May 2014
A VIOLENT SOUND IN ALMOST EVERY PLACE #52
By
Darren C. Demaree
If beauty falls from air
& our words must work
through the live carnage
of our minds, our lungs
& their decorations,
from where can the air
be at all pure enough
to allow beauty from such
a place? The folds,
holding on to their twists
& the meaning of those,
the allowance of depth,
but only an outstanding
process, a magical one, can
make what you’re saying
to me more than a change
in the smell of your burst.
Darren C Demaree is the author of "As We Refer to Our Bodies" (2013, 8th House), "Temporary Champions" (2014, Main Street Rag), and "Not For Art Nor Prayer" (2015, 8th House). He is the recipient of three Pushcart Prize nominations and a Best of the Net nomination. He is currently living in Columbus, Ohio with his wife and children.
Ball
by
Anne Oleson
"The ballroom that gave rise to this poem is actually the old, unused ballroom in the Wolcott Hotel in NYC; several years ago, when staying at the hotel, I discovered in the room literature that there was a ballroom, and when I asked, the concierge let me see it. It was magnificent and sad. I thought of it again a while ago when a friend was staying at a past-its-glory hotel in Blackpool, in England--and my first instinct was to ask him to find out if they had a ballroom."
Blue-veined, the marble pillars
soar up into the darkness
toward windows which would be
sunbursts if there were sun,
if they were not begrimed
with years of dust and cobwebs.
The smell is earthy with
leftover corsages and cigarettes.
Sound crowds back in from
the foxed mirrors on the walls: strings
and horns from a long-dead orchestra.
You sense them all—the tails,
the organdy gowns—as they swirl past,
the ghostly coquettes smiling
at men who sailed long ago
from this sparkling promise
into disappointed old age and death.
Still, you lift your arms
to your phantom partner,
your footprints in the dust like those
of a drunken man in snow.
Anne Britting Oleson has been published widely in North America, Europe and Asia. She earned her MFA at the Stonecoast program of USM. She has published two chapbooks, The Church of St. Materiana (2007) and The Beauty of It (2010).
Fortitude
by
Jenni Pezzano
"This poem was sparked by a memory of walking on fire when I was 15, and what I had wanted to achieve through that experience. As we grow and change we have to redefine all those promises we made to ourselves and continue to nurture the "little bird" in all of us."
Within the definitions of myself
there have been
So many years
spent running
searching for meaning
hidden in the cracks
hidden in the eyes of others
and as I watch my flesh grow soft
made tame
with the revolution
of giving life
my mind
in repose
I go to you once more
young child
as you walked upon the fire
hot coals against a dark desert sky
asking for strength
did you find it?
is strength
not in the holding onto things
but in the letting go?
for I am just a body
composed of secrets
hidden beneath my blood
the rush of whispers
in my ear
while my heart
a trembling bird
shuffles in her cage
wings outstretched
ready to take flight
time has no meaning to her
she does not grow weary
with the weight of gravity
she dreams of renewal
patient
and eternal.
Jenni Pezzano Is a full time writer, poet and mother. Her travels have lead her to the deep desert of New Mexico and all over Oregon. From the quiet forests of southern Oregon/northern California redwoods and the lush coastal landscape of a 180 acre commune to the bustling city of Portland. She draws inspiration from the varied landscapes and life experiences she has encountered. Writing has always been a therapeutic form of expression for her, continuing to seek out a deeper meaning behind her personal stories. She has currently returned to her native small town home in southern Oregon to raise her family. You can follow her blog at Jennileighp@wordpress.com.
by
Jenni Pezzano
"This poem was sparked by a memory of walking on fire when I was 15, and what I had wanted to achieve through that experience. As we grow and change we have to redefine all those promises we made to ourselves and continue to nurture the "little bird" in all of us."
Within the definitions of myself
there have been
So many years
spent running
searching for meaning
hidden in the cracks
hidden in the eyes of others
and as I watch my flesh grow soft
made tame
with the revolution
of giving life
my mind
in repose
I go to you once more
young child
as you walked upon the fire
hot coals against a dark desert sky
asking for strength
did you find it?
is strength
not in the holding onto things
but in the letting go?
for I am just a body
composed of secrets
hidden beneath my blood
the rush of whispers
in my ear
while my heart
a trembling bird
shuffles in her cage
wings outstretched
ready to take flight
time has no meaning to her
she does not grow weary
with the weight of gravity
she dreams of renewal
patient
and eternal.
Jenni Pezzano Is a full time writer, poet and mother. Her travels have lead her to the deep desert of New Mexico and all over Oregon. From the quiet forests of southern Oregon/northern California redwoods and the lush coastal landscape of a 180 acre commune to the bustling city of Portland. She draws inspiration from the varied landscapes and life experiences she has encountered. Writing has always been a therapeutic form of expression for her, continuing to seek out a deeper meaning behind her personal stories. She has currently returned to her native small town home in southern Oregon to raise her family. You can follow her blog at Jennileighp@wordpress.com.
