Poetry Winter 2014 fiction all issues
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Debbra Palmer
Bake Sale
& other poems
Ann V. DeVilbiss
Far Away, Like a Mirror
& other poems
Michael Fleming
On the Bus
& other poems
Harold Schumacher
Dying To Say It
& other poems
Heather Erin Herbert
Georgia’s Advent
& other poems
Sharron Singleton
Sonnet for Small Rip-Rap
& other poems
Bryce Emley
College Beer
& other poems
Harry Bauld
On a Napkin
& other poems
George Mathon
Do You See Me Waving?
& other poems
Mariana Weisler
Soft Soap and Wishful Thinking
& other poems
Michael Kramer
Nighthawks, Kaua’i
& other poems
Jill Murphy
Migration
& other poems
Cassandra Sanborn
Remnants
& other poems
Kendall Grant
Winter Love Note
& other poems
Donna French McArdle
White Blossoms at Night
& other poems
Tom Freeman
On Foot, Joliet, Illinois
& other poems
George Longenecker
Nest
& other poems
Kimberly Sailor
The Bitter Daughter
& other poems
Rebecca Irene
Woodpecker
& other poems
Savannah Grant
And Not As Shame
& other poems
Michael Hugh Lythgoe
Titian Left No Paper Trail
& other poems
Martin Conte
We’re Not There
& other poems
A. Sgroi
Sore Soles
& other poems
Miguel Coronado
Body-Poem
& other poems
Franklin Zawacki
Experience Before Memory
& other poems
Tracy Pitts
Stroke
& other poems
Rachel A. Girty
Collapse
& other poems
Ryan Flores
Language Without Lies
& other poems
Margie Curcio
Gravity
& other poems
Stephanie L. Harper
Painted Chickens
& other poems
Nicholas Petrone
Running Out of Space
& other poems
Danielle C. Robinson
A Taste of Family Business
& other poems
Meghan Kemp-Gee
A Rhyme Scheme
& other poems
Tania Brown
On Weeknights
& other poems
James Ph. Kotsybar
Unmeasured
& other poems
Matthew Scampoli
Paddle Ball
& other poems
Jamie Ross
Not Exactly
& other poems
Michael Kramer
Nighthawks, Kaua’i
Hamura’s Saimin, Lihu’e
Edward Hopper likely never traveled here,
but it’s 10:21 on Sunday; outside, yellowed light
streams across the empty asphalt to the dumpster
by the Salvation Army where pickers find the choice leavings.
They’re in the shadows, and inside the night-blue restaurant,
three late diners sit at counters: two top left,
a man and woman; alone, a man sits near the door.
Behind, an older waitress leans looking off.
The man alone, khakis, a navy golf polo,
forks noodles with shrimp, broth dripping; he considers
returning to his empty room. The couple, heads together,
he murmuring, split a won-ton appetizer. Her sarong
barely covers her cream bikini. His board shorts, bar T-shirt,
seem grimy. He drains his Bud, wants to go.
She hasn’t touched her Coke, isn’t sure, looks away.
The waitress, a glance at the clock, remembers her son in bed.
A Cycladic Harp Player, Marble,
c. 2700—2300 B.C.
The Getty Villa, Malibu
Seated, harp at rest, you’ve waited
buried, excavated, glass encased,
four thousand years or more.
Someone revered you, your words,
your melodies, enough to invest the time,
the tools, the marble. And you were treasured
and are. Before our history your histories,
your literature caught image enough
that someone invested in this sculpture.
A god? are you some god for memory
or intent or value set for times,
ancestors past, or simply a good tune,
escape from labor’s bold tyrant
of all our days? Anticipating
the view of you, not crowded to
the Cycladic art exhibit, a room,
I try to hear your music, your words.
But you don’t play, your harp at rest,
completed? yet to begin? discerning
what to play, how the audience unfolds?
And that is what we do,
you and I, with God, with life,
with beauty on an inexpressible morning,
an audience who needs the image from our past
that grants this moment holy meaning,
tomorrow sacred as we plot our play.
St. Francis Venerating the Crucifix (c. 1593)
by Domenikos Theotokopoulous (El Greco)
(to be read antiphonally)
Long-fingered and graceful his hands, veined so like the crucified Christ,
the gray-robed monk, his cloak heavy and patched,
adoring, gazes at the crucifix, topping a yellowing skull.
His Bible closed and marked, his grotto rock and dark,
the tonsured priest, gaunt, eyes sleepless with prayer,
enraptures presented mystery: grace through his savior’s death.
A cloud-filled sky, bare light through grotto face,
cave light echoes browns, shadows, earth gray.
His adoration sparks, his devotion speaks,
his saintly pose presents, his concentration folds,
our interruption now? should we speak? keep silence?
should we kneel with him? Grace extends here:
We stand in a foreground of peace, the cave floor beneath our feet;
death conquers death; resurrection engenders miracle.
The Minotaur Etchings
from Picasso’s Vollard Suite
The British Museum Exhibition, July 2, 2012
This morning, when I rose and saw you sleeping,
night passed warm, and, your side, your leg,
your thigh and hip, your arm covering your breasts,
your back exposed, I stopped and stared; I almost
climbed back in behind you. But
you were sleeping. So I chained my beast back
into his labyrinth. He’ll come out, but not
until he’s gentled, combed, mannered, calm.
After Pierre Bonnard,
“Table Set in a Garden,” c. 1908
I should like a table in the sun,
one with a cane back chair.
Remove the bread and even the wine,
for I shall be sitting there,
my notebook open, a pen in my hand
at my table in the sun,
just writing a picture in the morning
as the shadows begin to run.
All the garden in bloom I would see there
would be colored bloom and grand
with a rose deep violet and phlox in blue,
each flower by breezes fanned.
I should sit at my table in the sun,
the one with the cane back chair.
I’d eat of the color and drink of the breeze,
and I would feel peaceful there.
For thirty-nine years, Michael Kramer
has day-lighted as an English teacher. He has advised the award-winning high school literary magazine, King Author, and has had work nominated for a Pushcart Prize. Kramer has been married to Rebecca longer than he’s been teaching; together they have raised four remarkable children. He has work forthcoming in Pough Quarterly. Check out his collection of short stories in verse Hopeless Cases (Moon Tide Press, 2011) on Amazon.