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Poetry Summer 2023    fiction    all issues


Joel Filipe

Kristina Cecka
& other poems

Gillian Freebody
The Uncivil War of Love
& other poems

LuAnn Keener-Mikenas
Skunks at Twilight
& other poems

Alyssa Sego
& other poems

Anne Marie Wells
Forest of One
& other poems

Brent M. Foster
Ode to Darwin
& other poems

Jack Giaour
trans man is feeling blue
& other poems

Alan Gann
how strange
& other poems

Richard Baldo
The Privilege
& other poems

Michael Fleming
& other poems

Holly York
As it turned out, there was no bomb on board
& other poems

Celeste Briefs
Late Poppies
& other poems

Kayla E.L. Ybarra
Goose Song
& other poems

S.E. Ingraham
Leaving to Arrive
& other poems

Rachel Robb
Molting Scarlet Tanager
& other poems

Bruce Marsland
Sauna by a Finnish lake at Midsummer
& other poems

Ellen Romano
Seven Sisters
& other poems

Greg Hart
False Coordinates
& other poems

Greg Tuleja
& other poems

Corinne Walsh
Southern Charm
& other poems

Writer's Site

Corinne Walsh

Don’t Forget the Night

Just before dawn

when darkness is still lingering

above the treeline,

a lonely ravener

rides the morning air

on the wings of a single hawk.

Empty handed he slows and settles

on a high branch,

his presence like the whispered utterance

of one simple sentiment:

            Not “Good-Morning,”

too soon.

            Not “Farewell,”

too final.

More like, “Don’t forget the night,”

echoed from its hidden perch.

Then like a conjured magic trick,

fledgling sunrays unfold,

blasting light through the treeline

demanding a blessing from the sky.

Exposed in the morning radiance,

the hawk squawks

his disappointed dissent.

But, it’s not enough. The new day starts

without contrition.

Southern Charm

(for Lu)

Turns out, southern charm is my greatest weakness.

The accent, the gentle politeness that drapes

its friendly arm over your shoulder, and makes you

feel like you’re the only one. For every girl like me,

a southern belle is the most magnificent dream.

I followed the pine trees to her neck of the woods.

She lives on the edge of a golf course where the sun rises,

as it always has, and she walks in beauty

but lives squarely in the past. Her craving for adventure

quelled by familiar smiles, welcome obligations, and abiding

outstretched arms. Accepting the embrace of memories,

#30 All-American, living the life of past praise and present grace.

No surprises. Fewer risks, and none taken.

Her gentle kindness held me like a home.

Shyly avoiding each other’s eyes, we laughed until we cried,

under a canopy of stars in her backyard. Her hospitality unsurpassed,

while my desire stayed fully masked.

Nobody before or since has ever taken better care. She cooked for me:

sausage and eggs with a teaspoon of grape jelly on top.

All the while her soft voice revealing the history of her sacrifices

with the poise and gratitude of a poem. Labels of friendship,

and roommate hiding any “unnatural passions.”

All those southern secrets, and stories of what might have been

poured out with morning coffee, followed by a pathless walk

beneath the daylight moon, where a snow-white egret

watched me swoon and a great blue heron spread the news.

No remedy. No regrets, and no cure for our connection.

The slope of her shoulders remained level with the fact

that what people already knew about her was enough.

She’s the one who gets down on the ground, and wiggles

through the dirt under the porch to capture the abandoned,

imperiled kittens before they succumb in the August heat.

Southern charm has love enough for everything and everyone,

but her own heart lives in a cage, and I cared for her more than

she could claim. So now we live our lives in separate places.

Good ole Southern charm is nothing without patience.

If (K)not for Love

If not for love,

we wouldn’t make mistakes,

take no wrong turns,

commit no crimes of omission.

We would all sing

in perfect harmony and pitch.

If not for love,

we could see clearly always

and follow any path.

Justice would prevail.

But love ties us up in knots,

and breaks us down in the dark.

Dreaming about love, we can’t help

being tempted by its promise.

Greedily we swing and miss.

We leap and fall,

and when we lose

“mistake” we call.

Failure stops us not.

We crawl, and brawl

and want it all at any price.

If not for love,

loneliness would have no name,

and a broken heart would have no pain.

Flowers would grow but never bloom,

and I would not have met you,

if not for love.


You are a poem

to me

not a person

who will let me down

as you change

with the seasons

dropping your leaves

like a tree

and then becoming

a bird in that very same tree

making a beautiful

nest with your lost leaves

until you fly free

and I watch you float

and soar

(until you have flown away).

No rejection do I feel

because you are a poem

not the woman

I loved

and lost.

Corinne Walsh has lived on both sides of the Atlantic, and she likes to compare poetry to the ocean tides as constant and inevitable. Her poems explore the layers of emotional perspective concerning love and loss, and what happens in between. Her first chapbook The Book of Lu (2022) was a self published collaboration with the photographer, LuAnne Underhill. She is currently working on a book length collection of poetry. or follow on Twitter @Corinne80382848

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