Future Children of America

          Not talking about
nurseries with wailing infants parents glued to the glass sure theirs
          is the most beautiful most intelligent can’t you tell
not pre-schools with kids snatching toys coloring walls peeing their pants
          licking sticky fingers touching everything
not even first graders struggling to read memorizing pages to seem so smart
          so Miss Armstrong likes them best

          Talking about
Sunset Lodge Golden Living Alzheimer’s Acres Almost Heaven Homes
          where we wander the halls not remembering if we ate lunch or dinner
wondering if this smiling woman is our mother, our daughter, our hairdresser
          watching reruns over and over and over, always new again
accuse nurses of stealing our earrings hiding men in our closets
          future children who will never grow up

About the Author: Claire Scott is an award winning poet who has received multiple Pushcart Prize nominations. Her work has been accepted by the Atlanta Review, Bellevue Literary Review, New Ohio Review, Enizagam and Healing Muse among others. Claire is the author of Waiting to be Called and the co-author of Unfolding in Light: A Sisters’ Journey in Photography and Poetry.

The Sculpture Teacher

With another teenage girl, I took lessons 
from an elderly German refugee. At first, 
we worked with clay, soft and sensuous  
to our fingers.  

Then she handed each of us a square 
of soapstone and a rasp. We filed at our 
stubborn green chunks, giggled, whispered 
who kissed who, who went all the way.  

“Vat is this nonsense, girls?” she asked. 
Her sculptures, stone faces that looked up, 
pleading for help, torsos that strained to free 
themselves from their marble, echoed her  

reproach. We stifled our laughter, took up 
the heavy metal tools, sawed at the blocks.    
I tried to create a statue of a woman, but could 
not find the hidden form within the stone.

About the Author, Dana Robbins: After a long career as a lawyer, I obtained an MFA from the Stonecoast Writers program. My first book, The Left Side of My Life, was published by Moon Pie Press in 2015. My poetry has appeared or is forthcoming in many journals or anthologies, including The Fish Poetry Anthology, Door Is A Jar Magazine, Drunken Boat, Paterson Literary Review, Calyx, The Cape Rock, Edison Literary Review, Mount Hope Magazine, Muddy River Poetry Review, Poetica Magazine, Moth Magazine, and The Jewish Women’s Literary Annual. My poem “To My Daughter Teaching Science” was featured by Garrison Keillor on the Writers Almanac in November 2015.

in the moment of awakening

the first part is easy

set the fat man on fire just to
hear the young girls laugh, and
of course they do

smell of roses in the back yard,
sound a train passing through the
middle of town and when you
turn to slap your son your
hand is made of feathers and glass

when the plane crashes into
                               the river
all the angels are out of town

the house is empty and the
pool drained

nothing but bones in the garage

painter out behind the barn with
an empty canvas and his 
                      hands cut off

says god is either
everywhere
or nowhere at all

says faith is the smell of roses
or the smiles of sleeping
                               children

everything a reminder of death
and everyone a corpse draped
in beautiful tapestries

each day the one that
will matter most




one wrong choice given flesh
and wings and
all it ever does is
fly too close to the sun

About the Author: john sweet, b 1968, still numbered among the living. A believer in writing as catharsis. Opposed to all organized religion and political parties. His latest collections include APPROXIMATE WILDERNESS (2016 Flutter Press) and the limited edition chapbooks HEATHEN TONGUE (2018 Kendra Steiner Editions) and A BASTARD CHILD IN THE KINGDOM OF NIL (2018 Analog Submission Press). All pertinent facts about his life are buried somewhere in his writing.

Bikes

Through the open door
of the closed pizza parlor

glint three delivery bikes 
parked in a line in the dark, 

the immigrant deliverymen 
due soon 

after having worked 
late in the rain 

for tips only 
while fielding complaints 

in a language 
not their own, later

sleeping in an illegally
partitioned fire trap—

three cots 
parked in a line in the dark.

About the Author: Mark Belair’s poems have appeared in numerous journals, including Alabama Literary Review, Atlanta Review, The Cincinnati Review, Harvard Review, Michigan Quarterly Review, Poetry East and The South Carolina Review. His latest collection is Watching Ourselves (Unsolicited Press, 2017). Previous collections include Breathing Room (Aldrich Press, 2015); Night Watch (Finishing Line Press, 2013); While We’re Waiting (Aldrich Press, 2013); and Walk With Me (Parallel Press of the University of Wisconsin at Madison, 2012). He has been nominated for a Pushcart Prize multiple times. Please visit www.markbelair.com

Magic

Stirring my tea
sets this forest spinning
and all its leaves are peppermint

About the Author: Gary Galsworth grew up in the New York City area. After the Marine Corps he studied painting and filmmaking at the Art Institute of Chicago and the University of Chicago. His work has been featured in Abstract: Contemporary Expression, Nebo, Pennsylvania English, Broad River Review, and others. In addition to writing poetry, he is a professional plumber and a student of Zen Meditation. He’s published two books of poems: “Yes Yes”, and “Beyond the Wire”. Gary lives in Hoboken, NJ.

Anne

My mother’s name was not hard to spell
His family always got it wrong
Every card, every label
40 years or until they died.

Christmastime and mother in the kitchen
Dirty dishes, brandy, cigars,
Laughter in the living room
Open-fly naps on the floor under the TV.

She made long lists each year.
Slanted, delicate letters
Their names and beside each
A gift.

by J.E. Beville

Fixer Upper

Sometimes I wish I could be
HGTV’s Joanna Gaines,
decorate a Waco farmhouse,
plant that exquisite garden.
The scent of purple wildflowers
would waft while butterflies circle
hyacinth beans and we picnic
under oak trees older than this country.
If Clint, from Harp Studios,
was my friend. He’d build
a dinner table of my dreams
from salvaged scraps;
I’d not need apologize
that I like pine or covet
refurbished stone and
Cotswold cottage-like windows.
But then I try to picture my
Connecticut private school kids
gathering eggs from our chickens,
watching baby chicks hatch,
helping birth calves and goats.
I have to smile when I imagine
my husband demolishing a house,
shopping at antique stores,
riding dirt bikes on our acreage.
Long ago I married tasseled loafers,
chinos, short hair,
and fancy German sedans
in lieu of trucks.
If I’m honest, I know that
I don’t want Chip—
he’d talk over me
and he’s silly.
But still, I have to say,
I like his boots,
and denim,
and beard.


About the Author: Cathy Allman entered the writing field as a reporter after attending the school of Cinema and Television at the University of Southern California. While her career shifted gears from writing to advertising and marketing, she never stopped writing or attending workshops, eventually earning an MFA from Manhattanville College. She has reinvested in her writing, and she teaches creativity workshops at high schools and at her Connecticut office. Her poem, “Not in the Wonder Box” has been nominated for a Pushcart Prize.