Author: Editor (Page 20 of 46)

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Reverie

23 May 2023 / Editor

Poetry by Peter McNamara

I interrupt a cockroach
attempting a backstroke
through the leavings of dinner stew;
he/she seems certain to survive
the age of man.

A guy comes to my door—all insistent
knuckles—with a petition for
improving peninsular life;
I muse as I turn him away . . .
have I thought to return his pen?

Yesterday’s hibiscus wither like
retirees languishing for a
fountain of youth. Lives crisp
beneath remorseless sun:
shadowless, unvarying days.

Roy Orbison renders “Crying” as
Montserrat Caballé paces the wings.
Does time come, or only go?
I should have taken this up
with the cockroach.

Peter McNamara’s “Eating Up Light” appeared in 2022. His work appears in such journals as Center, Main Street Rag, Pembroke Magazine, The Paris Review and Pleiades. He’s a former Wall Street financial editor and lyricist with Polyhymnia and the New York City Gay Men’s Chorus.

The Smart One

21 May 2023 / Editor

Fiction by Lexie Kauffman

“Does anyone know what a heuristic is?” My professor’s voice echoes throughout the expansive biology lab accompanied by the chittering of critters living in the dozens of glass terrariums that line the room. The projector pull down screen shows a stark white PowerPoint slide with only “Heuristic,” written in black text, at the very top. The fluorescent overhead lighting beams onto the class full of unfamiliar faces. Everyone looks older and wiser; they look like they know what they’re doing.

It is my first class on my first day of college and no one knows me. I sit alone at a table meant for four, palms sweaty in the humid room, debating if I should answer the question; but this is my blank slate, my chance to make a first impression on my class and professor. This moment creates my new identity, completely separate from high school.

I can picture the definition of heuristic, painstakingly written out in my AP Psychology vocabulary journal. It sits on the second page of Unit 7.5, nestled between “Algorithm” and “Trial and Error.” The word “Heuristic” is written in red pen, quickly underlined to make it stand out. Underneath lies the definition in black pen: “A rule of thumb problem solving strategy. It makes a solution likely, but it does not guarantee it.” Below that, written in blue ink, is the example: “i before e except after c.” The journal lies forgotten in my bedroom 100 miles away. The black and white composition book with only my name on the cover sits abandoned on an empty desk in an empty bedroom.

I know what a heuristic is. I could easily raise my hand and explain it, but a quick glance reveals that the room full of upperclassmen is confused. No one else knows what a heuristic is, so I stay quiet.

This silence is my new identity. After thirteen years as the “smart” one, I can’t do it again. I owe it to little second grade me who sat suffocating in an observation room as administrators watched her perform academic tasks to test her IQ. I owe it to that outcast that was the only student from her grade in the gifted program.

The silence is synonymous to my response when I was asked at eight years old, “You play video games? I thought you just went home and read textbooks.”

I deserve the silence after teachers called on me for thirteen years, regardless of the status of my hand, because they knew I could answer or ask a relevant question. I revel in the silence, this moment where I am choosing to take control of my intelligence and who knows about it.

It’s powerful, but why does it make my stomach sour?

In my head, I hear the screeching voice of my psychology teacher begging me to raise my hand, insisting that this exact moment is why she filled her class with so much passion.

I imagine my high school gifted teacher’s disappointment that I am letting myself stay silent. If I was in his classroom, I would be teaching the class for him.

I feel my mom’s sadness that I am hiding my intelligence: the part of myself that I place most of my worth in.

But, behind the loud wall of those that have helped me grow and learn, are the sobs of younger me, wondering why she doesn’t have friends, asking why she’s always bored, questioning why the only time she’s chosen first is for group projects.

Everything I’ve ever done is for her. The fancy plaque from graduation was earned by my hard work and dedication, but it belongs to the lonely smart girl that nobody understood. The gold-plated name applies to both girls, but it truly belongs to the one alone in the tiny closet of a gifted classroom, doing group activities alone with the teacher, completely isolated from her peers. I earned that plaque for the girl who sat by herself on a bench engrossed in a new book every day at recess because no one shared her interests. I had to make it mean something, because otherwise all of the pain and heartbreak that public school brought would have been for nothing.

So, I say nothing. The professor proceeds to explain the definition of heuristic and how it applies to the particular slide of information. I’m only half listening because the definition is already scrawled in black pen in my new college-ruled notebook.

He changes the slideshow to the next topic. Text fills the screen accompanied by a grainy black-and-white photograph of Charles Darwin. I let out a little sigh before lifting my pen and starting to write. For the rest of the class, I remain silent.

Lexie Kauffman (she/her) is a Creative Writing and Publishing & Editing double-major at Susquehanna University in Selinsgrove, Pennsylvania. When she’s not reading or writing, she is most likely watching Netflix with her friends. Previously, her work has been featured in Rivercraft.

Hope like Sunlight

18 May 2023 / Editor

Poetry by Stacie Eirich

for Sadie

Sunlight rushes in a brand new day, heart lifting
with hope in the knowledge
of a day without clinic appointments, a day to play and create, a day
with no expectations, no decisions, a day to just be.

Slip into the slowness of the hour, sip a latte and leave the phone
tucked away. Let a breath out and listen, listen to the stillness
of the morning, watch the way the breath
rises and falls, contracts and expands.

Her beside me, wrapped in blankets, still asleep, face pressed
against the pillow, a soft whirring of breath reaching me.
I light a small lamp and dress quietly, wanting
to let her rest.

Outside, the day brightens with a promise that meets
my fledgling heart: today will be easier, today will be ours
to make and hold light in.

I stretch my fingers towards the sky, bending left, then right —
fingers open to the window, open to the light.

Behind me my daughter shifts, blankets rustling.
I turn to see her waking, eyes meeting mine
with the sun, morning written on her face
like the light, vivid, beaming—hopeful.

Eyes holding hope
like sunlight, face shining brilliant
as stars. She greets me softly, her voice keeping mine
in tenderness, her heart holding mine
steadily beside her: rising, rising.

Stacie Eirich is a mother of two, poet & singer. Her poems have appeared or are forthcoming in Cantos Literary Journal, The Healing Muse & Remington Review, among others. She is currently living in Memphis, TN, caring for her daughter through cancer treatments at St. Jude Children’s Research Hospital. www.stacieeirich.com

Raindrops

16 May 2023 / Editor

Poetry by Diane Webster

From the sculptured
metal of the sunflower head
beads of rain
gather like ripe seeds
dropping to the earth
for next spring’s sprout.

Diane Webster‘s goal is to remain open to poetry ideas in everyday life, nature or an overheard phrase. Diane enjoys the challenge of transforming images into words to fit her poems. Her work has appeared in El Portal, North Dakota Quarterly, New English Review and other literary magazines.

Awakening

13 May 2023 / Editor

Poetry by N.T. Chambers

It was a late
Spring morning
the sun barely reddening
a drowsy sky –
our dog restlessly
asleep in his corner –
a quiet universe
within the room
undisturbed by events
yet to be
or the Sunday
one-half hour away.

You were
a sepia photograph
in a semi-darkened space–––
contorted on the sheets
with pillow-combed hair
gently caressing one cheek –
a singular bead of sweat
drifting silently
down your neck
as you turned over –
offering a dream-laden smile
to no one in particular.

I found myself wanting
to draw you closer
to inhale your night muskiness,
feel your breath on my chest,
but chose to honor your slumber –
there was coffee to make,
a paper to be retrieved,
pancakes to be cooked
and a lifetime to be shared

N.T. Chambers writes about the emotions, events, and experiences intrinsic to the human condition. Numerous works have been published in several journals and magazines, among them The Banyan Review, Inlandia, The Orchard Poetry Journal, The Decadent Review, New Note Poetry, Quibble Magazine, and Share Literary Journal.

Late Love

11 May 2023 / Editor

Poetry by Sharon Scholl

We meet in the dark kitchen
with separate hungers,
different aching joints,
each with reasons to be sleepless.

I switch on the stove light,
wince at sudden brightness.
You click off your flashlight,
stand mute, indecisive.

What will digest at this hour?
Something quick and harmless
that may invite sleep – at least
fill dull time until it comes.

Quietly we munch and sip, shuffle
by habit around each other.
It’s the company that satisfies.

Sharon Scholl is a retired college professor (humanities) who convenes a poetry critique group and maintains a website of original music compositions (freeprintmusic.com) for small churches. She is the patron for poetry and music composition contests for young creators. Her poetry chapbooks are available via Amazon Books.

The Leaving Moment

9 May 2023 / Editor

Nonfiction by Tracey Ormerod

I don’t remember packing, but my things must have been on the truck: the plastic-yellow colander I still use every day, the one he cursed while poking the holes with a corkscrew to dislodge spaghetti starch; and the crock pot—just last week, it slow-stewed the roast.

I do remember what couldn’t go on the truck: the propane tank. Over thirty years later, the moving guy no longer has a face but I can still see his burly body hauling it over to where I stood and dropping it at my feet. The lawn muffled the thud. “It’s full … can’t go on the truck.”

He left it there and went back to lift off the truck ramp. He was ready to leave. I turned to my mother in a panic. “What do I do with it? Do I just leave it here?”

He softened and came back. “Here, you open it up, like this.”

He turned the valve. The tank whistled.

Researchers say we alter our memories every time we look.

Quantum particles are like that too. Scientists can’t watch them without changing them, so they’ll never know how they behave when no one is looking. Nonetheless, they can’t help themselves.

Maybe that’s why countries and cultures carve their collective memories deep into stone and story.

Families collect them too. They share ‘remember whens’ that hold their tales together, until there’s a rupture and the timeline becomes a shredded thread of itself.

In a review^[1] of the film, Women Talking, Eliza Smith reflects on her missing memory of leaving her first marriage:

“I may not be able to recall my own leaving moment … but I do remember the precarious, optimistic feeling of leaving one world for another that didn’t quite exist yet.”

She mentions a friend who can’t remember her leaving moment either. So, for the first time, I learn there’s at least two other women like me.

How many of us are out there? A collective without a memory.

I don’t remember why he didn’t get the tank, except maybe the barbecue had been a gift from my side of the family, like the bone china and crystal bowls.

I also don’t recall where my two-year-old was that day.

And then there’s the house keys. How did they get dropped off with the real estate lawyer? I’m not even sure how we sold our house; I don’t remember any sales agents or buyers.

So many details that would’ve been important at the time, while the only other thing I can remember is a song that played on the car radio: Wilson Phillips singing “Hold On, things can change. Things can go your way …”

We leave home. We get left—they say there’s fifty ways to leave a lover. Sometimes, we leave the country. There’s also the countless tiny leavings, like after a dinner date or a party.

We arrive. We leave. Over and over and over until, at last, we depart dearly.

I don’t remember why the mover left the tank with me, except maybe he was hungry and took a lunchbreak. It was full and emptying it would take time.

Even when gas weighs heavy in a tank, it comes out invisible, but I stood there and stared down at it like there was something to see while it hissed like a snake in a pressure cooker, making my leaving loud for the neighbours watching from behind their bay window sheers.

Silent together, we couldn’t help but watch as it grew quiet and the frost spread all over the tank, the kind that burns when you touch it.

^[1] Smith, Eliza. “The Most Satisfying Me Too Movie Yet.” The Cut, January 20, 2023. https://www.thecut.com/article/women-talking-me-too-movie.html.

Tracey Ormerod is a Canadian writer and photographer. After growing up in the wilds of the city, she now lives among the forests and farms of rural Ontario. At times an accountant, business analyst, website consultant, and classroom teacher, she is now enjoying a writing life. Read more at https://traceyormerod.com.

On Observing My Daughter At Breakfast

7 May 2023 / Editor

Poetry by Clarence Allan Ebert

My daughter wears a hand-me-down shirt
tie-dyed with the stars, three sizes too big.
Her clothes arrange themselves
in psychedelic constellations.
Her face is a yellow rose through the light
of honey dollops dropping in milk.
She has never tripped and has no band-aids.
She makes no fuss and sleeps with a night light
She is barely aware I love her so much,
oblivious to her own impermanence.

Clarence Allan Ebert celebrated his 70th birthday recently and pledged to maintain some Baby Boomer relevance in the world through the fine craft of poetry. Read his poem from The Bluebird Word‘s January 2023 issue.

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What They Can’t Take Away

4 May 2023 / Editor

Poetry by Raymond Berthelot

The sailboats at anchor
are pulled in one direction
by the tide between the keys

Remember that woman
crazy or drunk, walking by the sanitarium
she too, refused assistance

What is it about moonlight and tropical flowers?
for a while at least
peace seems possible

But back to the sea
and the sun distantly setting, swollen
at a place we’ll never be

Raymond Berthelot is the Historic Sites District Manager for the Louisiana Office of State Parks. His work has appeared in publications such as Progenitor, Mantis, Peregrine Journal, Apricity Magazine, The Elevation Review, the Carolina Quarterly and DASH Literary Journal. A chapbook, The Middle Ages, is available with Finishing Line Press.

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Wolves

2 May 2023 / Editor

Poetry by Alice Collinsworth

When I was very young, my parents assured me
there were no wolves near our home, in spite of fairy tales.
Wolves lived in forests, in mountains, they said.
We had neither trees nor hills.

When I grew older, we visited a zoo, where I saw wolves
kept in cages, pacing, squinting through the insufficient bars
between us. Calculating.

Then came rumors of wolves roaming the plains,
sightings at local farms, small dogs
suddenly missing. I could hear them wail.

Then they came to live with me, right here in town.
They’ve built a den on the porch and they come inside,
helping themselves to sandwiches and wine,
sharpening the knives.

I no longer have a cat.

I slink upstairs and listen to their laughter
and the clink of silverware.
Helpless, I howl in anticipation.

Alice Collinsworth retired recently from a career involving journalism, writing, and media relations. Her poems have been published in several online journals, and she was twice selected as one of Oklahoma’s Woody Guthrie Poets. Her writing has won awards in numerous local and regional contests. She lives near Oklahoma City.