A Magazine of Many Arts

poem30 Dec 2019 08:00 am

By Boris Kustodiev – http://www.zeller.de, Public Domain, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=15720327

ChristinaÂ Sng

â€œThereâ€™s always a price to be paid
For everything a man gives you.â€
My mother told me when
I was old enough to listen.

But of course, I was foolish
Like most girls in love,
Never noticing the jaded faces
Of those long-suffering wives

Of the elders in the village,
Trying to muster a smile
When they heard
I was to be married.

I regaled them with stories
Of his time as a Beast and
How my love changed him
Back into a Prince.

They bowed their heads
And bit their lips,
Telling me a child
Would be my lifeâ€™s blessing

And truly, she is,
My beloved daughter,
Beside me here in the tower,
The same age as I was

When my mother
First warned me
Of what I know now
To be true,

For my Prince
Is once again a Beast
Despite his human face,
Snarling and slashing

With his once-clawed paws,
Throwing me across rooms
If I ever dared to be brave,
Standing up to his angry tirades,

Defending our daughter
From his scorn,Â 
And comforting her in my arms
When he was done and gone.

I realize now there was a reasonÂ 
Why he had been cursed:
To show the worldÂ 
The Beast really was his true face,

For nature does not simply
Conjure beasts out of thin air.Â 
The monster could never
Have been summoned

If he wasnâ€™t already there.
Too late for me now, trapped
And caged at the mercy
And whim of a mad king.

No long thick braidÂ 
Or a dragon to escape,
But an endless fall
Down the tower.

But perhapsâ€¦ wait.
One day,
We might be able
To flee this place.

My daughterâ€™s hair
Has now reached her waist.

poem22 Dec 2019 05:12 pm

Last Holiday at Financial Aid

Department of the Interior. Patent Office. 1849-1925
*Artificial Christmas Tree*
6 July 1911

David C Kopaska-Merkel

The office-party planners,
not in the mood to waste
a perfectly good plastic tree,
Didnâ€™t take it down post-Christmas.

They repurposed it for Valentineâ€™s Day,
using heart-shaped lights and beads
and red decorative balls.

For St. Patrick's day the tree
wore a green sequined hat,
rainbow fringe, and individualized elves,
bearing the faces of the office staff.

Next, for Graduation,
they made miniature caps and gowns,
and improbable resumes;
my favorite work experience
was Orca groomer.

Independence Day, a fire hazard,
had to be canceled,
but Thanksgiving was a hit,
with construction-paper hand turkeys
favorite recipes, food pix cut from magazines,
and real chocolate-chip cookies.

The tree was not taken down until 2036,
and then only because
of the predatory mutant fungus.

But by the time they burned the tree,
it was far too late.

poem08 Dec 2019 02:53 pm

The Snow Globe

Marge Simon

Once upon a time,
a child is given a snow globe
by an aunt or an uncle,
he can't remember which.
Â 
Inside the globe,
a little man sits on a bench
looking at a little woman
with silver slippers,
her arms are outstretched
as if to embrace the sky.
Â 
When he shakes it
the world inside
becomes alive.
He thinks itâ€™s magic,
but he doesn't know for sure,
he is only a child.
Â 
His conscience, a cornucopia of hopes. On this night, he shares it with the graceful woman in
 silver slippers. He takes her hand, for he has much to say. She listens attentively, but she 
already knows what it will be. She loves the way his hair fall across the small scar on his 
cheek. The way he smiles before a sentence, as if to be sure she is following him. He has so 
much to tell her, but the snowing always ends too soon. There's never enough time.


Tomorrow, she says, weâ€™ll stretch our arms farther across the infinite, to be born again
within the past. Skirts whirling, she turns round and round. Her slippers dissolve in a slivery 
blur. A snowfall of stars descends.

The child is sleepy.
He stops shaking the globe,
places it carefully on his dresser.
But before climbing in bed,
he looks again at the snow globe.
Just for an instant, it seems
the little man is waving
as if to say goodbye.

poem24 Nov 2019 05:17 pm

Blood Moon

Sara Backer


At twilight, my dogs run ahead on slopes of scree
while I walk the train tracks. The ties are spaced to thwart
my gait: too close for one step, too far apart for two.

Between two pines, the full moon reflects the dark side
of the sun. Parallel rails echo moonlightâ€”twin silver serpents.
Hypnotized, I travel into my past.

I am again a young virgin hunting love
alone at night, believing in Keatsâ€™ magic hand of chance
and some unknown good destiny resulting from my twisted path.

Again, an insecure flirt, dressed to dance
with men who twirl me once or twice,
failing to find romance.

A crone with an aura of frizzled silver hair appears,
neck and brow splotched and wrinkled, glad for the silent
awareness of tending two retrievers.

My convoluted path turns into a track so straight and strong
the rails bear the weight of trains. I understand the hazard
of navigating by the moon, meandering like flotsam.

I whisper to my former selves:
use the sextant, do the math,
the stars will steer you safely!

But I canâ€™t listen to my self, bedazzled by illusion
that makes this huge white cratered orb
seem close enough to kiss.

Uncategorized11 Nov 2019 07:25 am

Wind Walker

Remigius van Haanen (1812-1894) – Faggot Gatherers in Winter Landscape

David C. Kopaska-Merkel

It comes from the forest
and winds about your limbs,
a scent you shouldnâ€™t recognize,
but you turn, like a windsock;
the campfire at your back,
you stumble toward the shadows
waiting beneath the trees.


Hands clutch,
drag you back,
set you down by the fire,
voices, urgent voices, beset you,
senseless as the calls of birds.
Eventually, you sleep.


You dream of running, of leaping,
of soaring above tall brown boles,
green mantles ashiver.
Stars beckon from the inky reaches,
their ringing voices call you home.


Morning breaks
over the tiny camp,
your cold and empty tent;
friends follow your tracks
miles through the snow,
farther and farther apart they come,
till at last they vanish
under an endless sky.

poem28 Oct 2019 08:00 am

Envoy

By Unknown – Popular Bible Encyclopedia of Archimandrite Nicephorus (1892) RSL, Public Domain, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=67647037

F. J. Bergmann


WeÂ hadÂ becomeÂ convinced
ofÂ theirÂ existence,Â asÂ one who,
without opening hisÂ eyes, feels
the weight of theÂ gigantic
arachnid on hisÂ paralyzed breast. More
than human. Or possiblyÂ something less.

They sent no advanceÂ notification
of their arrival orÂ intentions:
telephones rang with aÂ hush
on the other end ofÂ impulse;
intransigent monitorsÂ and speakers
flared with oily whiteÂ noise.

We had been unable toÂ sleep
for countless nights,Â due to uninvited
nightmares. At least,Â they had the heads
of horses, but theÂ bodies of huge
female spiders withÂ sleek ebony pelts,
weaving their ownÂ milk-white silk

adhesive saddleclothsÂ strewn
desultorily about theÂ sleeping-chamber
(nor were ourÂ fatigue-induced waking
hallucinations any moreÂ pleasant),
gauzy as the opalescentÂ haze
manifesting among theÂ ghostly astilbe

at the bottom of theÂ frozen garden.
Certainly they mustÂ have been there,
as animate vapors inÂ the chilly mist
subliming from theÂ rime-laden lawn.
A nacreous quality inÂ the haze
gave the lie to theirÂ deceptive absence.

We met them again asÂ vibrationsâ€”
compressions andÂ rarefactions of dank air
spiraling outward fromÂ condensation
that splashed intoÂ shadow wells
far below ruinsÂ overarching
the craters where weÂ stood.

With our eyes firmlyÂ shut, we believed
we heard them enactingÂ rites performed
at an ancient templeÂ now indicated
only by broken curvesÂ of marble
and melted, mangledÂ pipework coils
from which the wine noÂ longer gushed.

Perhaps they might haveÂ spoken
one of the legions ofÂ languages we had
lost. Possibly, if weÂ had employed
those devices rumoredÂ to have been
developed for militaryÂ malfeasance,
they could have beenÂ persuaded

to materialize inÂ tangible form. Maybe
we could have evolvedÂ receptors
capable of detectingÂ their emanations,
given time. They madeÂ their final,
ostensible contact withÂ us as creatures
indistinguishable fromÂ dead leaves.

The flock rose up in aÂ storm-driven gust,
fleetingly brushing ourÂ cheeks and lips
with their crispÂ tendernesses, whispering
what we took to beÂ their goodbyes.
For hours they streamedÂ upward,
onward,Â intoÂ aÂ steadilyÂ darkeningÂ sky.

poem21 Oct 2019 08:00 am

Witch

Mary Soon Lee

Chose this path,
the barred doors,
her father's face averted
as she left the village.


Cast herself out
to the hut in the wood,
the cold corpse of the crone
who was witch before her.


Hard hours digging a grave,
the earth iron with frost;
hard work, a hard price
so that no man would own her.


Hunched at the hut's hearth,
chilled beyond bone;
back, fingers, arms aching
from her grim labor.


A blackness darker
than the shadowed shelves
slipped loose, edged its way
to an empty bowl. Cat.


Cat's accusing stare
as quietly, slowly,
trying not to startle it,
she offered it food.


Cat's small softness
beside her when she woke,
a gentler, older magic
than any she learned after.

poem07 Oct 2019 06:00 am

The Fairy Tale

Ken Poynter

We hit it off from the start,
Cinderella and I.
 
At first boot, one lightâ€™s length after her
Self-diagnostic, she began
To map everything she could of me,
To sort and prioritize her dataset about my proclivities
 
Better than my own memory could muster
Using its own rounded pictures of my past.  Events
Which make me who I am, and which
I have long since forgotten,
She has in binary instantly fixed.
 
She completes me.  Within days
She understood my many appetites,
Knew the signals not even I expected
For silence, conversation, solitude or sex.
Perfect on the outside, itâ€™s the miles and miles,
 
Rack after rack after rack
 
Of programming, that I fell in love with.  Our initial
Two weeks together were the best two weeks
Of my little life, so far; but, when we get
Slung at last out of this Earthâ€™s gravity
To begin in full our journeymanâ€™s trek to
 
Andromeda, I will happily unpack each element of her,
Begin to enhance my primitive biological,
Sweat and sweet life ever thunderously more
With countless crossing subroutines,
And the microcode of cozily programmed joy.

poem30 Sep 2019 08:00 pm

Oh, I Have Words (Said The Paper Ballerina)

Gerri Leen

You, tin soldier
Who are lauded
For your immobility
You, who stood and stared
As if I didn't already get enough
Of that from Jack
You, who fell for me
With no words, no laughter
No...lightness
I'm paper, dainty as air
I'm made to dance
To stir, to flit, to fly
And you're made to stay,
To plant, to squat and guard
And never let me go

I was happy when Jack
Pushed you out the window
Him, I knew how to manage
Your creeping solidity
Terrified me far more
Than his black dust
But then you returned
Stinking of fish
Your flat, dead eyes
Triumphant as if you
Had done somethingâ€”anything
Nothing, you do nothing
And they call that steadfast

I thank whatever deity
Protects paper creatures
Grateful that you don't burn
You melt, like snow and ice
Things that ruin a dance
As your body turned into a
Choking metal heart
I was freed in a burst of flame
They make paperweights out
Of such things as you are now
While I am a wisp of ash
A cinder, dancing on the wind

poem23 Sep 2019 08:00 pm

Even Holy Sites Are Haunted

By Victor Ion Popa – È˜t. PetruÈ›iu, Ion V. DrÄƒguleÈ›, Victor Haiduc, Victor Ion Popa, MironosiÈ›ele. Nu-i pentru cine se pregÄƒteÈ™te. Eu tac, tu taci, el taceâ€¦ ea vorbeÈ™te. Bucharest: FndaÈ›ia CulturalÄƒ RegalÄƒ Principele Carol, 1938., Public Domain, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=58181310

Cameron N. Coulter

The ghost of the Carmelite convent never really wanted to be a nun. She had never made a 
vow of silence either, almost most people assumed she had. She had wanted to do what she 
was put on Earth to do, she wanted to share her soul while whispering under the starlight, but 
the other nuns were bad listeners. The priest cut her off during confession. One time, he fell 
asleep.

The ghost of the Carmelite convent was a perfectly chatty soul, to be honest. It's just, no one
ever stopped to listen. Folks always leaned across the room into another conversation. Even 
before she was a ghost, people found it remarkably easy to look right through her.

When the ghost of the Carmelite convent became a ghost, no one noticed. She had been 
dead for six cold days before they discovered the body. The truth is, she had been a ghost 
long before her heart stopped beating. No one paid attention at the funeral, and the rest of 
the day continued business as usual.

I hear she still haunts the benches and bell towers of the convent, just waiting for someone to
speak with. Once you get used to the cold spots, I hear she's really very sweet. You will go 
talk with her, won't you?

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