Breathing Poetry

Written by Karen Nowviskie
She lives in West Virginia, USA
Her blog: Keeping Secrets

O, Danny Boy

We climbed the rocks above the gorge
to have your party as you wanted.

The evening sun shone from the ancient
river like a fire encased in steel.

The air, sweet and cold, rang little
breath clouds as we sang your Irish song.

Anna, swaying as she sang, held to you as you
had held to her when she was still your child.

You didn’t mind the clinging; you seemed
in no great rush to go your way alone.

When finally it was time for you to leave, you faltered,
torn between falling back with us and flying free.

Just then, the wind picked up the tune, the trees
piped out your name, and we in silence watched

as you embraced the sky.

Posted with consent from the writer.

Written by Sarah Copeland
She lives in Gabriola Island, Canada
Her blog: Questions in Black and White
And, 2009 in Pictures

Burial Song *Hum soft my night angel*

Take my hand and lead me on
as you sing this burial song

'oh hum soft my night angel
lifting your eyes to a horizon
bathed in caramel

oh hum soft my night angel
lowering your blood stained bones
into an earthen swaddle

oh hum soft my night angel
as the flies fill your ears,
you are deaf but don't be doubtful

oh hum soft my night angel
the shadows they laugh with grief
miming your journey dismal

oh hum soft my night angel
in the sky somewhere between the stars
there is a space for you my angel

oh hum soft my night angel
as this song comes to an end
and your body begins to shrivel

oh hum soft my night angel
lifting your eyes to a cover of mud
that stray feet will trample

oh hum soft my night angel
so as not to frighten the ignorant;
hum soft my night angel.'

Posted with consent from the writer.

Written by Emily Anderson
She lives in Columbus, Ohio, USA
Her blog: Rice in the Cupboard

Debris

(Debris, Ohio State University, January 2009 )

A half-eaten bagel and a pair
of black furry earmuffs curl
together on a bench outside
Denney Hall, like animals
trying to keep warm by sharing
the small heat of their bodies.

The sidewalk glows thinly,
slick and dangerous. A receipt
from the bookstore is frozen
against the curb, over a hundred
dollars for one book. Free
newspapers scuttle across
my path. Even they are rushed,
hurrying for shelter, missing
so much of this experience.

Posted with consent from the writer.

Written by Howie Good
He lives in Highland, New York, USA
His blog: Apocalypse Mambo

Previously published in everydayweirdness

Right-Hand Man

I’d pick up a spoon
in my left hand,

and they’d take it
and put it in my right.

I was small, very small,
probably no bigger

than a hobo’s bindle.
They’d look down at me

while I slept
and shake their heads.

Where they came from,
liars and arsonists

were left-handed.
I’d pick up a block

in my left hand,
and they’d take it

and put it in my right.
Now sometimes

when I start to reach
for what I want,

I’ll stop suddenly
and wonder

whose hand this is.

Posted with consent from the writer.

Written by Elizabeth J. Russo
She lives in New Jersey, USA
Her site: Elizabeth J Russo

Sparrow’s Song

The hedgerow is alive

A sweet choir from little throats
awakens the spirit
of spring

Winter preaches loyalty
from the pulpit
but a rebellious chorus
sings and the congregation
rejoices

Posted with consent from the writer.

Written by Jude Goodwin
She lives in Squamish, British Columbia, Canada
Her website: Jude Goodwin

Originally published in the Comstock Review, Spring/Summer 2005.

One grunt

This is my floor,
I'm down on it
cheek flattened, hands
on the wood. Its yellow grain
spreads away from me like wheat,
like all these things:
tumbleweed, dog hair,
the sodbuster’s son upon me
(one grunt for every nail);
the underside
of a long oak table at dinnertime;
my father with a bottle of fine whiskey
hiding in his pant leg;
and always the boys
kicking each other. Tonight
there'll be pieces of dinnerware on the floor
and chairs knocked back
and bellyaching
(quit yer bellyaching).
I never liked sex
on the floor, the convenience
of it and the acres
of accessibility, and it's so
cinematic - like the family supper,
everyone buffed and glowing,
the kitchen hardwood
oiled and ready.
If only those boys
could just settle down,
maybe the old man
would leave them alone.

Posted with consent from the writer.

Written by Collin Kelley
He lives in Atlanta, Georgia, USA
His blog: Collin Kelley

Originally appeared in Dead Mule School of Southern Literature

Secret Origins of the Super-Villains

The comic book arrives in the mail,
found on eBay, sold by a stranger,
my childhood memory only $10
plus postage.
I’ve wanted this since I was six,
the oversized DC for $1.00,
cried over its disappearance
from the rack at Grant’s,
my parents screaming at each other
over why they wasted money
on Lion Country Safari,
when all I wanted was the comic:
Secret Origins of the Super-Villains.
The cover emblazoned on my brain,
a holy grail for almost thirty years.
Superman, Batman, The Flash,
and Wonder Woman all hard-charging
toward the enemies, Lex Luthor,
The Joker, Captain Cold and Cheetah.
Now I have it in my hands, and it means
nothing. It’s as perfect
as a summer day in 1975, unscarred by time,
pristine in plastic wrapper.
Maybe I just wanted that year back,
and the twenty that followed.
To take those days, put them under
lock and key or on a high shelf,
protected from damage.
Maybe I just want to believe,
like when I was five,
that someone could save me.
Could keep my parents together,
save people from dying,
and buildings from falling.
Even at thirty one, sitting in front of a TV
on a blue September morning
as the planes crashed in NYC,
I held out hope there might be a Superman.

Posted with consent from the writer.

Written by Arlene Ang
She lives in Spinea, Italy
Her website: Arlene Ang

Previously published in The Desecration of Doves (iUniverse, 2005)

Women in Love

It is the pillbox hat I remember most, a Paris
green with matching veil. In our house, au pairs

came and went. She lasted two years, smiled
rarely. Under her instructions, my mother slimed

fish, towel-dried glass jars. We ate raw
tuna, babbled in Japanese. Father called it war,

snatched saké from her hands. He was never sober.
We got used to padding around in terry robes.

Her power suit spiked him, every room was mined
territory. In time, my mother burned her denim

pants, the linen dresses, tinged her hair ocher,
took to strolling in the country. My summer chore

was to tend the lawn. I saw them under the peach
tree once: a cutting moment. There was nothing cheap

about her lipstick as it stained my mother's pale
neck. From afar, I heard the church bells peal.

Posted with consent from the writer.