Poetry Winter 2018 fiction all issues
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Cover Elena Koycheva
Bryce Emley
Asking Father What’s at the End
& other poems
AJ Powell
Butterfly-minded
& other poems
Faith Shearin
Biology
& other poems
Claire Van Winkle
Admitting
& other poems
Sarah W. Bartlett
Summer Cycles
& other poems
Nooshin Ghanbari
Vincent
& other poems
Meli Broderick Eaton
The Afterlives of Leaves
& other poems
Jeddie Sophronius
Refugees
& other poems
Paula Bonnell
In Winter, By Rail
& other poems
Addison Van Auken Waters
Girls
& other poems
Daniel Sinderson
Hallelujah
& other poems
Andrew Allport
All Nature Will Fable
& other poems
Marte Stuart
What an Insult Time Is
& other poems
Matthew Parsons
My Father as an Inuit Hunter
& other poems
Emily Bauer
Gently, Gently
& other poems
Bruce Marsland
A once lovelorn bard’s final journey
& other poems
Beatrix Bondor
Night Makers
& other poems
Isabella Skovira
Lawless Conservation
& other poems
Juan Pablo González
Colombia, 1928
& other poems
Molly Pines
The Pillbug
& other poems
Jamie Marie
On the Lake
& other poems
William A. Greenfield
If You Show Me Yours
& other poems
Bill Newby
Tuesdays at The Seagate's Atlantic Grille
& other poems
Elder Gideon
Male Initiation Rites
& other poems
Joel Holland
Dear Gi-Gi
& other poems
Martha R. Jones
How Lewis Carroll Met Edgar Allan Poe
& other poems
Bill Newby
Clean Pants
Freshly washed jeans hug my legs
and girdle my waist.
The button hole and stud
behave like feuding neighbors
and need a tug across my belly’s street
before they’re forced to shake hands.
And each pocket is similarly unaccommodating.
My handkerchief has a reservation in the left rear,
but the door is tightly closed
and I need to force it in to get it seated.
On mornings like this
I check the mirror or step on the scale
to see if I’m getting fat.
But I’m just myself garbed in American Casual,
the un-pleated bridge between rich and poor.
And as the hours pass the weave relaxes,
as if attending fabric yoga
where space is breathed into each pocket
and comfort is restored.
Tuesdays at The Seagate’s
Atlantic Grille
Ponce de Leon sought a fountain.
He should have looked for a band.
In aquariums walling the dining room
sharks slide back and forth,
and jellyfish contract and release
in puffs of translucent motion.
Stone floors and glass shelves shine under soft light,
and the crowd and din grow toward eight.
Table talk is shouted over appetizers
and orders are placed before menus are folded.
But the real meal walks the floor
with a deep tan, smile and gold necklace,
slinks through the arch in high heels
or sits on the next stool.
Some believe in out-growing,
shed clothes that no longer fit,
and leave some sports behind.
Others still hunt and hunt.
Like nomads they trudge from oasis to oasis,
climb rung after rung, squint over bifocals,
and stretch for one more apple.
For them, tonight, Joey and The Gigolos will play,
and play tonight they will.
The room is soaked with sock-hop longing
spiced by seasons of holding and stroking,
lying down and snuggling close.
And while some seek sleep in the hotel above,
many by the bar hope to stay up all night.
The dance floor holds more leg than a meat cooler,
more cleavage than the Canyon Lands,
and dresses tighter than Cling Wrap
and more inviting than an open house.
The band plays in the key of yesterday.
The drummer’s pulse is now.
The market’s open till ten-thirty,
and next week waits for those still hungry.
Photography 201
Smartphones in every hand,
on every bridge and stair,
in each park and chapel,
at every meal and market.
Here’s a beautiful picture.
Now, add me.
Here’s a miraculous fresco.
Now, add me.
I took a trip and saw the canyon.
Look. I’m there.
No more waste or mess,
carving initials into a tree or desk,
spray painting a bare wall.
Look at that tower,
the canal and statue.
See, I was wearing blue,
and the wind whipped my hair.
I know, this one is truly amazing.
Took them three centuries to complete.
And don’t you think
that’s a good picture of me?
Yes, I do too.
Blinds Down
The highway concerto plays all night.
Sixteen wheelers groan and moan
below the alto hum of tread on concrete
and the rising arias of sporadic speeders
who‘ve found an open lane to fly across stage
instead of slowly stepping toward an exit.
An occasional siren wails,
then dies in the wings,
and a rare car tire thuds
dropping from curb to gutter.
And while the rest of us seek sleep,
a trash bin’s clang
as a truck drops its load
reminds us that others are at work
cleaning our mess
so the sunrise will feel fresh and pure.
Sending a Kiss from Third
Every infield is different.
The ground may be as smooth as tarmac
or loose as a hiking trail –
groomed like the Masters
or as shaggy and snarled as the Turner’s tree lawn.
But the only way to play
is with hope for a true bounce
and prayer to snatch a liar.
The game is slow
with lots of room to itch and scratch, spit and stare,
but the window for strolling and shifting shuts
when the ball leaves the pitcher’s hand.
Then it’s time for low, ready balance –
each foot dug in, hugging the earth,
and arms long and loose before bent knees,
like willow branches nearing the ground.
But as low as you get, your head must be up,
as if you’ve crept close in a tiger crouch
with your muscles loaded and ready to pounce.
And in these key seconds the world must disappear,
for the only story’s at the plate
where you need to read
the back and arms’ unwinding torque
as the bat flows in a wide circle
and greets the ball with a crack or ping,
that darts like a bullet aimed at your head
or skitters like a stone skipping water,
seeking a pebble or divot that might shift its course.
This is what you’ve trained for
and why you’ve oiled your glove,
pounded a predictable pocket
and even taken dance lessons.
In this instant, the only time is now.
Now you must welcome its flight,
delight in its arrival,
and reach wide or close, low or high,
to draw it into your mitt,
embrace it with your free fingers,
and hug and grasp it as you slide toward first,
skating left while loading right,
loading your arm like a jitterbug back step
before pulling your partner into another twirl,
gripping the ball like a door knob
before flinging it wide open.
Then whip your arm, free and relaxed,
free and flowing across your body,
as you turn around your spine
and look at the first baseman’s mitt,
like a lover’s face arced up and begging for a kiss,
as you let the ball go.
Bill Newby
enjoys using poetry to record, reshape and reflect upon daily experience. His work has appeared in Whiskey Island, Bluffton Breeze, Ohio Teachers Write, Palm Beach Poetry Festival’s Fish Tales Contest, Blue Mountain Review, Panoplyzine, Sixfold, and the Island Writers’ Network’s Time & Tide and Ebb & Flow anthologies. He is a 2018 Pushcart Poetry Nominee.