High stakes of Summer by Gabriella Brand

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High stakes of Summer

by Gabriella Brand

We watch the yellow rays of July
splaying across our bedroom floor,
playing poker with our vacation,
cajoling us out onto the porch,
gambling on thunderclouds,
living high on the hog,
bluffing us down to the beach,
hiding, seeking, upping the ante.

But some days hold the promise of a royal flush:
a small hummingbird hovering over the hollyhocks,
fresh raspberries dotting the morning yogurt,
enough wind to suck out the sail on the Sunfish,
grilled vegetables curling into dinner
fireworks dropping deep into the night.

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Gabriella Brand’s fiction, poetry, and essays have appeared in Room Magazine, The Christian Science Monitor, Perigee, The Citron Review, The Mom Egg, and PIF. She has an M.A. from Middlebury College. She divides her time between Connecticut, where she teaches foreign languages, and Quebec, where she canoes, hikes, daydreams and writes.

Submit your work to many editors!

Yep you read that right. We are setting up a publishing data house where you can submit your work and many editors can read it. Those editors can then contact you if they want to publish your work. It works the same way if you are an editor looking for work to publish. It works like this:

See. The little stick editor and the little stick writer look happy. You will be too. Be one of the first to be published with this very different approach. Also, it’s free, all you have to do is sign up: http://www.everywritersresource.com/literarymagazines/register/?This feature will launch sometime this week.

Summer in a Country Town by Eileen Dawson Peterson

Summer in a Country Town

(in memory of Sisseton, SD)

by Eileen Dawson Peterson

 

I remember
rain barrels
the round sound
when several friends hung their heads
deep inside and hollered
and hollered until the echoing voices
sounded like a crowd shouting
back at you;
the hollow whisper
of my brother calling through
the rainspout on the roof
into my ear at the other end
on the ground.
the shrill call, “Ally, Ally, Over”
as the ball came sailing over the rooftop.
the thrum of baseball cards pinned
to my brother’s bicycle spokes as he raced by;

the acrid sweet odor of
creosote when the sun unrelentingly
sizzled tarpaper roofs of garden sheds;
the hot pungent smell of tar oozing
out of the asphalt where road crews
patched cracks and potholes in the road;
the acid taste of tarbabies left behind
that we chewed on a dare to our parent’s dismay
the lusty rotting scent of fallen apples;
mustiness of freshly turned garden earth;
lilacs and peonies perfuming the air on the front porch;
burnt sugar from Gunderson’s kitchen
where Tuby’s Mom would be baking her specialty cake;

the tartness of spring’s first rhubarb ribs
twisted without permission from the ground;
that special taste of gooseberries picked green in summer
ripe in fall from the bushes surrounding the schoolyard;

I remember
all the sounds smells tastes that made
growing up in a small country town special.

Eileen Dawson Peterson (2011)

Tether by M.E. Riley


Tether

by M.E. Riley

Tether ball hung from overgrown
maple really a soccer ball dented in
half with yellow nylon rope
but stepfather called it tether ball
That’s what it was

School was over
I pushed the trampoline beneath
the tree jumped high enough to bite
the tip off an oak leaf
I shoved my fist into the bulging ball
it swung away from me it swung back
towards me my bouncing sports bra
small knots I’d been praying for
Weren’t as big as my cousin’s she wore
a nude bra with underwire so her peach
knobs wouldn’t show through
tight Aeropostale shirts I’d never been able to afford

Didn’t even want a brand name
across my breasts till I saw hers
stretching the cotton-stitched logo
my neighbor groping spaces between
a and e, r and o
their moans growing as I tried
keeping distracted Baywatch playing on
his TV mounted in the corner

Summer heat swelled the room
his Nascar bedspread felt
scratchy back of my neck sweated walls
bowed in like pairs of hips
squished soccer balls I looked through his
bedroom windows across the street was my house
backyard and trampoline the tether ball
swinging with every hot thrust of wind

I played in the backyard till mid-August
even though Mama fussed about it being too hot
I jumped and punched and bounced and swung
till I heard a screen door open and shut
across the street my neighbor shirtless jerking
lawn mower pull cord it revved up then went
quiet revved then quiet rev-sigh, rev-sigh, I watched
till humidity grew thick my throat clenched

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M.E. Riley is an Assistant Poetry Editor for Bayou Magazine, as well as a regular contributor to Bayou’s blog. Work has most recently appeared in Nude Bruce Review, Eunoia Review, Belle Journal, and Tales from the South VI.

A Gift by Maria Wheeler

A Gift

by Maria Wheeler

You plucked it from
A barren peach tree
And offered it to me some sort
Of bruised and oozing, thoughtless joke-
You centered it plump on a cotton placemat.
Its fuzzy, orange brilliance paled
The autumn warning
Of crisp grey leaves
And waning sunlight,
Of life and time-
so swollen, so soft and dewy
It mocked my womb
and warmed my heart.

###
Maria Wheeler has been teaching English for thirteen years. She has an MA in writing and is working on an MFA in professional and creative writing. Maria lives in New Jersey with her husband, a musician. Someday she hopes to finish her memoirs on that peaceful, little farm.

Scorch by Brendan Sullivan

Scorch

by Brendan Sullivan

The white cotton of a summer day
streams across June
like paint peeling off porch railings
buttercups go drowsy in window boxes
watching the world nod and doze
and the burr of cicada wings
rubs the still air scorched
and scars the sky
like locusts on honey.

Sunset by Emily Windover

Sunset

by Emily Windover

afternoon crumbles into evening
citrus splashes across the wooden trees
jubilant and fresh
crunchy december grasses stretch out
in patches of yellow and scruff

the sun gets lower, the sky gets milky
the haze infused with peach
spread over the fields like a blanket
blurring the fence posts and steeples
like a watercolor

the darkness comes with a certain sadness
details disappear
deer recede into the shadows
the last bit of light is messy pink jet scrawl
there is no turning back
sad blackness erases everything

Sail Over the Rim by Donald Frey

Sail Over the Rim

by Donald Frey

Cast off Embark
Throw smart phones
to sharks along
with keys Visa bills

Quit your job
Leave your junk
Breathe fresh air
Discover passion

Take a lover
Board a ship
The winds wait
Set your sails

Go now
without compass and chart
Leave shrinking shores
Head for deep waters

Rumbling heavens
White caps
Flashing horizons
Check you trim

Tack to
Starboard.
Push your mast into stars
Sail over the rim

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My wife and I live on country acreage with a mountain view. I’m a retired lawyer.who formally skied and climbed mountains. Now I tend a large flower garden and
enjoy poetry as my new passion.

Of Trans Ams and Chickens by Jessica Tyner

From London Street Art by Pablo Delgado

Of Trans Ams and Chickens

by Jessica Tyner

My old ’83 Trans Am lapped up the salted highway,
clear stripper shoes in the backseat and fried chicken
pressed against my thigh. There was nothing special
about that day, nothing different about the bruises
creeping up my shins to rest uncomfortably on my knees?
backpackers breaking on a pointed rock, wiping sweat on their ascent?
nothing changed about the black Knightrider Hot Wheels hanging
from the rearview mirror or the worn wooly seat covers
molded perfectly to my ass.

I don’t know what made me think of you,
what wargame my heart waged on my brain
or why, miles down the too familiar interstate I pulled over with tears
pin wheeling down my face and tore like a beast
into the greasy breast wondering why you never kissed me anymore
and at the fact that chickens?
if they wanted to?
could overtake the world;
there are so many more of them than us.

###

Jessica Tyner is a Pushcart Prize-nominated writer from Oregon and a member of the Cherokee Nation. Her publishing history includes over 30 pieces in 2012 alone. Recent projects include travel writing with Mucha Costa Rica, copy editing for the London-based Flaneur Arts Journal, and contributing to New York?s Thalo Magazine. She has recently published poetry in Slow Trains Literary Journal, Straylight Magazine, and Glint Literary Journal.
www.jessicatyner.com

Cafe Angelika Revisited by Robert Karaszi

Cafe Angelika Revisited

by Robert Karaszi

Twilight’s saffron haze reduced to memory
as light strengthens its spars over the horizon
silhouetted gossamer, woven upon ash wood and hedge
taut like strings on a violin

from my terrace down;
closely packed houses, roof tops
gnawing at the pith of the air, where starlings wings
stretch for sunshine through eastward glints

I recall factories and windmills,
wheeling under huddled clouds
across the contoured path of the Danube
where low tide exposes rockweed, tangled like knotted hair

I remember omnibuses nosing northward
towards Cafe Angelika; over mocha layered crepes
the first kiss gleaned from your lips,
revived this weary traveler

###

In 1990 Robert Karaszi worked as a lyricist, singer/song writer for an independent record label
where he also freelanced as a writer for upcoming artists. Today he leans towards writing
more traditional poetry. Currently he resides in New Jersey and has spoken at many poetry readings
and various events.

From the Cathedral Building by Neil McCarthy

From the Cathedral Building

by Neil McCarthy

If I could see through your eyes the city
from the roof of the Cathedral Building,
hear the wind through the nearby arms of a crane
as I run cotton-moss between my fingers,
I, too, would smile and watch the tops of
people’s heads and wonder what they are thinking.

This is a poem you have already written.
These lines shadow you daily down Father Griffin
Road and across Wolfe Tone Bridge. And I am
writing to you now, wondering which symbol, if any,
you could remember me by: as hallowed sunshine,
cloud, or rain like fingerprints on the river

###
Neil McCarthy is an Irish poet from Cork now living in Los Angeles. He is the author of three chapbooks of poetry, with many poems appearing in journals such as The New York Quarterly, The SHOp, Magma, and Popshot to name a few. He is a regular performer and can be found at www.neilmccarthypoetry.com and on twitter @NeilFMcCarthy

Bus Depot, Midnight by Thomas Boyd

 

Bus Depot, Midnight

by Thomas Boyd

Gizelle behind the counter
Gleaming black as oil, as night
And she speaks Creole
To her friend who is just as black
And with blonde curls
They are chattering away in Creole
Under the Clint Black gaze
of a Roy Rogers portrait
A cowboy from an Ohio River town
Where there are no cowboys
And no Creole is spoken
This is going on while a man
His wife and three little kids
Argue in Spanish
About whether or not they just called the bus to Tampa
And ‘ol Roy
Just squints and grins at us
Because after all
Happy trails, pardner

###
Thomas Boyd has written professionally since college. He served as press secretary and legislative assistant to a U.S. Senator, and as an account executive with a major international public relations firm. He was staff speechwriter for the American Stock Exchange and contributed to policy presentations at Chemical Bank. As vice president of a nonprofit public service media company, he created advertising campaign and client education materials. His most recent assignments include revising and editing a doctoral thesis, and a 24-hour turnaround of a promotional one-sheet for a prominent musical artist. He currently publishes tbo2010.wordpress.com, a popular blog on events and enthusiasms.

All the Saints by Vijay Khurana

All the Saints

by Vijay Khurana

See here, where the floor is worn

that’s where they say she knelt before she died
full of grace, but how could she not be

It’s a wonderful mosaic

cracked and clustered
equal parts earth, sky and void
they must have brought that pigment
all the way from the east
somebody’s life’s work

It’s a great pity the tiles are so distressed

every fracture maps a footfall,
that godly imperfection
the impact of mahogany, oak or skull
Her hair is in a shrine. Singular
Pressed between two rosed panes of glass
And there’s a magnifying glass
tied to a piece of brown string
the kind we have at home for tying tomatoes
it rolls fibrous between the thumb and the middle finger
disintegrating like the burning sun
We queue up
to see the dead woman’s hair
I can’t wait to feel that string between my fingers
Once I found a whisker from the cat
and kept it in a box, with a car
and those foreign dice with the pictures on
tools for a sport I could not play
I would watch it bow
full of grace
feel the impression it left on the back of my hand,
my lips, my tongue
until it broke and was gone
(long after the cat was dead and gone)
standing in line, my water bottle
throws a disc of dancing light on the wall
over where the young woman died

Narcoleptic Lover by Chris Martin

Narcoleptic Lover

by Chris Martin

Your body crushed on the couch
His hands on her waist

Your soft cheek gaining wrinkles from folded covers
His jokes going spotlight over your friends’ faces

Your rhythmic breath between your parted lips
Across the bar walking with two beers in hand

Your kinked neck
He is smelling her hair

You told me, in your waking moments,
you can’t imagine a life without him. You,
like so many of us, convince yourself with dreams.