and other publications. www.suelick.com. 

In The Bowels of Her Birkin

Pink oversized shades
procured
for wearing
at the beach
snug in a red pouch which
is snug in a blue case,

Earphones
for those
moments
between floors
in the elevator
and outside

Lip gloss
to soften
the ashen corpse look

Buff ankle socks
that keep
her feet warm

Wallet,
crammed with cards
notes folded in half
identification marks

Pen
to sign
or
take notes

Small comb
to tame
her wild mane

A folded sanitary
napkin to stem
the flow
of tears

Wet wipes
that scrub out the depression

Gift vouchers
Pamphlets
Cheque book

No photos
No compact
No eyeliner
No letters
No bills
No love
No life

 

Gargi Mehra is a software professional by day, a writer by night, and a mother at all times. Her work has appeared in numerous literary magazines online and in print.  She is currently working on a novel. She blogs at gargimehra.com

“Permian,” 18 x 24,acrylic on canvas

 

Leslie Green’s work reflects her love of nature, animals and geologic forms and forces. She has recently returned to painting from clay to find the free expression in color, line and movement that 2-dimensional work allows. See LeslieGreenart.com for more information.

marathon

You have started running again
and I can’t help but remember how you told me
the way you hate the heat that fills your lungs
the pressure in your knees
even the sound of your feet against the pavement.

Has she crawled back inside
of your pale protruding ribs?

I know how you dwindle
how your mass rises and falls
as you hear the scream of the scale summon you
back into your wretched ways.

You are a mathematician in your own right —
you could write theses
on the calculus of calories.

There is something disgusting in the way
we regard 130 as excessive.

Some days are not meant for eating,
you argue
as you substitute liquid for lunch
(and breakfast)
(and dinner)

You crave visible crevices
crisscrossing your shoulder blades and stomach.
You want only to see your collarbones
to feel the weight of the world directly on your skeleton.

You have started running again.
You are losing the race.

 

Megan Munson is a seventeen year old living in Washington and writing as much as possible.