Bree Pleasureville, KY poet and artist

cropper-ky-222

we barn lay

way laid, in the fields of nobodys vison,
you turn me on and i let your
hands wander where. my
heads comfy in the crook
of your arm. you said go long and i caught it easy.
pigskin never felt so good in the hands. yore tales of
the QB hart attack halted me in white deer tracks.

i want to be your three times girlfriend
hawks flying over while the quiet traffic
lands everywhere and we wonder has
anyone lain here before, just like this
wandering us in the grass.

 

*

 

still wet

tulip oak and beech leaves
frame ringlets of both of our brown hair that
wide sky reveals a thin lip of

cloud pressed pink by the cheek of sun rising
that little want you now foster,
all mine

a still wet field, our own for it is
early, and what is more sure, for it?
the hot august pavement?

the punishment of waiting burns some real
serge gold along our prone imaginations

i notice each myriad leaf points up
innumerable hands cupping

i am mystified that each rough side
faces us and you read my thots,
you say, as a child (to another child),
its going to rain, and i bury my face
in your dry hands.

 

*

 

Bree‘s latest book is And i Am Also Invasive (Birds and Bones 2017). She made a calendar of her collages and a book of them is forthcoming, thanks to the Kentucky Foundation for Women.

Rae Cobbs Louisville, KY poet

STARLIGHT

My Father the Ceiling Fan

Dark wood and bright brass,
a still cross or propeller,
the fan I watched
hang from my ceiling
for years is my father.

Glad for our existence,
we stare past homely walls,
ignore who we are, center
on something under stars.

I killed him once, my father,
with anger hammered into a tree.
Surely that let him know me.
Since he died, I don’t hate him,
rotten fruit that spawned me.

My ceiling fan doesn’t have
a bald head and greasy neck.
It is elegant, a hand me down.
My father wasn’t elegant.

I looked past him most
my life. I find that sanity
kills our Satans and death
kills our devils, but
love lasts, laughing.

 

 

Matt Jones is a poet, artist and musician most recently hiding out in Northampton Mass.

 

 

Kitchen Meditation

The same wind that pushes clouds
across the river clears the sky.
The yew and holly dip and drop
caught snow. The wind blows
straight over a curved plane; hope
mixes with futility, colors on a palette.

The day seems to move, or does our planet
wobble, diving always out to space,
drawn back in by gravity? It’s serious,
this mill. We infest and call it glorious
existence. It is both depravity and joy.

I do not live by life alone, growth
and atrophy. Without the finite soil,
the beaches, canyons, mountains, space,
I am not fed. Allowed to prosper
through these seasons, we erode
but we are filled with possibility.

More than that: actuality, a force
so massive that it doesn’t move,
a cloud containing wind, that
shifts and folds back on itself,
the kitchen counter, bowl, and spoon.

Rae Cobbs is a prolific published and performing poet, educator and freelance writer in Louisville, KY.

Youssef Alaoui Morrow Bay, CA poet

 

When the Sky Swirls Stars That

Drip all the way to the ground
at the edge of your village
a dark mid winter walk and
silent snow phantoms approaching.

I called out to the last of you
leave my memory
much like that melody
we sang by the late fires
of final dawn, now
soap flakes and snow
fly the peacock-ridden balcony.

Tralala! we hurled at the canyon
our voices embarrassed to be so slender
dwarfed by the rock blades
as the ribbed coast cut the air
even before we resigned to
shelter salt pillar brides.

The heart of it was so clear to me
you and I filled with the stuff of all things
when last we spoke, but here
at the edge of your shadow
village I will turn
and take my chances
on faded trails.

*      *      *


kung fu master backward

life in reverse is dance-like
problems resolve themselves
old flowers brighten, disappear into the earth

bright puffs of light
arrange the streets, open people’s eyes
set them on their way

zygote me dreams ethereal crowns
longing for a chance
to doubt you, taste this

yell at all this again still you buy it
your sleepy bowl of cheerios

~~~

Youssef Alaoui lives in Morro Bay, CA. His book Fiercer Monsters will be released this year by Nomadic Press of Oakland and Brooklyn.

Adam Brodsky Cleveland Hts., OH poet

abstracteyes.jpg

(drawing by Bree 2014)

 

People, An Ode

People forget their place like spokes in a wheel.
People spin around themselves as if leaves discarded.
People bend their branches but do not break.
People drop their jaws & lose it.
People never think to pick up after their smiles.
People laugh &, in the process, double over.
People doublecross; then, no one is happy.
People hold out for happiness till they’re blue in the face.
People hold love like they hold their breath.
People want to unwind & breathe easy.
People fold in with moments like twisted braids.
People shave their heads & sit like statues.
People find themselves with stiff upper lips.
People take a stand without hair on their chest.
People give their consciousness a Brazilian.
People give their Brazilian a Buddha.
People think their Buddha is peaceful.
People want each piece of ass to be holy.
People make assholes of themselves.
People make masters out of the assholes.
People become brazen & camera-up when the law is wailing.
People take selfies to be their own poster children.
People ask, “Can I have a minute?”
People live lives like they had a moment to spare.
People make a good case for the morning after pill.
People come here after life & die to make it heaven.
People hit their knees & feel like hell.
People send history to the living postmarked from the dead.
People trademark graven images for advertising purposes.
People put their face on Facebook & their nose in the air.
People save face & bare their souls.
People have a soul book & a hymn book.
People sing from the blackness of the Bible which gives us the blues.
People seek a soul mate to face the music with.
People dance like it’s the “Song of Myself” that the radio’s playing.
People don’t play; they fight tooth & nail.

–Adam Brodsky

 

Adam Brodsky is a teacher, musician, poet and the editor of Ptrint and other presses. He is one of the finest designers of the very small press. He photographs performers, and plays with images to create abstracts. He lives in Cleveland Heights, OH.