“Discussing Jesus” by Susie Sweetland

In an unusual twist,

we spent some of the

morning discussing Jesus.

 

You have questions

and all my Sunday school

answers rush right back to me.

You are surprised by what

I remember and say with such

conviction. It is interesting to

me too how it comes back

so clearly, still leaving so little

room for doubt.

 

I know I married a man

of science and so should

perhaps not be so

surprised by your doubt,

but the mind does

what it wants.

 

Belief has always come

easily for me and I

suppose I forget sometimes

that it’s harder for some.

 

When I see

a plant grow,

I know scientifically

speaking why it is so,

but I also believe

that somewhere in

those leaves of green

there is a spirit

willing its growth,

unwilling to give in

to all that troubles

the life of a plant.

 

I wonder if my over

abundance of faith

baffles you.

 

Or perhaps your

scientific brain

simply delights in it.

Born and raised in Portland Oregon, Susie received a Bachelor’s degree in English Literature from Brigham Young University, spent some years in the Ohio Appalachians and currently lives in the Willamette Valley with her husband and cat where she works in the Vineyard industry. She spends her free time writing, growing plants and making art. She has been published in a variety of journals, on line and in print, and co edits The Blue Hour Literary Magazine, http://thebluehourmagazine.com/.

“On my gravestone” by Timothy Pilgrim

for the name, use Helvetica,
italic, 72 point, that’s an inch tall,

big enough mourners won’t need to squint,
yet not minute like movie credits for gaffer,

best boy, stuntman, where my life was shot.
Make me fit on one line, not surname alone,

then first name carved below  — like life
cut in half, both parts falling empty

as happens with severed heads
and hearts. When I lived must be smaller,

say half inch, with wide space between lines
so that drivel fills the headstone.

Please do not capitalize every letter,
in effect, shouting at cemetery gardeners,

“here lies a really important man;
show respect, bow, be slow to mow.”

Old lovers especially will appreciate
my life being chiseled in lower case.

Issue #006

 We proudly present Issue #006, an all poetry issue, which features work by Kevin Ridgeway, Kelly Creighton,Kanchan Chatterjee, A. P. Carlson, Jeffrey Graessley, Gerald Yelle, Ryan Swofford, Bree,Catfish McDaris, Owen Lucas, Tracey Lander-Garrett, and Kay Kinghammer.

“Sprinter” by Tracey Lander-Garrett

Written after reading an article on the rehabilitation
of inmates using retired race horses.

Raced for years, stood in stalls,
carried jockeys nine summers,

lot in horse, ‘specially a racer
thought I’d be sent

there, you know—
the glue factory, old chum,

the slaughterhouse for those hosses
who’ve outlived the last race

swollen, strained, fractured
they brought me from the track

put me on the truck, brought me
to a new stable, surprised.

Next day a man comes in alone
smells like sweat and somethin’ broken,

but eyes so open—his hands
didn’t know horses—now I know him

here behind walls, bars, this man
his fear gone now, his eyes opened

his whole face—the smell of horse sweat
honest on his clothes, smells

like a young foal—alive
hungry for hay, the feel of

grass beneath his hooves,
the wide new sky, spring rain.

Tracey Lander-Garrett teaches at Borough of Manhattan Community College and plays Dungeons & Dragons in her spare time.  She’s had work published in Brooklyn Review, Mid-America Poetry Review, The Weekender, and others.  She lives in Brooklyn, NY with her husband and too many cats.

“El Vagabond” by Catfish McDaris

A Russian thistle tumbleweed
rolling down the road, a pile
of fool’s gold blowing in the wind

A pocketful of dreams, a trail
of broken hearts & bottles

Your hand encompasses the universe,
blue honey water in the marrow,
starry eyes & nights, campfire smoke

Another beach to explore, hobo
coffee from a tin can, better than
champagne with an heiress

Boxcar, thumb, canoe, limo, yacht:
shoe leather express, all equal,
all adequate transportation

A wisdom mountain to climb
to a wildflower meadow, disdain
for time & appointments

The wolf called civilization will always
gnaw at your heels, if you surrender,
it will chain you like the rest.

Catfish McDaris is an aging New Mexican living near Milwaukee. He has four walls, a ceiling, heat, food, a woman, two cats, a typing machine, and a mailbox. That’s enough for him. He writes for himself and sometimes he gets lucky and someone publishes his words. He remains his biggest fan. He’s been sliding in the shadows of the small press for 20 years.