Flying Island

From Bleachers by Mary M. Brown We do not sit on grass much anymore, seldom on the slopes of river beds or among clover or dandelion heads. We do not sit on the saddles of horses, almost never settle on the benches of row boats or canoes. We rarely sit in circles now, or scattered in trees, or face to face, knees bent, eyes close-focused or closed to every thing but inner sunrise, the burning ball of our own singular light. About the poet: Mary M. Brown lives with her husband, Bill, in Anderson, Ind. She’s a Hoosier not by birth but by long residence and disposition, and she enjoys proximity to all six of her grandchildren. Retired, she taught literature and creative writing at Indiana Wesleyan for many years. Her work appears on the Poetry Foundation and the American Life in Poetry websites and has been published recently in Christian Century, The Cresset, Quiddity, Flying Island, and Justice Journal. ...

Sonnet for the New Immortals by Dan Carpenter Full lives, they lead Fine food, craft drink In the gym by 7 By 9, on the links For variety, a run Maybe 20 miles’ biking Or 1,000 by air To prime mountain hiking Concerts & football With choicest of seats With perfect friends With perfect teeth Yet – my modest lot against theirs shan’t be measured. They don’t read and they don’t worship; they wander a desert. About Dan Carpenter:  “I'm an Indianapolis freelance writer who has published poems in The Flying Island, Poetry East, Illuminations, Pearl, Xavier Review, Southern Indiana Review, Maize, Tipton Poetry Journal and elsewhere. I have published two books of poems, The Art He’d Sell for Love (Cherry Grove, 2015) and More Than I Could See (Restoration, 2009); and two books of non-fiction, Hard Pieces (Indiana University, 1993) and Indiana Out Loud (Indiana Historical Society, 2013).”

Editor's note: Robert Belfour was born Sept. 11, 1940. He died in 2015. Hill Country Blues by Norbert Krapf for Robert Belfour Robert, Robert, they say you are gone. They say your spirit is gone, way gone, but your music plays on and yes on. You grew up in northern Mississippi Hills. I grew up in southern Indiana hills. I never hear your song without a thrill. On the sidewalk outside Cat Head Delta Blues I stood peering at your face and your shiny shoes as you sat playing the hypnotic Hill Country Blues. Brother, brother, how you laid down that groove. You laid down that ancient mesmerizing groove that was anything but slick, light, and smooth. Somehow I hear a horse clomp, clomp, clomp. I see and hear an old horse clomp, clomp, clomp when you play your eternal Hill Country Stomp. About the poet: Former Indiana Poet Laureate Norbert Krapf's most recent poetry collection is Catholic Boy Blues, which was followed by the r...

Pond by James Owens I trick the scum to life with a pebble, and wonder, haloed by the water's trouble, will this carp, cynic and fat by its drain, still nudge among these slimy stones when I am perfected to naked bones, softening beneath the caustic rain? The wind, for only answer, harries a rattle of newsprint into the trees. Rutting dragonflies twist in couples, green as rotting bronze, and kiss their doubles. Bold again after a minute's quiet, the fertile frogs yell themselves hoarse by scraps of garbage, a discourse on their tadpoles' choreography. Old car batteries seep and bubble. The slow carp oozes through mud, mud-fleshed owner of the lower sludge, easing past broken bottles to draw little prey within the vacuum of its jaw. About James Owens: His most recent collection of poems is Mortalia (FutureCycle Press, 2015). His poems, stories, and translations appear widely in literary journals, including public...