INSIDE THIS ISSUE:
Shutta Crum
Paul B. Roth
Laszlo Slomovits
Duane Locke
Felino Soriano
Chris Lord
Jerry Blanton
Carmen Firan
Amelia Makinano
Connie Stadler
Fred Wolven
Duane Locke
Tolu Ogunlesi
Running Cub
Joanie Freeman
Gerald Clark
Karyn M. Wolven
Holly Day
Dike Okoro
Fred Wolven
After he's gone,
his cell swept out,
find mixed
among a dust ball,
cocooned
by the random
wrappings
of fallen hairs,
the perfect
circle
of a paper-punched
white hole
and take
special notice
how on one side
of this small
white space
the letter
S
is all
that's there
in a penmanship
of someone
no one knew
or ever
thought to think of
ALL BUT FALLEN WATER
His
trudge through
heavy falling
snow
to a spring-fed
well
against
whose sides
and frozen bottom
his lowered
bucket
clangs empty,
is nothing
compared to his
walk back home
to boil snow
falling faster
than he can possibly
top each jar off
SCRIBE
Nights
he sits alone
reading books
only he's written
the words
take their shape
from every phase
of the moon
the way space
between
every letter
becomes
the moon's light
away from which
crickets
scurry and sing
and where
he's learned
all he can
about silence,
while wondering
night
after night
when his words
will chirp
and inside of
which
hidden cricket
BELIEF
A shallow creek
gurgles
right under
his one window
Black rocks
poke their heads
of snow
above its low water
Often he's waded
his pale feet
up to their ankles
in this icy creek
the same way
the ancients
in their writings
recommended
while also noting
how ice
warmed to a blue
numbness
becomes
the only color
red
comprehends
DOUBT'S CHANCE
Hidden
in his habit,
blue monk
paces his stone cell,
before fitting
his bruised shoulder
into one
cold corner,
slumping
his body down
between the two
directions
his floor takes
and with
all his silence
all his solitude
all his prayers
sits
as if with little
respect
he were simply
swept there
SIMPLIFIED
How simple
he keeps
his objects
his undrunk
water
in its cup
drunk only
for breaking
the stillness
and holding
earth's
perfect taste
in his mouth
NAIVETE
He draws
dark water from
his deep well
and with
each cool drop
he spills,
pebbles beside
his sandaled feet
brighten
until the sun
darkening
their fading gleam
back to dull color
polishes
each one clear
of its own
missing presence
Paul B. Roth, Fayetteville, New York