Beached Turtle
Stephanie Zepherelli
Honolulu, Hawaii, USA
beached turtle
its plastic necklace
too tight
Pulp Nonfiction
By Janis Butler Holm
Los Angeles, California, USA
He has stepped from a dark waiting place. He has moved toward her body with the crude insistence of a bad plot.
Her mind is stopped. She is fixed in the wisdom of stories learned too well: Be calm. It is inevitable. Do not struggle. He will only hurt you more.
For one long moment she stands mute, without motion. She could die of suspense. Then (here’s the reversal) her pen is in her hand and stabbing through his flesh.
Unhappy ever after, she will live to confess how the fury in her throat exploded red and harsh and howling.
This story, like the others, is ugly and raw. It speaks a kind of wisdom. If I ask why we have such stories, such wisdoms, will I breach some artful code? Will I violate some expectation?
First published: Tessera, 2006
Why He Won’t Eat the Hot Meal So Charitably Provided
By Janis Butler Holm
Los Angeles, California, USA
He sees how the lettuce
slides around the plate,
yellow and cunning,
mysterious in its ways.
He notes that the fries
are pointing southeast,
that they are sharp and oiled
and spattered with red.
The tomato slices whisper
soft pink obscenities,
their harlot song calling
to his lips, his tongue.
He smells in his burger
the black, smokey flesh
of things small and tender.
And he’s back at My Lai.
And he’s up and running,
he’s running, and around him,
the jungle, the colors,
the chaos, the horror.
He’s running and stumbling
and heaving and moaning.
He’s running, and he’s thinking
that he wants to go home.
First published: Red River Review, 2002
Health Crisis
By David Josephsohn
Greensboro, North Carolina, USA
health crisis
her long journey
to another state
Cold Moon Journal
January 6, 2024
Barbed Wire
By David Josephsohn
Greensboro, North Carolina, USA
an unplanned
body piercing—
barbed wire
Border Crossing
By David Josephsohn
Greensboro, North Carolina, USA
border crossing
yesterday’s struggles
replaced by today’s
Tomorrow
By Jenny Ward Angyal
Gibsonville, North Carolina, USA
only two
Monarchs spiraling
up the sky
maybe they’ll see
tomorrow
War News
By Jenny Ward Angyal
Gibsonville, North Carolina, USA
war news . . .
a road-killed Sparrow
cradled in my palm
One Clover and a Bee
By Jenny Ward Angyal
Gibsonville, North Carolina, USA
Dark-eyed and playful, childlike but childless, Elizabeth Ann needs an emergency hysterectomy or she will die. Her lithe young body recovers quickly from the surgery.
It’s hard to know if she grieves—but her caregivers do.
Elizabeth Ann is a Black-footed Ferret, cloned from the frozen tissues of a Ferret named Willa, who died more than 30 years ago. The few hundred Ferrets living wild today are all descendants of just seven taken from a Wyoming ranch in a desperate attempt to save them from extinction. They’re inbred and threatened by disease. Ferrets eat almost nothing but Prairie Dogs—an essential keystone species that farmers, ranchers and developers continue to shoot, poison and bulldoze as fast as they can.
beyond
the horizon of dreams . . .
uncaged prairie
shaped by Wishtonwish
fat in his burrow
Ferret and Fox,
Golden Eagle and Hawk,
Badger and Burrowing Owl . . .
a tapestry of root and wing
binding earth and sky
Elizabeth Ann can no longer pass on her healthy genes. Her caregivers pin their hopes on future Ferret clones—but can you clone a prairie?
the grass bows down
and the grass rises
revealing
one Small White Lady’s Slipper
blooming against all odds
Learn More:
Dead End
by Sangita Kalarickal
Eden Prairie, Minnesota, USA
My Monstera Deliciosa looks sad. The leaves are starting to yellow. I glance at it, note the stressed, drooping foliage. I have to deal with it, I know, but there are so many things to tackle first. My dinner is on the stove and I have reports to finish. I can get to it later.
Some days in, the plant almost screams at me. The leaves have started to curl. I have a look. Again. Thrips. Darn these stubborn bugs. I need to deal with them soon. But first, the sink is full of dishes and my day job peeks through my free time.
The leaves now fall away from the branches. New shoots struggle to survive, and fail. I try to give the plant some care. But it’s too late.
Too late.
an unending tunnel
to unbearable darkness
the pills in her palm
masquerading
a shining beacon
failed haiku, Feb 2023
Spring Breeze
By Theresa Cancro
Wilmington, Delaware, USA
spring breeze . . .
the beggar and I
share smiles
Battlefield
By Theresa Cancro
Wilmington, Delaware, USA
battlefield…
all the faces
of sunflowers
Air Raid Siren
By Theresa Cancro
Wilmington, Delaware, USA
air raid siren—
a little girl lullabies
her doll
Patchwork Quilt
By Kelly Sargent
Williston, Vermont, USA
Humanitarian Aid
By John Pappas
Boston, Massachusetts, USA
humanitarian aid
spilling out of the bag
a parent’s hope
Boy with a Bow
By Gary LeBel
“Bring me my Bow of burning gold”
William Blake, Jerusalem
He may be all of ten. He’s hiked on ahead of his elders and younger siblings, taken the lead
on the trail, a blazer, protector, explorer, loner, or budding alpha male. As he walks some
ten to twenty paces ahead of me, I can hear him as he talks to himself or perhaps he’s
singing.
Missing its quiver and arrows, he carries a bow at his side, but soon hangs it over his
shoulder so that it rides his back like an Arthurian knight, or a Cheyenne leading his pony.
When he slows a little, I pass him and, as I do, I commend him on his bow. Though I’ve
probably disturbed his reverie, he’s quick to smile and, like most any boy his age, his mood’s
a chimerical thing. He’s a polite, good-looking lad and his life awaits him like the winding
paths that wend their ways through the park’s small and intimate woods.
Having left him far behind me now, two thoughts come to mind and one’s a question: how
incandescent yet bittersweet is youth . . . and what sort of world are we bequeathing him,
this boy with a bow?
Through the long afternoon
it seemed a prism had led the way
like a team of Isthmian horses
though it was the same old world as always
bathed in September light
Plastic Apocalypse
By Anna Cates
Wilmington, Ohio, USA
“Doomsday is quite within our reach, if we will only stretch for it.”
—Loudon Wainwright III
Time moves counterclockwise to heal the breach.
Do we dare to name it, to face what we betray?
Toxic world; do we dare to eat a peach?
Time moves counterclockwise to heal the breach
While those who long for doomsday reach—
The fruition of our blunder, Orwellian, they say.
Time moves counterclockwise to heal the breach.
Do we dare to name it, to face what we betray?
golden tones
of a seaside sparrow
who will listen?
Ode to the Dragon Rider
By Anna Cates
Wilmington, Ohio, USA
I have panted for green places
standing before statues:
admirable men to questionable men
mortals on horses, Confederate generals
to conquistadors, cowboy cliches, Marlboro Men
of deceptive advertising, the old and ugly
even the beautiful, masterfully chiseled cold stone
or too hot to touch in record-breaking heat
leaving a thirst for boundless verdancy
an infinity of flowers and trees, a land
of clear water and skies, for you and me
and every peaceful Ferdinand.*
Ride fiery dawn
on a monstrous snake
with wings!
*In Munro Leaf’s children’s classic, The Story of Ferdinand (1936), the peace-loving bull, who preferred smelling flowers to bullfights.
To Each Their Own
By Anna Cates
Wilmington, Ohio, USA
version of justice
image of god
prayers at dusk
on either side of invisible lines
shifting left or right
at the whim of strong men
muscling pawns . . .
they aren’t so mean, are they?
a white butterfly
enters his dream—
the fallen trooper
New Year
By Sankara Jayanth Sudanagunta
Hyderabad, India
new year…
the bullet-riddled shopfront
gets a makeover
Failed Haiku, Issue #85