June 20, 1987. I wait for the first rain of summer,
Gaze past green leaves and rows of white
Houses/ porches tidy and contrite,
Listless.
Suddenly, rain rustles the curtains
I’ve thrown back to the wind
Escapes and runs down the hall—
There are flowers there and it turns
To caress them
Another small town, July 10, 1995. The heat
Before rain grows intense, covered with sores.
Nothing moves on the street—
All shades pull against the sun,
Turn milk yellow—a poor reflection.
Two days from not I will sit among the rain
Turn my face to answer
The rustle of your questions.
My poetry has been published in various online and print journals, including The Cortland Review, and Poetry Midwest. A selection, “Quarto, with Crows,” will also be included in an upcoming anthology, Beat the Blackened Wing: An Anthology of Crows. In addition, I have published three books of nonfiction (available on Amazon.com) for young adults for Rosen Press in New York City. I hold a master’s degree in creative writing. Contact Lita Sorensen.
Indecipherable
by Patti J. Kurtz
Night holds its breath; atop the San Juans,
trees toss their heads to the wind's whispered voice,
The sky an upside bowl, spangled with glittering light.
Separated by silence, we struggle to decipher
the codes of the constellations, inscrutable
words scribbled in pale silver streaks and patterns.
Stillness shattered by coyote's haunting song,
waterfall of music sheeting down steep slopes,
brimming with cryptic meaning, untranslatable, wordless.
Unable to decode the messages in the square
shapes of the Dippers, the slant of Orion's belt,
I remember how you, impatient, threw
stars into heavens like careless clumps of jewels
scrambling their true meaning forever.
Patti J. Kurtz teaches creative writing and composition at Minot State University. She has been writing fiction and poetry for more years than she can count and is in the process of writing a series of novels for young adults. She has been teaching writing at the college level for 10 years and lives in Sawyer, ND with her husband Gary and her two dogs, both of whom are often inspirations for her poetry. Contact Patti.
WHISPERS OF LOVE
By Floriana Hall
Whispers of love,
Soft, rustling sounds like pirouetting leaves
Falling on listening, responsive ears,
Arouse feelings of love and desire.
Tender words of endearment,
Eternal private secrets,
Dripping like chocolate syrup,
As sweet as sugar candy,
Unlock treasures of the heart
With a verbal key.
Romantic sonnets, quiet words
Once spoken, never to be forgotten,
Total surrender.
VALENTINE AFFAIR
By Floriana Hall
To seek, to meet, to find a mate,
Cupid draws pictures with his dart,
Pictures of affection on another's heart,
Leading to reciprocal fondness
Like honey attracts a bee.
To woo with gifts, sweet whispered words,
Pleasure and passion, a kiss and a sigh,
Emotions intensifying as time goes by,
Leading to true love which many enjoy.
To give tokens on Valentine's Day,
Candy, flowers and a card,
White lace entwined with red ribbon to say
"I love you, dear, in every way,
Each day with you is Valentine's Day."
Inspired in church to write LOVE NEVER DIES, first published poem which won Editor's Choice Award in The National Library of Poetry's Anthology 'Sea of Treasures.' Has had about 400 poems published in NLP's anthologies, and in various books and magazines in the United States, Great Britain and India, winning many 1st, 2nd, 3rd prizes, many Editor's Choice Awards and Honorable Mentions. Writes poems on request. She has published books which you can learn about by going to the homepage. Floriana is a Distinguished Member of ISP-NLP, Honored Writer of Cleveland Poets and Writers League, The Famous Poet's Society, WHO'S WHO IN INTERNATIONAL POETRY, WHO'S WHO IN US WRITERS, EDITORS AND POETS, AND MARQUIS WHO'S WHO IN AMERICA. Her poetry and short stories have been compared to Poe and Hawthorne by Taj Mahal Review, India, June 2003.
Rosalyn says: "I am a Brit living in the Netherlands where I have taught English as a Foreign Language and Freelanced in Language and Translation. As a new, yet unpublished writer, I write Short Stories for adults and children and love the creativity of Flashes." Contact Rosalyn.
PROVOKED ATTACK
By Rosalyn Gingell
Don’t move. Lie still.
You do not see me leering.
Stay as you are, flaunting yourself beside the fountain.
I can see you. I caught a glimpse a moment ago.
You think I can’t. You think my mind is blank As I sit here, sunning myself beside the fountain.
No, I’ve not been spotted.
You give no sign of detection.
I am too well concealed in this undergrowth.
You are not hidden.
I feel your eyes on my body.
I hear you skulking in the undergrowth.
You are oblivious to my peril.
Shimmering droplets cover your skin,
Enticing me on, provoking my attack.
Hazard lights are flashing!
You see me as a thing to devour!
My naked flesh provoking an attack.
That’s right. Don’t move one tiny muscle.
By stealth I inch my way toward your final moments.
Like Van Gogh’s flowers twist their faces to the sun,
I now turn mine to the desert moon
for warmth and light and calm.
As if you were with me,
as if you loved me.
Carolyn Howard-Johnson is the author of This is the Place. It has won eight awards. Her book of creative nonfiction, Harkening, has won three. She is a columnist for the Pasadena Star News and Home Decor Buyer and her poetry and short stories appear frequently in magazines and review journals. Contact Carolyn.
Vinegar & Water
By Lita Sorensen
Half asleep, dreaming my words
I am curling Grandma’s hair as she leans across me whispering crepey powder and faded love letters, and talking about pretty girls who loved only books.
But that was alright,
as I wound the pin curls sprayed with vinegar and water and smiled 14-year-old righteousness at the reflection in the mirror as our eyes met countenance repeated, letting my words grow tight and round.
Last night, dreaming, I realized she was right: I do lie.
remembering her death face after writing my book about rescues which no one wants but approach wistfully, like piquant masks forming circles of eyes and mouths and caricaturing us all.
I find a list is imminent—and inventory of pins and needles— crucifixes all, and of my births wrapped individually so she can’t touch their realities I wonder if she was right:
Meaningless context like band aid marriages and dreaming in color to see the pictures,
Not all that pretty.
There are gray strands in her hair in the mirror in the tone of her eyes—refracted visions— If I can conquer this window, I can pin anything—
My poetry has been published in various online and print journals, including The Cortland Review, and Poetry Midwest. A selection, “Quarto, with Crows,” will also be included in an upcoming anthology, Beat the Blackened Wing: An Anthology of Crows. In addition, I have published three books of nonfiction (available on Amazon.com) for young adults for Rosen Press in New York City. I hold a master’s degree in creative writing.
Valentine’s Day
Patricia Wellingham-Jones
Sunday morning at Mill Race Café
Bonnie reports on her evening.
We regulars lift our coffee cups,
open our ears for her latest story.
Seems she walked in the door, feet ablaze from a day rushing around the café, blinked in surprise at the dozen red roses stuck in a jar beside a card syrupy as the See’s chocolates in a heart-shaped box on the coffee table.
Her man offered to drive
forty miles each way for dinner.
Bonnie sighed a drooping no.
So he concocted a gourmet feast
of steak just the way she likes it
and plump prawns simmered
in wine, tarragon, garlic.
While we gasp in wonder,
praise her catch,
picture the romantic scene,
Bonnie growls, Trouble is,
he’s still a man! He left the mess.
The Gray Area
By Ann Hite
On arrival today, the message was clear.
To leave a prison, one must embrace the unknown, Rip the heart away from the situation.
Nothing is black or white no matter how clean.
The gray area straps a soul to the ground.
Beauty releases the embrace, allows the pain to depart.
Harsh words create the chains.
Anger is poison on the lips,
Seeps through the blood.
Heart-felt love frees the soul
Hugs life
Fades the contradictions
Ann: My short story, Gabriel's Horn, appeared in the January issue of The Dead Mule, a small southern literary magazine in business since 1995; Appaloosa Wind appeared on December 24, 2003 as the featured story in The Fiction Warehouse, a small literary magazine out of California; Shelter Belt will appear in the March/April issue of Skyline Magazine, an up and coming literary magazine-it's an actual glossy that makes money-out of New York; Perfect Christmas appeared in the December 20, 2003 issue of Saucyvox, a small Canadian literary magazine. Borrowed Time will be published in February issue of Poor MoJo Almanac, a small literary magazine out of California. Mister Snake Gets Religion will appear in the April issue of Cold Glass. I am the Fiction Editor for Quintessence, a new literary magazine. I studied creative writing under Jane Hill, author and former Senior Editor of Longstreet Press and Atlanta author, Emily Ellison. My writing has appeared in case history form with BP Oil, where I am a technical writer.
Leona Coulter: I live in British Columbia, Canada and am a stay at home mom with 2 girls, 14 and 10. This is my first time in writing anything this public and I'm finding it a nerve wracking experience. I started out writing fan fiction for fun, and decided I wanted to "spread my wings" I write poetry and stories and would like to one day publish more of my work.Contact Leona
The Girl at the Pier
Jacquie Powers
The girl took one step, then another until
it was too late to turn, until the tepid breeze
from the bay was at her back, the sky hanging low,
until her face and hers alone was washed pale
by the moon. The giant slide, like a sea serpent,
shimmered behind her in the dark. First time
she was allowed to go down to the pier at night.
It wouldn't be the last. A transistor radio wafted
Teen Angel's lament. A few couples danced
cheek to cheek, knee to knee. Older boys sat
on benches at the back of the pavilion and drank
beer. Cuss words and barks of laughter rolled
through the heavy air like waves. It doesn't much
matter what happened that night. The girl took
a chance. Never looked back. Under a small circle
of light, she stood alone. Spoke truths like stones.
The stains of Unchained Melody hung in the air
as she turned away from the pier, from the dance,
the stars. She took one step, then another.
Walked down the dirt road to the hushed drone
of mosquitoes. Breathed in the sharp scent of pines.
I am a student in the MFA Program in Creative Writing at Fairleigh Dickinson University. My poems have been published in canwehaveourballback, [plug].poetry and Delirium Journal. A short story was published in Storyglossia. My play, "Swimming Upstream," was produced by a community theater in Ithaca, N.Y.
- aching