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
Matthew Scampoli
Paddle Ball
Ponytails
Pink ball on a rubber string
The tip of her tongue a writhing, uprooted earthworm
An incessant gentle thud
I feel her concentration
“25 Dad!”
Later, we lie silently on a mattress of thick grass
And watch the sunset
12 now, I hear the sounds of her growing older with each breath
“Dad, why doesn’t it just bounce off the horizon
(See how the flat rocks ricochet from the water’s surface)?”
Indeed, (I think to myself), it only sinks deep below
Like wounded pride into a dark abyss
While the evil chill settles into and around us
“But it rises in a symphony of brilliance,” I say
“Again and again,
Like a paddle ball on a rubber string”
“Love you Dad”
Relieved, I ease back into my darkness
And nonchalantly coalesce with my worries
Beneath a decaying canopy of hope
At the Shore
The aroma of sea and aged wine vapors lulled me to a sandy retreat,
And as I squinted up through the sunspots and glare
I saw your scarlet lips
And your freckles, all randomly spilled upon an ivory canvas.
I watched the seaweed twirl on the kite string
Like a forlorn seedling helicoptering its way to fertile ground.
Erratic movements, like a discarded beach ball in the wind,
attended me.
When The Maestro tapped his baton on the lifeguard’s tall wooden chair,
The last wave crescendoed in perfect 4/4 time,
A darting breeze snapped the umbrella fabric,
The seagulls chanted an urgent chorus, and
Suddenly, I lost my senses.
But just as I accepted my newfound weightlessness . . .
“Come” you said, your generous bosom pointing the way.
Rising from the cool dark shade, I witnessed cotton candy clouds framing your silhouette.
The sun teased the ocean’s edge as I absorbed your warmth.
While you sashayed, I heard the gentle crunch of sand
Beneath your French pedicure.
Our fingers cut through the licking wind.
I bristled at the chill of my sweaty palms and sunburned skin
And breathed your jasmine perfume.
Your cherub tattoo weeping saltwater,
We walked to Nowhere and arrived to a waxing moon,
The stars winking at our togetherness.
“I can’t imagine it,” you said,
As you sat, criss-cross applesauce, on the teak boardwalk.
But what you really meant was
That you couldn’t comprehend it
Which is quite an important distinction
Because after all, as children we lived by imagination.
Burrow, hermit crab!
Spying through your translucent flowing linen, I glimpsed your belly
Distended from the fruit we planted there.
And when we returned, we studied each other,
Weathered and bleached
Like driftwood vomited upon the shore,
And smiled.
Halftime
We smelled the sweet decay of autumn
As the sun hung low and distant
Like an indifferent youth leaning on a street lamp with a cigarette hanging from his lips.
“Yes, you can,” said I,
And gently lifted her sharp chin with a curled index finger.
Her large eyes were two fried eggs on a skillet—steady and unblinking.
“Think of the seed,” said I.
“It’s infinitesimal,
Merely a speck
Buoyed by breeze.
Soon it’s punished by beams of sunshine,
Drenched by torrents of rain,
Relegated to lie hopeless in the muck.
In time, it’s a resplendent and majestic tree
Standing stoical against winter’s biting wind.”
In one swift errand, and
With a knowing glance
I watched her peel away
And felt a familiar swell in my core
As the ball left her foot
And distorted the symmetry of the rectangular soccer net.
Libretto of a Three Act Opera
Seated in my private box
I reach for my glasses
As the curtain parts
And I hear the familiar choral swell
(I know this libretto by heart)
Act I
Intermingled shadows of distinct forms
Melting in an awkward dance
Act II
A filthy, biting, angry, swirling cyclone of vomited words in a deafening crescendo
SPLCH! *tink, tink*
Shards of porcelain scattered like grain on the cold kitchen tile
Act III
Bereft of all senses
In my private hillside castle
With my moat and my stone walls
I poke sticks at the sentries
The Impropriety of Soul
As you spoke,
My soul abandoned all decorum,
Gliding gleefully through your hair,
Lying about lazily on each perfumed tuft.
It swam desperately in the deep pools of your eyes,
and danced across the perfect symmetry of your face.
Then, encircling your tender neck,
It ran to the valley of your chest
And hiked the gentle peaks of your breasts.
It inched its way across your pale abdomen,
Twisted its way to the small of your back
Where it caressed your Venus dimples,
Skied expertly down your buttocks,
And surfed the smooth islands of your thighs.
It paused to read the tattoo encircling your ankle
Before sliding along the arches of your feet.
It returned to me
More wanton than before it left
Eager to explore this foreign, beautiful terrain
Again and again.
Matthew Scampoli
writes in Pelham, NY.