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The Beacon

A problem’s answer for to glean
To acquire some clarity in my head,
I evoked the grand Muse Nicotine—
Tried sucking insight from a red.

But as I stood upon my deck,
In the cold and somewhat rainy night
A tree’s branch drip fell on the neck
Of my flame rod—and killed its light.

So I gazed into the murky sky
Until I found a single star
And called it with a forlorn sigh
To seek advice from flame afar.

Star light, star bright
Thou art alone as I tonight
Petition I thy steady light
For guidance on my sea of plight.

I felt the answer in my jaw;
And nearly gripped it with my mind
The lonesome, steady star I saw
Had reached for me—I felt its bind.

But alas, my beacon failed
It moved, and moving, wrenched my brain.
It was not I alone who sailed;
The star I wished on was a plane.
harold rain

No Song

The less he thinks he knows her
the more she’s gone;
she collects bits of paper,
calls them flower petals and
lets him down, leaves him
with the feeling of a lily
standing in a flooded field,
not a flake of moon
on the water.

She’s tethered tight
to a sparrow’s tail
her two faces smiling,
her hair in the wind;
he seeks himself
in the stars; there’s no flavor
in the things he says;
he knows this.

They’re growing,
vines entwine around his legs
but he has no song for it,
no real pensive hour.
jacinta a. meyers

A Footbridge in Childhood

From here on the footbridge
dry leaves race out of sight
poised and curled
on the shiny water
which streams underneath.
This flow wrenches light
in grooved streaks,
it breaks into a froth
as the buoyant leaves
dodge and swoop.

We are only children here
in the afternoon.
The day is roaring forward
through time
at an angle of light
as the calm planet turns.

For this is a childhood game
of dropping dry leaves
by their stiff pips
into the stream below.
We watch them race
out of sight in the slow distances.
My leaf, your leaf, arriving.
Our cheers of glee and victory
break the quiet air like ice
in this forest of fracturing light.
paul white


The young wife waits in the kitchen
for her husband’s sister who has arrived
to tell her what he would not—
about the other woman, the child,
his life apart from her in Maryland.

The last time he was home,
his skin tasted of salt.
She laughed as they lay in bed,
teased him, saying
the ocean was his mistress.

Then, she only floated on the surface
of truth. Now she plunges,
the weight of his sister’s words
filling her empty pockets like rocks,
pulling her to the bottom.

Weeks from now, he will return
with sapphires and a flood of promises.
And she will take him back,
how he tasted of salt.
elizabeth dickhut

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