Category: Winter 2017

Raymond Luczak, Winter 2017

Two Poems by Raymond Luczak

On Docks Off Eagle Harbor
Raymond Luczak

In the east, the moon rises
a contained ball of flame.

Winds surf the anxious waves
and around the lonely docks.

Unfamiliar stars tip their toes
in the vast lake of night.

Stale clouds coat the lighthouse
blinking its tired pulse.

The moon arches even higher
on the ladder with each minute.

The north leaks a faint light,
an unsettling of ghosts long past.

Isle Royale is a shadow,
trees unshaven in the swath.

Sprinkles of water thunder Continue reading “Raymond Luczak, Winter 2017” →

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Ace Boggess, Winter 2017

Storm Clouds Over Fairmont
Ace Boggess

I’m in town to read poems about my troubles
“does it bother you
to talk about it?” someone asks
“no” I say “if I can’t feel
at home in my history
I’m a man with two faces staring at the sun”
not this sun
which hides
behind slow-
rolling cumulonimbus
while I stand outside
the hotel’s double doors to smoke— Continue reading “Ace Boggess, Winter 2017” →

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C. L. Bledsoe, Winter 2017

The Men in the White Vans
C. L. Bledsoe

They wake earlier than some go to bed,
the men with hard hands, and every one
of them smiles when he sees my toddler
daughter flounce by. Breakfast is quick
and on the way because there’s no food
in the house, or maybe no peace, and sugar
is cheap. I see them when I leave in the smoky
dark, lining the parking lot, an obstacle course
of battered whaling ships covered with ladders,
poles that resemble harpoons, tools. I don’t
know what they do, but it’s probably Continue reading “C. L. Bledsoe, Winter 2017” →

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Steve Klepetar, Winter 2017

Two Poems by Steve Klepetar

Night Ride, NYC
Steve Klepetar

I was seven or eight, riding at night in someone’s car
over a bridge strung with lights,
the Whitestone or Throgs Neck, and we seemed
to be standing still
as the bridge slid past, pillar after pillar,
until my eyes blurred. My identity seemed to slip away

and I repeated my name to myself, silently, over
and over, until those words
meant nothing. Night loomed above, and lights Continue reading “Steve Klepetar, Winter 2017” →

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Jerry Wemple, Winter 2017

Ark Drives Into the Night
Jerry Wemple

A big rig is coming up fast. Its lights
go from far to closer to close. Barely
keeping it between the white lines, Ark welcomes
distraction. One hundred miles—maybe less—but
one hundred is a good number and when
more turns out to be less, then less is better,
a boost. State line sign, then gone. The big rig
that was riding his donkey faded off on
the hill climb. Lights in the distance: York.
Then Camp Hill. Might go East Shore all the way
in daylight, but too many hills and curves, woods, Continue reading “Jerry Wemple, Winter 2017” →

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