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Poetry Winter 2013    fiction    all issues


Alysse Kathleen McCanna
& other poems

Peter Nash
Shooting Star
& other poems

Katherine Smith
House of Cards
& other poems

David Sloan
On the Rocks
& other poems

Alexandra Smyth
Exoskeleton Blues
& other poems

John Glowney
The Bus Stop Outside Ajax Bail Bonds
& other poems

Andrea Jurjević O’Rourke
It Was a Large Wardrobe...
& other poems

Lisa DeSiro
Babel Tree
& other poems

Michael Fleming
& other poems

Michael Berkowitz
As regards the tattoo on your wrist
& other poems

Michael Brokos
Landscape without Rest
& other poems

Michael H. Lythgoe
Orpheus In Asheville
& other poems

John Wentworth
morning people
& other poems

Christopher Jelley
Double Exposure
& other poems

Catherine Dierker
dinner party
& other poems

William Doreski
Hate the Sinner, Not the Sin
& other poems

Robert Barasch
& other poems

Rande Mack
& other poems

Susan Marie Powers
Red Bird
& other poems

Anne Graue
& other poems

Mariah Blankenship
Tub Restoration
& other poems

Paul R. Davis
& other poems

Philip Jackey
Garage drinking after 1989
& other poems

Karen Hoy
A Naturalist in New York
& other poems

Gary Sokolow
Underworld Goddess
& other poems

Michal Mechlovitz
The Early
& other poems

Henry Graziano
Last Apple
& other poems

Stephanie L. Harper
& other poems

Roger Desy
& other poems

R. G. Evans
& other poems

Frederick L. Shiels
Driving Past the Oliver House
& other poems

Richard Sime
Berry Eater
& other poems

Jennifer Popoli
Generations in a wine dark sea
& other poems

Paul R. Davis


I like the way

lamplight makes the page

of the book

I’m reading gleam.

A wild vanilla with

crazed insects wobbling

into my mind.

I start to close

the book

and night appears,

sheep stranded high

on the outcropping.

Between the pages

is the everdark valley

of no language,

where words cross over

hurriedly to reach

the other side.

I put the book down,

the words don’t fall out,

or over themselves.

They are locked in place,

like fresh eggs in their

cartons, asleep

and dreaming of speech.

Second Vision

Too many eyes, too many things to see.

Twin cathedral steeples, nipples

erupting from the breasts of God.

Signs falsely proclaiming pizza is both

original and Italian.

Conversations boomerang off bent elbows,

mismatched words litter avenues.

Briefcases, laptop attache cases,

bag lunches, boxes of pizza for one:

FedEx will not deliver your life

or you from it.

Clouds invade your shoes,

your pockets full of gray money,

handfuls of anxiety fall out of your hat.

Afraid to go home, afraid of the continual fear,

drowning in the comfortable couch.

Going to sleep naked,

one sheet, one blanket,

2,738 dreams you won’t remember.

Morning is a roving wolf,

eating the bones you forgot.

Eating Molly’s Pie

It was a sunny morning,

sky of flour and butter.

I went out to eat

some of Molly’s pie,

came away fuller than the moon.

It was noon like turtles lounging.

I went out and had some more

of Molly’s pie.

I left the desk,

overturned the timesheet,

went out like a thunderstorm.

I looked in corners where butts are thrown,

looked at signs like forgotten face cards,

looking for Molly’s pie.

Close to midnight

down by the river,

Hungry Davy was there,

eating the last of Molly’s pie.

I cried up, all the way through my hair,

wanting some of Molly’s pie.


(4th Century Greek chair, perhaps the first of Western civilization)

Ladies, be seated.

Rest in elegance and wait for the news.

Your husbands are in the fields,

or fighting for Athens.

When Rome ascends,

when Saint Peter visits,

he will be crucified but leave a seat

for his crude descendants.

But this will be hidden, kept secret

from the tillers and the potters.

They will have curved backs,

broken backs, will lack support.

Castle residents will know the comfort,

the tribute from the fields, the gathering laws.

Conquistadores will bring saddles

and crucifixes to a world reclining.

They will join with missionaries

to bring enlightenment and germs.

All the world will be seated:

To work, to learn, to take rest.

What wondrous device will ennoble us?

How will nature uncivilized devolve?

We will lose our legs, take on those of wood,

carved with faces straining under the weight.

Our backs will weaken,

our eyes forget the wide vistas scouting danger,

our minds will turn more quietly.

We will be soothed.

The oceans are crossed while we stand

before the compass, afraid to sit and

not see the upright horizon.

These new lands have knowledge

of running and resting,

but we bring strange new instruments

lacking harmony with nature.

Forests are hacked down,

the wood is shaped into towns,

houses and their possessions,

legs and spindles hold us in place.

Intricacy and detail envelop our bodies,

stiffnecked we suffer the hardness

of where we sit.

The plains and rivers hold freedom

like butterfly wings hold the sun,

we seek the prairie grass to burn.

The western shore is gained

but there is no rest for our business,

still we are straight-backed.

Leisure is acquired with sweat

and now we can know comfort

of leather, of upholstery,

feathering our labors.

Finally, we sit: collapsed,

to think of new inventions,

made for human bodies.

New devices take craft

and they have arms, levers,

footrests and let us dream.

All in beautiful reveries,

we take our seats.

Paul R. Davis lives in central New York State with his wife, parrots and cats Now retired, he enjoys operating model trains, philately, gardening, and preparing meals with his wife. His work has been published in Latitudes, Comstock Review, Comrades, Hot Metal Press, Georgian Blue Poetry Anthology, The Externalist, Centrifugal Eye, and others. He believes in a simple poetic philosophy: to wit, the joy of expression, the necessity of communication.

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