Flying Island

Shari’s 33rd Annual New Year’s Day Bash by Michael Brockley Captain Wah Wah’s grandchildren, Sophie and Dylan, jitterbug across the hardwood floor of the dining room, switching partners between their parents and aunts. Chairs arrayed along the wall, the dinner table dismantled and tucked inside a workroom. On stage, Ben sews dead flowers in the Pancho and Lefty gospel. The bandit polished his guns for the underground queen to see. As dusk arrives, Dylan shivers into the skin of music, and starlight flickers at Sophie’s feet while she chants Cabbage stew for money; black-eyed peas for luck. She strews rose petals among the guests. Shortbread cookies cool in the kitchen. Orange-and-brandy cake. Apple-cranberry-walnut pie. One of the aunts spins Dylan head-to-toe around her waist as Shari sings “You Ain’t Goin' Nowhere.” Sophie twirls at the ends of Captain Wah Wah's fingers. Oh, oh, are we gonna fly/Down in my easy chair. Those of us who applaud snack on grapes left over f...

The Blueberry Hill Pancake House parking lot on the East side of town is where I picked up my laptop from the forensic specialist, plus the flashdrive of Lydea and her girlfriends, the pornographic clips my husband the pastor had downloaded onto my computer six days before he sent the letter to his congregation promising with confidence that there is nothing scandalous about our divorce. --by Wendy Vergoz Bio: Wendy Vergoz is an assistant professor of English at Marian University. Her poems have appeared in  The Christian Century and Anglican Theological Review , and her poem "Unfinished, A Found Poem," written after 9/11, was read on the first anniversary of the attacks at churches in five different states. Vergoz participated in “Arts Kaleidoscope: Art, Poems, and Videos,” an exhibition of visual art and ekphrastic poems at Gallery 308 in Muncie, Indiana.

Hibakusha by Jared Carter Please stay awhile; the evening light           still troubles me. Before it changes into night           I seem to see That street again. Something reveals           itself, and cuts Across the years, breaking the seal           on what I’ve shut Away – that moment when they all           burst into flame And blew on through the paper walls,           calling my name. Bio: Jared Carter's most recent book is Darkened Rooms of Summer: New and Selected Poems (University of Nebraska Press). He lives in Indianapolis.

God Bless Our Troops by Barry Harris God bless our troops especially the snipers who, eye at the scope,  scan a man hanging in the cross hairs, perhaps the enemy, a man who can be dead a thousand yards away one second after God blesses the trigger. God bless our troops, especially the drone controllers sitting in cubicles underneath a Nevada desert, firing a missile a continent away at a band of terrorists or a wedding party. Small decisions make a terrible difference, true spooky action at a distance. Bio: Barry Harris is editor of the Tipton Poetry Journal and has published one poetry collection, Something At The Center . Barry lives in Brownsburg, Indiana and is retired from Eli Lilly and Company. A graduate of Ball State University with a major in English, Barry was founding editor of Tipton Poetry Journal, which has been published in print and online versions since 2004. In 2009, he helped found Brick Street Poetry, Inc., a no...

Filled With Ladders, the World by Wendy Vergoz My father’s hands hold metal legs, I on the ladder’s penultimate rung last-but-one-any-higher-too-high. My father’s hands hold metal legs, I scoop wet leaves from the rooftop gutter, first-house gutter, wet brown leaves, soft green moss. I pry the screen off, sharp,    slide my fingers underneath, my fingers which,     long ago held white string, Jacob’s ladder.      Strong-girl hands with slender fingers hold Cat’s Cradle, Jacob’s ladder she climbs from seeds, from the singing bell the ringing bell, the bicycle bell the sweet-girl voice counts the ball and jacks singing Jacob’s ladder, fingering string and jacks                    and feet lift from the ground            to jump the rope to count to sing to lift...

The Milk Saucer by T.D. Richards    The old woman cries out in her sleep to the old man who has gone,  leaving his ears in the drawer. She opens her eyes, and the cat with a broken heart is pressed against her mottled skin stroking her thin wrist with breath. She recalls tiger lilies in the green depression glass vase he won at carnival--tossing pennies into the milk saucer. Bio: “I have lived in Indiana most of my life. I have had three careers that have lead me to value the importance of observation, hence my love of poetry now.”

Livestock by Jared Carter At journey’s end, forced to debark           and follow ramps That funnel them down through the dark,           into a damp, Benighted place, where sharpened knives           await – they go, In single file, their route devised           so none can know In minutes they will all be dead.           They only mind That what keeps prodding them ahead           is from behind. Bio: Jared Carter's most recent book is Darkened Rooms of Summer: New and Selected Poems (University of Nebraska Press). He lives in Indianapolis.

Oda a la Bugambilia by Karel Van Horn Compañera flor, eterna amiga, te amo—eres bella, democrática y fuerte. Pequeña selva de colores inolvidables, habitas macetas, paredes y solares. Acompañas fielmente a la gente humilde, en las ventanas de sus chozas, en botes de café. Festival de luces, cobija viviente, engalanas las bardas de los pueblos olvidados. Flor del desierto, ¡cómo te aguantas! Creces con más ganas bajo el sol abrazador. Eterna amiga mía, no dejes que te cambien, te amo—eres bella, democrática y fuerte. Ode to the Bougainvillea by Karel Van Horn Kindred flower, eternal friend, I adore you, for you’re beautiful, communal and enduring.     Tiny jungle of unforgettable hues, you live in clay pots, on village walls, in vacant lots. Faithful neighbor to the humble and the poor, you’re in windows of their shanties, in old tin coffee cans. Festival of lights...

Dillinger by Jared Carter Out of the Biograph, its chill           still lingering, Out of that darkness, and the thrill           such dreams can bring – Into the neon night, her hand           slipping away, And all around you now they stand,           as if to say This is the way it always ends           when bankers rule – The world reduced to dividends,           the blood in pools. Bio: Jared Carter's most recent book is Darkened Rooms of Summer: New and Selected Poems (University of Nebraska Press). He lives in Indianapolis.

Stillborn Love Song by Norbert Krapf I love you when the dusk thickens, evening falls in every direction, and the dove coos ever more forlorn. I love you when October air turns crisp and smoke rises like the breath of angels from the chimneys. I love you, stillborn sister, when everything turns so quiet the only sound I can hear is the settling of snowflakes on branches above my head. I love you most when All Souls Day returns and the veil between your world and mine lifts and your spirit breath drifts back down to earth and touches these lips waiting for your kiss. Bio: Norbert Krapf, a Jasper, Indiana, native, was Indiana Poet Laureate 2008-10, received a Glick Indiana Author Award 2014 (Regional), and held a Creative Renewal Fellowship from the Arts Council of Indianapolis 2011-12 to combine poetry and the blues. His latest of 11 poetry collections is Catholic Boy Blues: A Poet's Journal of Healing (ACTA Publicatio...

Anna’s Lament           And all at once a strange idea came to her: what if he had           ceased to love her?  Leo Tolstoy,  Anna Karenina To swim under iron and count, each day, the ways I am alone. No matter his touch, or not, no matter silence to my words. My nature, coreopsis, coreopsis in a world of stone. Too soon depleted, I choke on dried petals, drink morphine. Who knows such wounds, ignominy and a lost son? Wooden ties taunt, “What for?” and promise something new. I drop the red bag, drown my sullied body in an iron sea.             —by Wendy Vergoz Bio:  Wendy Vergoz is an assistant professor of English at Marian University. Her poems have appeared in  The Christian Century and Anglican Theological Review , and her poem "Unfinished, A Found Poem," written after 9/11, was read on the first ann...

At the End of the Day by Barry Harris At the end of the day innovative, outcome-focused, out-of-the-box 21st century stakeholders stop ignoring the elephant in the room and just put the moose on the table. They know who they are: spot-on team players who step back and look at the big picture. The good, the bad, the ugly avoid a cross-functional disconnect to leverage a six sigma project that speaks to our vision which will then   transform the organization. Long story short, they will move the needle, aim high, pick the low-hanging fruit, take this sucker into the sky and land it on the Hudson! Bio: Barry Harris is editor of the Tipton Poetry Journal and has published one poetry collection, Something At The Center . Barry lives in Brownsburg, Indiana and is retired from Eli Lilly and Company. A graduate of Ball State University with a major in English, Barry was founding editor of Tipton Poetry Journal, which has been published in print and online ve...

Girl After Jamaica Kincaid By  Charnell Peters Always wait until the grease gets hot and test it with a pinch of flour; put your hand down close to the pan and don’t be scared of getting popped; it doesn’t matter what the label says, I mix these cleaners all the time and it works on everything; please do not mix those cleaners ; don’t scratch your cornrows, because they have to last; if you ruin them, you better do something with that head or no boys are going to like you; use a folded rubber band to hook your jeans when you’re too fat to button them; save all your clothes because you might be skinny someday; don’t have high hopes for being skinny one day; your ankles are so ashy you could start a fire; put some lotion on and the thick kind too; you better eat all that on your plate; you better wash the bathtub when you get out; you better keep out of his way; help me fold these clothes and fold them right too; don’t just ball them up and call it good; sweep up the kitchen fl...

                                         Sex Pistols—We Are All Punks!      by George Fish No, God won’t save the Queen    Though David Cameron might try to    before he gets his proper comeuppance from an outraged public that finally wakes up to the fact that it got hoodwinked    even of its own willful blindness and volition    But Johnny Rotten sang it well and properly, “We’re your future!”    whether you like it or not    In the ‘60s we shouted, “We are all Vietnamese!”    In the ‘80s and ‘90s we were all punks    In 2015 we are outcasts, low-wage robots who work our asses off and can’t make a living Yes, we are Michael Brown, Eric Garner, Arthur Wilson and Tamir Rice    and also Bernie Sanders, John Brown...

The Last Tusked God No Longer Heeds the Prayers of Its Believers by Michael Brockley You seldom speak of the sins of the president with the five o'clock shadow. About sabotaged peace talks. About the lies cataloged in the library of the POTUS who smuggled missiles and bibles to Tehran. Later this year the last elephant will stumble into its birth beneath the shadow of Kilimanjaro. No matriarch remains to scatter the bones across the red earth in grief. Where does the tusked god find refuge when bees no longer pollinate the pomegranate trees? When the night call of gem frogs vanishes into the desert of Noah's fire? You read about the orgasms of presidents. About the demise of the Whig Party. You think about the times you were rescued by dogs. The final miracle of a god during its last gasp of compassion. You're thinking of fireflies. Of luciferin and the science of cold fire. Last year you read four books on economics and realized how your country has descended into p...

The Altar in the Kitchen by Norbert Krapf The pink carcasses of rabbits and fox squirrels shrivel in pans of salted water in the sink. Sometimes cleaned bluegill, sunfish, or catfish settle in round bowls of water. Baking pans of rhubarb, blackberry and apple cobbler cool on the north window sill. Ball jars of peaches jiggle in boiling water on the stove to winter in the cellar. The kitchen is our Grand Central, the table our stark altar, and the priest, the farm girl who gave birth to us, feeds us, nurses us back to health, prays over us in storms. Bio: Norbert Krapf, a Jasper, Indiana, native, was Indiana Poet Laureate 2008-10, received a Glick Indiana Author Award 2014 (Regional), and held a Creative Renewal Fellowship from the Arts Council of Indianapolis 2011-12 to combine poetry and the blues. His latest of 11 poetry collections is Catholic Boy Blues: A Poet's Journal of Healing (ACTA Publications, In Extenso Imprint, ...