Poetry – Year VIII – Number 55 – November 2022

Wives of Nightfall We are theWives of nightfallMaidens of the dark Our lips smooth as oilFeather-soft voicesSpeaking words of lustRobed in garments ofLove Our prey who returnNight upon nightSeem somehow less humanTheir bodies shrinkingTheir eyes unseeingClouded by...

Prodigal Daughter The girl asked nothing from me,just left, hitching I suppose,my car still in the garage,my wallet untouched.She looks just like her mother,relatives say when they learn. When I search her room, I find herchildhood...

I Will Miss the Train My shift starts earlyOn the ward, so I seeAnd hear what mostOf my countrymenOnly learn about second-hand.For instance, This morning the sunStretched its armsRather timidly. I’ve never seen itBe so shy....

The Day the Machines Came We said, finally, here is some helpand for cheap. Somewhere someonehad dug the graves of a bygone age and turned up the muck to racketthe tractor to life. We thirsted,had no...

tenth millennium i’m sure i was the same                                  as the stone; round and ungolfed; fractured from something much larger                   that stumbled down the mountain. there is nothing that                              laughs any                                          harder than a murder of crows. i can sit, without a fossil etched           any- where;...

In the bewitched aviary. The sonnet according to Mr. Shakespeare Helots muse about moony Golden Fleece of the condor. Drudges think of the dreamy eternal dew of the hen. Philosophers ponder on winged fantasy of the crow. Kings ruminate...

Forever August We hate to see August drain awayLike the grains of goldFleeing from a dying miner’s handFrom an old movie.We want to remember theLush, emerald-green of the vegetationWhich surrounds us.Like a sweet-smelling cocoon.My nose...

kaleidoscoping a sun-dressed mare Lest my heart becomes a seagull, soars away—the world is a cold country—lest my heart effervesces in pyrogenic fever, leaving my body unlike a lamb, but a naïve bull running from...

KILNS FANTASTIQUE for J. G. Verne Neath the kilnsof Coplay,one mile deep, adrift through cavernsof twinkling aquamarine. Rooms untouched,musty cold, gurgling streams teemedwith finned marmalade, shrooms golden brownlike altar bread, opening worldswithin worlds. T. J. Masluk, poet and writer, has work appearing in...

There’s a fly in my champagne coupethe door is locked from the wrong side Freshly squeezed stars and glitter all over the floorfreshly squeezed heart vessels and vermillion all over the groundI once read that...