Poetry Summer 2023 fiction all issues
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Cover
Joel Filipe
Kristina Cecka
Rabble
& other poems
Gillian Freebody
The Uncivil War of Love
& other poems
LuAnn Keener-Mikenas
Skunks at Twilight
& other poems
Alyssa Sego
Passage
& other poems
Anne Marie Wells
Forest of One
& other poems
Brent M. Foster
Ode to Darwin
& other poems
Jack Giaour
trans man is feeling blue
& other poems
Alan Gann
how strange
& other poems
Richard Baldo
The Privilege
& other poems
Michael Fleming
In
& other poems
Holly York
As it turned out, there was no bomb on board
& other poems
Celeste Briefs
Late Poppies
& other poems
Kayla E.L. Ybarra
Goose Song
& other poems
S.E. Ingraham
Leaving to Arrive
& other poems
Rachel Robb
Molting Scarlet Tanager
& other poems
Bruce Marsland
Sauna by a Finnish lake at Midsummer
& other poems
Ellen Romano
Seven Sisters
& other poems
Greg Hart
False Coordinates
& other poems
Greg Tuleja
Shanksville
& other poems
Corinne Walsh
Southern Charm
& other poems
Corinne Walsh
Don’t Forget the Night
Just before dawn
when darkness is still lingering
above the treeline,
a lonely ravener
rides the morning air
on the wings of a single hawk.
Empty handed he slows and settles
on a high branch,
his presence like the whispered utterance
of one simple sentiment:
Not “Good-Morning,”
too soon.
Not “Farewell,”
too final.
More like, “Don’t forget the night,”
echoed from its hidden perch.
Then like a conjured magic trick,
fledgling sunrays unfold,
blasting light through the treeline
demanding a blessing from the sky.
Exposed in the morning radiance,
the hawk squawks
his disappointed dissent.
But, it’s not enough. The new day starts
without contrition.
Southern Charm
(for Lu)
Turns out, southern charm is my greatest weakness.
The accent, the gentle politeness that drapes
its friendly arm over your shoulder, and makes you
feel like you’re the only one. For every girl like me,
a southern belle is the most magnificent dream.
I followed the pine trees to her neck of the woods.
She lives on the edge of a golf course where the sun rises,
as it always has, and she walks in beauty
but lives squarely in the past. Her craving for adventure
quelled by familiar smiles, welcome obligations, and abiding
outstretched arms. Accepting the embrace of memories,
#30 All-American, living the life of past praise and present grace.
No surprises. Fewer risks, and none taken.
Her gentle kindness held me like a home.
Shyly avoiding each other’s eyes, we laughed until we cried,
under a canopy of stars in her backyard. Her hospitality unsurpassed,
while my desire stayed fully masked.
Nobody before or since has ever taken better care. She cooked for me:
sausage and eggs with a teaspoon of grape jelly on top.
All the while her soft voice revealing the history of her sacrifices
with the poise and gratitude of a poem. Labels of friendship,
and roommate hiding any “unnatural passions.”
All those southern secrets, and stories of what might have been
poured out with morning coffee, followed by a pathless walk
beneath the daylight moon, where a snow-white egret
watched me swoon and a great blue heron spread the news.
No remedy. No regrets, and no cure for our connection.
The slope of her shoulders remained level with the fact
that what people already knew about her was enough.
She’s the one who gets down on the ground, and wiggles
through the dirt under the porch to capture the abandoned,
imperiled kittens before they succumb in the August heat.
Southern charm has love enough for everything and everyone,
but her own heart lives in a cage, and I cared for her more than
she could claim. So now we live our lives in separate places.
Good ole Southern charm is nothing without patience.
If (K)not for Love
If not for love,
we wouldn’t make mistakes,
take no wrong turns,
commit no crimes of omission.
We would all sing
in perfect harmony and pitch.
If not for love,
we could see clearly always
and follow any path.
Justice would prevail.
But love ties us up in knots,
and breaks us down in the dark.
Dreaming about love, we can’t help
being tempted by its promise.
Greedily we swing and miss.
We leap and fall,
and when we lose
“mistake” we call.
Failure stops us not.
We crawl, and brawl
and want it all at any price.
If not for love,
loneliness would have no name,
and a broken heart would have no pain.
Flowers would grow but never bloom,
and I would not have met you,
if not for love.
Pardon
You are a poem
to me
not a person
who will let me down
as you change
with the seasons
dropping your leaves
like a tree
and then becoming
a bird in that very same tree
making a beautiful
nest with your lost leaves
until you fly free
and I watch you float
and soar
(until you have flown away).
No rejection do I feel
because you are a poem
not the woman
I loved
and lost.
Corinne Walsh
has lived on both sides of the Atlantic, and she likes to compare poetry to the ocean tides as constant and inevitable. Her poems explore the layers of emotional perspective concerning love and loss, and what happens in between. Her first chapbook The Book of Lu (2022) was a self published collaboration with the photographer, LuAnne Underhill. She is currently working on a book length collection of poetry. https://youtube.com/@CorinneWalsh-Poet or follow on Twitter @Corinne80382848