Monday, April 30, 2018

Alice Morris' "Crickets" #poemaday #NationalPoetryMonth


--from the archives of The Broadkill Review

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Crickets


probably no wiser than a cricket's chirrup
I drive through the Bighorn Mountains
a sudden shower
drops the veil
of morning

crickets
leap from the stubble
sound like low lisp of rippling tide
sound
the minutest cricket – 
like a long line from a poem

nighthawks flit over fields along the river
like a
naked
soul
like
hedge-crickets
with treble soft
remembering the first star

midsummer
in a field –
crickets sing for a mate
I imagine
distant temples
where crickets sing all night, and the stars,
low lisp of rippling tide
whisk of the invisible  
Becoming

when the crickets stop their cry
I stop to listen
to trees digging the air for crickets
branches
where history spins
at dawn
here, here, here, crickets 
at the end of my hours



"And Now, Goodby" by Jaroslov Seifert, Three Songs at the End of Summer by Jane Kenyon, Long Island Sound by Emma Lazarus, How Baseball Saved My Marriage by Kristen Lindquist, The King and Seer by Emily Warn, At the End of My Hours By Dana Levin


Alice Morris comes to writing with a background in art– published in a West Virginia textbook and The New York Art Review. Her poetry appears or is forthcoming in The Broadkill ReviewDelaware Beach Life, Silver Birch PressRat’s Ass ReviewThe White Space, The Avocet, and The Weekly Avocet. Her poems are also published or forthcoming in themed collections and anthologies, most recently Rehoboth Reimagined, The Way to My Heart: An Anthology of Food-Related Romance, Ice Cream Poems: reflections on life with ice cream, and Bared: Contemporary Poetry and Art on Bras and Breasts.


Sunday, April 29, 2018

Elijah Rene Mendoza's "Jose Andres Travels in Spain" #Poemaday #NationalPoetryMonth

--from the archives of The Broadkill Review
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José Andrés Travels in Spain Late night, I watch PBS through the static from my rabbit ears. José Andrés goes through Spain, tasting the finest pastries Hand-baked in a wood burning oven and sprinkled With powdered sugar. He takes a trip Through Catalonian wine country and samples Garnacha grapes from decade-old barrels On the estate of some noble family. José Andrés is a man going bald with a paunchy stomach. It seems he’s spent his life traveling and drinking. He knows much about pastries, deserts, and grapes, But I don’t think he knows wine. José Andrés drinks the glass That some other man places in front of him And always says it’s excellent. He doesn’t search For places to visit because producers pay vineyards and restaurants To bring him meals. Watching José Andrés makes me hungry And angry. The image of food on television doesn’t fill my stomach. I’m not the fat man in a club in Ibiza beside Half-dressed women at four in the morning. I haven’t Ambled through Cádiz down to the shore Hung-over after Carnival, but just a little. José Ramón Andrés Puerta, I’ll search out wine for myself, and there won’t be TV cameras. If I’m lucky, I’ll scuff my shoes, let ripped canvas have celebrity, Point to the bottom of the menu and say, “That. I want the bottle of that.”  


Elijah Rene Mendoza is a graduate of Vanderbilt University and the University of California, Riverside. He has taught at Tarrant County College, Baylor University, and Texas Christian University. He enjoys formal poems, museums, and motorcycles.


Saturday, April 28, 2018

@kgekker's "Now Four Blizzards" #Poemaday #NationalPoetryMonth


Now, Four Blizzards

I.

The radio interrupts old songs, warns –
Severe winter storm!
Extremely hazardous conditions
but you drive fast
into onslaughting snow.

Flakes like flashing stars
aim for my eyes,
divide at the windshield at the last moment.

The blizzard bends around us
like time through space

II.

You drive at the speed of light
into dark, our convertible
hurtles away from the sun
in a blizzard of neutrinos.

When you turn on the headlamps,
light disappears into night.
We’re a star shimmering in the past,
listening to songs we cannot remember –

III.

Except this: a blizzard disappeared
into the ocean, rimed the ship’s edges
white with ringing, stopped all thought
where metal ends.

The ship groaned, then dipped
so we saw only water,
a dark wall above us, dark
except for reflected white and red beams,
reflections of the ship’s running lights.

This light disappeared long ago.



IV.

Everything quickens around you –
surf rushes our feet.
Ice, sand, feldspar sting our skin.

Snow disappears in the ocean,
stirs sand with hoary frost
until waves melt the whiteness.
     
The blizzard salts your
shoulders, your eyelashes.
I can’t catch my breath.

A wild song vibrates through dunes,
disappears in hissing foam.

The world bends toward us,
the world bends away.



Katherine Gekker’s poems have appeared in Little Patuxent Review, Northern Virginia Review, and Little Lantern Press (November 2016).
Gekker’s poems, “…to Cast a Shadow Again,” were set to music by composer Eric Ewazen. Composer Carson Cooman set her poems, "Chasing Down the Moon," to music. Both are available on CD and iTunes.


 --from the archives of The Broadkill Review

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Denise Clemmons' "What the Future Was" #NationalPoetryMonth #Poemaday


What the Future Was

Like the inches you lost
sinking into old age
until you were shorter
than all of your children.

Linden-laced cul de sac
folded into a fist
of arthritic knuckles
squeezing out every drop
of angry nostalgia.


Denise Clemons holds a BA in Biopsychology from Vassar College and an MA in Writing from Johns Hopkins University. She spent the first twenty years of her career as an executive in the technology industry before escaping the corporate world to devote her energies to the non-profit arena. When Denise moved to Lewes, DE in 2005, she began writing the weekly food column for the Cape Gazette newspaper. She has published fiction, non-fiction and poetry in journals, chapbooks and anthologies.  


--from the archives of The Broadkill Review
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Support us by purchasing a title from the Broadkill River Press, co-sponsor of the Dogfish Head Poetry Prize.
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Friday, April 27, 2018

Ted Hendricks' "Case Closed" #Poemaday #NationalPoetryMonth

--from the archives of The Broadkill Review
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Ted Hendricks divides his time between teaching college English, contributing to academic journals, and writing poems and plays. He says that all three are interesting and satisfying, but unfortunately only the first comes near to paying the bills. When he's not teaching and writing, Ted is slowly rehabbing a rowhouse in Baltimore.


Case closed

"I'm sorry it was you they had to call . .  . At least
your dad won't know . . . I'll meet the kids at school. Can I
do anything?  I wish . . . Oh, never mind. We'll be there
Saturday . . . You too . . . Thanks . . . Good-bye." Four years ago  
I would have been the one the sheriff's office phoned.
Poor thing, I wonder what they showed her at . . . that place.

I'll have to run upstairs, explain, and hope she lets me leave
right now so I don't miss them at dismissal in the crowd.
They'll ask where and when, who found him? The Park Police.
Two nights ago. Inside his car. (They loved that car.
Who gets it? Some scrap dealer for the towing charge?)
The police called Aunt Nancy. The funeral's Saturday.

As for why, I wish I knew myself. His health was fine;
and he was working, so he wasn't broke. He must
have friends and colleagues—I don't know them. A girlfriend?
He got around, but no one special—I'd have heard.
The kids at least adored him; he always had time
and money for them, even when the child support was late.

It's an aggressive act, we learned in Psych, to push
your hatred for yourself on someone else, to hurt
the one who made you hate yourself. Did I do that
to him? He made me hate me—before and after.
Did he mean to? I don't know; I didn't leave him
many options when I changed the locks and phone.

Will he go to heaven? Be with Gram and Granddad?
They say that those who die like that have thrown away
the chance to reconcile with God. If we had saints
the kids and I would pray for Dad to them. But why?
We never reconciled ourselves and we weren't short
of chances. God tried harder than we did.

I'd like to see him one last time, to tell him
why I did those things that hurt him and leave him sure
he'd heard me out and understood. And he'd forgive
me and I him, so we'd be reconciled. And God
would take him back again. But there's no chance of that.
He used a gun; the casket will be closed.

Thursday, April 26, 2018

Sid Gold's "The Art of Listening" #Poemaday #NationalPoetryMonth

--from the archives of The Broadkill Review
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Sid Gold is the author of three collections of poems and a two-time recipient of a Maryland State Arts Council Individual Artist Award for Poetry. His work has appeared recently in Flock, Free State Review, Gargoyle and Innisfree Poetry Journal. His fourth book, "Crooked Speech", is forthcoming on Pond Road Press. A native New Yorker, he lives in Hyattsville MD.


The Art of Listening

It took me some months
to figure out you weren’t coming back,
that you’d never return the phone calls,
acknowledge the cute cards,
knock on my door unexpectedly

& then I began visiting every & any bar
or cafe that seemed likely
within three adjoining counties, trying
to guess where a shy, dark-haired woman
fully intending to forget me
would go for a drink with co-workers
or out to dinner with friends.

I even composed a manner, a look,
for the occasion of our chance encounter.
My beard would be closely-cropped,
freshly-trimmed, & I’d be wearing
a leatherjacket, somewhat worn,
but one you’d never seen or borrowed.
My demeanor would be vulnerable
but strong, independent but longing.
Merely my appearing in your line
of vision would be enough to draw you,
mumbling barely-intelligible excuses,
from the side of another man at a party
or away from a table ringed
with celebrants on New Year’s Eve.
Open-armed, you’d hurry toward me,
your eyes tearing with forgiveness,
surprise, & perhaps a splash of regret.

As always, time passed —
the years get blurry here —
& with nothing to show for my trouble
but an assortment of roadmaps,
an impatience with strangers,
I began to remember us more clearly
at the end, exhausted, the both
of us, by sorrow & negotiation,
began to hear again your parting line
like the refrain of a jukebox ballad
whose verse we never quite learned:
We’re all talked out,
Baby, we’re all talked out.

As a youngster in grade school
I found myself during choral practice
placed in the listener’s group,
a designation intended to silence
those hopelessly tone-deaf or off-key.
After a week or so, the music teacher
told me I wasn’t too good at that, either.




Wednesday, April 25, 2018

Linda Blaskey's "Shipping Creek Farm, 3:12 A.M." #poemaday #NationalPoetryMonth

--from the archives of The Broadkill Review
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Shipping Creek Farm, 3:12 A.M.

Lying on her side in the bed
she looks out into the night.

She sees her own countenance
reflected in the window pane

but knows the water
is out there, large.

She tries to dream
that she is paddling a canoe

to that little crescent of land
just over there.  It beckons

like an embrace, and she is sure
that’s where butterflies land

on sunflowers, open and close
their wings with a certain melancholy.

There are some things
that she just knows – like

how you can’t force a dream;
that broken plates can be mended

but are never the same; that he
will soon leave.  She can feel it

in how he turns his back to her
in sleep, the way he eats breakfast

behind newspapers. She already misses
the tiny scar, new-moon shaped,

that rests on the blade of his shoulder.


--Linda Blaskey writes both poetry and short prose.  Her short story, The Haircut, was dramatically presented in Philadelphia by InterAct Theatre’s Writing Aloud!  Her chapbook, Farm, won the Dogfish Head Poetry Prize and placed first in Delaware Press Association’s Communications Contest.  She was recently awarded a fellowship grant from Delaware Division of Arts in the established poet category. She lives on a small horse farm with her husband and an accidental herd of goats.

Tuesday, April 24, 2018

@uniambic 's "Elegy for the Lehigh Thermometer Works, 1945" #poemaday #NationalPoetryMonth

--from the archives of The Broadkill Review
Visit us at our new home  broadkillreview.com
Support us by purchasing a title from the Broadkill River Press, co-sponsor of the Dogfish Head Poetry Prize.
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Grant Clauser is the author of Necessary Myths (winner of the 2013 Dogfish Head Poetry Prize), The Trouble with Rivers, and the forthcoming books The Magician's Handbook  (PS Books) and Reckless Constellations (Cider Press Review Books). Poems have appeared in The American Poetry Review, Gargoyle, Painted Bride Quarterly, Tar River Poetry, Southern Poetry Review and others. He also writes about electronics, and fishes and teaches when he can. He blogs occasionally at www.unIambic.com. Twitter: @uniambic  


Elegy for the Lehigh Thermometer Works, 1945

The factory supernova'd
its exit like an A bomb,
lit the Catasauqua night sky
for hours as it fell beam by beam
into ash and asphalt,
heat enough to melt
glass, let mercury run free
like water to the iron works
next door where tank armor
baked till it glowed.
Nana, as a girl,
ran with the others
to the place she made
thermometers for the war,
leveling quicksilver into glass
to tell the quick from the dying.
All as one, a thousand thermometers
burst their keepers' bonds.
When the second floor crashed
into the first, firefighters
gave up and watched it burn,
using just enough water
to keep the row homes safe.
The whole town's fever
rose like a rebellion.  
All the heat they could suffer
in one gold moment
when flames finally reached
the treetops, turned bare limbs
into torches, called every citizen
to witness that enough
was finally enough.

--Grant Clauser