Tan Line (a sonnet)

By Eric Meub

The surf accepts perfection wading in,

But coming out, you’ve let your swimsuit slip

An inch below one equatorial hip

To bare an ivory strip of unbaked skin.

That patch, before the shimmering marine,

Gleams from your silhouette as bright as bone,

Admitting to my map a tropic zone

That scarce another eye has ever seen.

Lights, Camera, Action!

Two Poems of Old Age

By Moristotle

The first poem below more or less wrote itself one morning, in the moments after I experienced the internal argument whether or not to flip that light switch. In the days that followed, my ruminations grew to include the ideas of the second poem, and I thought at first that I could work those ideas into the first poem. But I soon learned that I couldn’t – or it would be better not to. For better or worse: “Practicing to Die” and “Rehearsing to Live.”


Practicing to Die

Don’t do it! 

Do it! 

No, don’t do it!
I yell at myself in the silence of my mind.
I remind myself I’m carrying a tray,
better safe than sorry.
I used to lift a finger to flip off the kitchen light
as I passed toward the dining table.
I have done it many times.

Murmuration

Courtesy Nick Dunlop^*

An allegory

By Paul Clark (aka motomynd)

They descend, tens then hundreds then thousands,

Their mass of tiny wingbeats flattening the bamboo canopy into sparse strands,

Like a helicopter gunship, searching a jungle for prey.

Aggressive and raucous, choosing bullying over tact,

They force the others to the edges of what was their home tract:

“This is our thicket now.”

Self-pity Sucks (a poem)

By Roger Owens

So, my buddy Swabbie had a stroke.

We used to smoke

And drink and talk, laugh loud and long.

He was strong, the second-best surfer I ever knew,

Like he flew through the waves, a grizzled longboard man

showing the grimmies how it’s done
Now it’s time for a cold one.

Final Embrace

When Death comes,
there is a smile on his lips.
    —Muhammad Iqbal

By Moristotle

Death’s embrace closes,
its kiss brushes my lips.
Strange the comfort it gives,
unexpected during hours of
running free, frolicking.
Not the enemy we supposed,
not the fate we wished to escape
though we always knew we couldn’t.
But the friend we always needed,
if never thought could be.

Copyright © 2021 by Moristotle

Six Years Ago Today: Where the spirit lives

Bilingual dream work

By Ralph Earle

[Originally published on August 28, 2014.]






How we struggle to frame our dreams
in language not entirely familiar, dreams
of finding the way by car to the gathering,
or rolling secretly off a train
headed to the wrong town.

All Over the Place: First love

By Michael H. Brownstein




Let me take a break from this,
close my eyes,
and wander in the dark.

I sneak into the bedroom,
kiss her once on the forehead, softly,
twice on her bare shoulder so she will know.
When I wake,
the sun has kept its promise.
This is why I love.
Always a bridge over the river.
Always an apple pink afterglow reflects on tall glass.
Always a stream of brightness greens the dark Chicago River.

Copyright © 2019 by Michael H. Brownstein Michael H. Brownstein’s latest volume of poetry, A Slipknot Into Somewhere Else, was published by Cholla Needles Press in 2018.

All Over the Place: An embrace of trees

By Michael H. Brownstein











How powerful to swim into your arms.
How steadfast and stubborn. The curl of your palm.
One finger finding another. A gathering
Of love’s flesh like the glorious crown of a tree
Reaching beyond a fence of silver brush
And goldenrod to lay a hand of leaf
Upon a friendly arm and find whatever wonder
Lives in the wind, the brightest day, a cool evening.
The squirrels at play. The murmur of doves.
A warmth turning everything valuable into good.

Copyright © 2019 by Michael H. Brownstein Michael H. Brownstein’s latest volume of poetry, A Slipknot Into Somewhere Else, was published by Cholla Needles Press in 2018.

All Over the Place: Brown Shoes

By Michael H. Brownstein



—after Amy Gerstler’s poem “Watch”

For some strange reason I had wanted to have [my father’s] shoes, the shoes he was wearing when he died…and was sad to learn they had been incinerated.
        —Amy Gerstler, commenting on “Watch”

They were just a pair of old shoes, untied,
Scuffed on the side of the left one
Deeply scarred near the front of the right one.

All Over the Place: When the Storm Passes, This Is What’s Left

By Michael H. Brownstein

I am exactly like I am.
No water of mistrust here.
Swamps, perhaps.
Perhaps the heavy coil of wood
and bones to go with it,
the shadow of a new day
sun lipped; cloud lined,
the snail of curiosity:
the bee-sting of intellect.

All Over the Place: Study Hall

By Michael H. Brownstein











Only sometimes does homework enter the heart of the matter,
pen to paper, keyboard to screen,
a lack of ribbon for the brand new antique electric typewriter.
When the boat people want to leave the river for the lake,

they need to notify the people of the bridge to prepare for their passing.

Copyright © 2019 by Michael H. Brownstein Michael H. Brownstein’s latest volume of poetry, A Slipknot Into Somewhere Else, was published by Cholla Needles Press in 2018.

All Over the Place: Freedom

By Michael H. Brownstein

[From an anecdote by Alexander Yakoulov, who tells of one of Stalin’s trains on the way to Siberia stopping very briefly at a crossing and leaving behind a litter of small scraps of paper full of addresses, names, and phone numbers]


I was there when the train stopped,
Vents open in the cardinal corners like scars
Or better — the pox mark left by a crucifixion.
The day was a solid blue, so pretty, beautiful.
I could not know what was soldered in behind
Sealed doors and steel curtained windows,
But I could see the litter of paper scraps like rain.
When the train left, I picked up as many as I could
Pretending to be the one in charge of cleaning platforms.
When you bend to work, it is easy to deceive.

All Over the Place: The Prince of War

By Michael H. Brownstein











My stomach full of casualties of war
Mango juice, pomegranates, Asian apples,
Sweat from carpet makers tethered to fabrics of goat.

All Over the Place: A Spirit of Water

By Michael H. Brownstein



I step into the hot tub
Slip into three sidestroke laps in the pool
Enter the sauna and steam room
Fall into my father

All Over the Place: Heaven’s Earth

By Michael H. Brownstein

The three women have been married to the same men for thirty years

And still the touch of their husbands brings a shiver of delight.

It’s like ice cream, the way it melts in your mouth and satisfies a craving,

The way a cold headache is both bothersome and necessary,
The way birth of a child is the most important thing in the world

After love and forever affection of a husband coming home from work,

His hands callused, his nails dirty, but his face the stars from heaven to earth.

Copyright © 2019 by Michael H. Brownstein Michael H. Brownstein’s latest volume of poetry, A Slipknot Into Somewhere Else, was published by Cholla Needles Press in 2018.

All Over the Place: Frost in a Time of Conflict

By Michael H. Brownstein










The ice storm begins in the heart
quietly waking its way to the outer limits of toe and finger.
Without a hat, ears soon
fear the crush of heavy cold, breathing
an act of war, breath
an air raid of snow squalls, large chunks of hail, frozen rain.
Is this the hell of the ancient Norse?
Somehow the vapor surrounding us
a napalm attack of frostbitten knives into eyeball and flesh.

All Over the Place: Dusk

By Michael H. Brownstein

My day begins with a prayer
and a night’s armor
gray breath and gray gasps for air
a leak in the area west of the gut
a somber throat
the last peals of swollen hamstrings

Copyright © 2019 by Michael H. Brownstein Michael H. Brownstein’s latest volume of poetry, A Slipknot Into Somewhere Else, was published by Cholla Needles Press in 2018.

All Over the Place: Of leks and lies

By Michael H. Brownstein











of landscapes of leks and booming tantrums
leaders
of
racist
lies

All Over the Place: The language of blue

By Michael H. Brownstein











The squint of sky between twig and nettle
wallpapered azure, sapphire, soft blue:
Mark your soul, Mr. Bowerbird. Create
turrets of royal blue and cyan, Collect
pen tops, blue orchids, for-get-me-nots,

All Over the Place: A coloring of mood

By Michael H. Brownstein

yesterday the sky witch blue
well lit
not a single cloud stain
the sun
bright yellow