One Poem by Deborah A. Bennett

 

Diaspora

walking on 16th street 

the last temptation 

city of angels 

the red moon

the red balloon 

guiding me to the corner of 

madison and

san francisco 

call of the dust that 

rises with the wind like 

pine needle scent 

beacon of the summers we 

put off 

playing out of doors and walls 

to watch old movies all day 

and then

come back to the park where 

we went to dream in 

opposite 

directions 

drumming of the bass 

jukebox cars on 

the window 

heartbeat 

on the old green couch 

red chair 

his jacket on the floor and 

on this corner and 

out of the back of my head 

out of the nightside 

out of the wilderness 

i let him go on his way 

on the bus

on the train 

i must sharpen my spirit 

against the cold turnstile 

i must lean against habitual skies 

waiting for clouds to gather 

or smoke

or pigeons 

or the eyes of pigeons 

on the ledges 

i must run my fingers along 

wrist to arm 

believing i never knew it well 

i must recommit to memory 

the vague meanings 

of doors

and gates 

and fences

fix in my mind 

his mouth 

his eyes

his hand on the table 

the hair at the 

back of his neck 

his back

already a kind of boundary 

a shadowy yearning i notice

as it shambles out of the room 

an hour passes 

or perhaps what seems like 

an hour

in syllables i will not 

hear again 

no matter how hard 

i listen.

Deborah A. Bennett is an Illinois-based poet whose work has most recently appeared in Wales Haiku Journal, Heron's Nest and Africa Haiku Network's Mamba Journal. 

Five Poems by Gary Fox

 

Meandering 

 

Paver stones of clouds 

turn towards me 

over me 

so angels can hop 

like a toddler and not 

touch the blue 

so dreams can stay above 

traffic cutting each other 

off.  No worries 

about getting a sandwich 

on a lunch break and rushing 

back to work.  This has happened 

for centuries and how many 

have not stopped to look 

up.  I work two part-time jobs;  

I’m always looking for that  

opportunity to move on  

to something with benefits  

and all I can find 

is vaporized water looking 

for somewhere to land, 

but it is not heavy enough 

to rain.  I’m not hungry enough 

to cry.  I just keep searching 

falling between We’ll keep you 

on file and the DOL employment 

numbers spending hours until 

I clock in for job number two. 

 

 

 

Getting Lost

 

The Greater Egret in the pond 

by my condo is a welcomed guest 

feasting on amphibians  

with our normal flock of 

Canadians in the background 

the ruffled feathers are almost regal 

is it the contrast with the green slope 

or just something new and different 

 

I enjoy looking out for the Lessers 

that visit the mall runoff pond  

on my way to work before they migrate 

maybe I am a visitor like them 

waiting to fly somewhere warmer 

fattening for the voyage 

 

or am I forgetting myself 

a tadpole changing to hop around 

to be swallowed by something greater 

swooping from the sky to be 

shitted out on the way to Florida 

or a Caribbean estuary to pose 

for a picture for tourists in white sneaks 

 

 

 

At The Table 

                          Ruth and Pauline Moaney at Breakfast
                          Ruth Starr Rose

 

 

We all have a preferred seat 

& siblings always know their place 

waiting for seconds 

or counting them to be excused 

 

Don’t we all want to escape into 

our own without intrusion 

don’t we all want to be included 

& follow a lead 

 

the kitchen is a warm smile 

when the stove is on 

a cold spine when the draft 

cracks the back door open 

 

we all have to eat 

but we are not always filled 

even when we are present 

we are slipping into the past 

 

there is no wrong way to react 

to an old white woman painting 

all the well meanings can’t erase 

unnatural tones Jim Crow strokes 

 

 

                        Shaking Off Winter

 

the trees are budding 

the geese are pairing, 

nesting, hissing and honking 

 

the onion grass is poking 

and I get to show my kids 

the one thing my Grandpop 

showed me- how to grip, 

wabble, and pull to get 

a full bulb from the ground 

 

the twins rush to the creek 

wash them off and place them 

on a collection of small stones 

on leaf plates so the fairies 

have something to eat 

 

funny how you smell it  

when the lawn mowers start  

chopping that onion scent is  

a folded page corner  

I even eyed them up 

at the beginning of the pandemic 

the lengthy patches of dark green 

in case the run on toilet paper 

became a run on everything 

& I knew one thing 

on everyone’s lawn to nourish 

my salad with a bit of dandelion 

but I settle on the sun 

warming my back as the children 

bounce maybe this funk 

will be released from my pores 

the day will not feel like a chore 

of raking dead grass to be 

bagged and thrown away

 

 

 

                        Clocking In, Clocking Out

 

Between Choptank and Nanticoke 

green grass and rumble strip 

a work boot lies sole first 

to keep me on the road 

 

it is high enough to question me 

is it calf, ankle, and foot still  

inside or am I flinching 

always expecting a stench 

 

is it a migrant worker caught 

between legal and alien 

English and Creole, it hopped 

out while climbing in, 

 

the truck took off, and there 

it is on a long rural block 

on the Eastern Shore monopoly 

board waiting for dice 

 

no motels, just corn and soy 

Trump signs and doublewides 

White Tail and Sika Deer 

grazing at a pine grove edge

Gary Fox - Originally from Philadelphia, Gary currently reside on Maryland’s Eastern Shore. He went from a neighbourhood kid writing graffiti, to a hip-hop producer, and now he is a retail manager, father and husband. He has published poems in Toho Journal, The Shore, High Shelf Press, Struggle Magazine, Cathexis Northwest Press, Sea To Sky Review, The Dewdrop, and Union Spring. He has a B.A. in English and a certificate in creative writing from The Pennsylvania State University.