Daily Archives: December 13, 2015


“Car Accident, 14 Months Going” by Sarah Thursday

Everything with you was
like a car accident,
the kind someone expects

 

months before, but when
the point of impact arrives,
no one is ever prepared.

 

Seatbelts and airbags don’t
stop the severity of its
suddenness or the metal

 

frame collapsing and crushing
through skin and bone. I can
brace my elbows to my chest

 

stop the outside coming in,
but the forces stay in motion
and you crush my heart

 

in love. You leap out just
at the edge of the overpass
leaving me descending forward

 

in suspension. I chose
to keep my door locked
and feel the fall, feel

 

the collision. I still won’t take
one single moment back.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Sarah Thursday was mostly raised in Long Beach, California. She teaches 4th and 5th grade, is obsessed with music, and has only recently dove into poetry again. She has forthcoming or has been published in The Long Beach Union (CSULB), The Atticus Review, Eunoia Review, East Jasmine Review, The Camel Saloon, poeticdiversity, Chaparral, and Pyrokinection. Recently, she has become the editor of Cadence Collective: Long Beach Poets, almost by accident, but completely on purpose.  sarahthursday.com


“In the Mirror” by Matthew R. Moore

Have you ever seen a drowning circus clown?
His size twenty-four shoes weighing him down like concrete blues,
His pasty makeup clouding the water like blood in a shark attack,
His desperate struggle to tourniquet one last balloon animal
In hope creation will give his life buoyancy;
This is the humor that consumes completely.

 

Have you ever seen a drowning circus clown?
The way he splashes his last screaming words, “I was born as you were!”
As children’s memories contain tears for all of the wrong reasons
And adults laugh elsewhere as the clown convulses into the depths,
Juggling his last moments, arms flailing as the surface becomes
A shimmering glass portal, a haunting mirror, to a world long lost.
He breathes no more. His eyes are glossed.

 

Have you ever seen a drowned circus clown?
Washed up on shore with a stray dog pulling at a multi-colored rope of rags
Continuously appearing like a posthumous trick of the gut,
A policeman leaning over and honking the clown’s red nose
Instead of searching for a heartbeat.
“Yes, he’s dead,” the policeman said,
“It appears he died some time ago,
Then he was merely persisting for others -
Punching admission tickets, and roaring up the crowd to go.”

 

Have you ever seen a drowned circus clown
Shooting out of a cannon and heading back into the sea,
His limp arms extending to his sides ever so slightly,
Like dreams finally taking flight -
The late-fantastic sorceries of the will
Streaming across the big top blue skies,
A huge arc, a rainbow of laughter and finesse
Past the trapeze gods and cotton candy clouds
Then down, down into the funny world we live in?

 

Ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls, people of all ages,
Welcome to the show!

 

 

 

 

 

 

Matthew R. Moore is a writer of poetry and fiction and currently lives in Latrobe, Pennsylvania. He has been published in Seton Hill University’s magazine Eye Contact, The Literary Yard, and once had a small but dedicated bot following on Tumblr.


“Fit Inside the Puzzle” by Diane Webster

“Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned”
as I sit across from my therapist.
Forgive you for what?
For doing anything, everything wrong.
Put a jigsaw puzzle box on the table
even though the picture fits perfectly,
did I do it right?
Start with the border?
Do the sky first?
Or the stone in the middle?
The red boat?
Did I do it right
even though the picture
fits together before me?

 

 

 

 

 

Diane Webster’s goal is to remain open to poetry ideas in everyday life or nature or an overheard phrase and to write from her perspective at the moment. Many nights she falls asleep juggling images to fit into a poem. Her work has appeared in Philadelphia Poets, Illya’s Honey, River Poets Journal and other literary magazines.


“The Life Lost in Living” by Robert O. Adair

Where is the life lost in living?
Lost in the tyranny of the urgent,
lost in the busyness
of being busy,
being over scheduled
and pulled in too many directions.

 

Where is knowledge
lost in information?
Lost in gathering facts,
fact after fact,
hither and yon
but not gathered,
garnered into a whole.

 

Where is the Wisdom
lost in knowledge?
What it’s all about
when you sort it out.
Were is the calm reflection,
the meditation pursued in quiet
away from the frantic pace
and clamor of the throng?

 

Where are the wise ones
full of years and experience?
Seek wisdom!
Seek knowledge!
In all your getting,
get understanding.
Understand not to believe
but believe in order to understand!

 

 

 

 

 

Robert O. Adair has spent over 50 years teaching, writing and reflecting on life. He has a doctor’s degree in Philosophy and a doctorate in Literature. He is a lifetime member of Mensa and has traveled to over 40 foreign countries.


“Death by Rust” by Sarah Thursday

rust was the death of us
oxygen and iron
weather and time
hundreds of holes
have been patched
and painted over
restorations aren’t made
of well-meanings
but of follow-throughs
and time-committed
we were not
the timeless classic
we set out to be
admit it
we’ve both been
driving other cars for years
our weakened frame
overgrown by weeds
and nesting birds
while rust grows
under the belly of us

 

 

 

 

 

 

Sarah Thursday was mostly raised in Long Beach, California. She teaches 4th and 5th grade, is obsessed with music, and has only recently dove into poetry again. She has forthcoming or has been published in The Long Beach Union (CSULB), The Atticus Review, Eunoia Review, East Jasmine Review, The Camel Saloon, poeticdiversity, Chaparral, and Pyrokinection. Recently, she has become the editor of Cadence Collective: Long Beach Poets, almost by accident, but completely on purpose.  sarahthursday.com


“Mountain Top” by Barbara Clarke

Photos are all I have,
At times,
Of smiling familiar faces,
My family spread out,
I would travel often,
If I had the dime.

 

I would sleep in cars,
Trucks or tents,
Breathe in the air,
Of changing scenes,
Perhaps to escape,
This life, which makes no sense.

 

My favorite photo,
Is of my son,
Perched on a rock,
High on a mountain top,
With a happy smile,
On a day well done.

 

 

Barbara Clarke has been writing poetry since her teens. In the distant past, she had some poetry published in small press publications. It is just recently she is writing more again. Recently, she has had poetry accepted in The Golden Lantern.