MRI by Jackie Fox It thuds and clanks like tennis shoes in a dryer, only I am the shoe, sour, damp and wedged into the narrow metal tube, heart clanging.
Spirit of the Bat by Peggy Shumaker Hair rush, low swoop— so those of us stuck here on earth know—you must be gods. Or friends of gods, granted chances to push off into sky, granted chances to hear so well your own voice bounced back to you maps the night. Each hinge in your wing’s […]
Social Butterfly By Christopher Barnes Frowners Department Store Milton Keynes 2056 6251166 £ Head Andy Murray Ti Radical 27” Tennis Racquet 24.99 ——————————————————— To Pay 24.99 Cash 25.00 Change Due 0.01 ——————————————————– 12/04/14 12.25 2925 347 1255 5306 In the barred window yard, Nostalgia for strawberries. An incorrigible scot-free Jay bird. Time’s locked into passing […]
In Those Years by Adrienne Rich In those years, people will say, we lost track of the meaning of we, of you we found ourselves reduced to I and the whole thing became silly, ironic, terrible: we were trying to live a personal life and yes, that was the only life we could bear witness […]
My Soul by Reed Posey My Soul My Soul Balloon up under my skin Attacking sharks of sex gas Angel feather touch of crass poesy And mechanical in form of popular expression A lock of hair with a trace of ghost A piece of the one true cross A hole in a pair of shoes […]
The Woman by David Meikeljohn Like the woman who finds work manufacturing prosthetic limbs on an assembly line and enjoys it until losing her right forearm to the clamping gears. Like the woman who buys two pairs of shoes because her two left feet require two left shoes. Like the woman who supports herself by […]
Eastman by Pat A Physics My peace pipe froze on the way up the hill. The apprehension is plain and the ponies are stultified. Acting with new purpose, I rub my hands together and blow heat against them, but what do I know about you and your housefolk. Parties on weekends that are low key, […]
Pinecones in the Green, Green Grass by Amy Poland On Thursdays I mow my parent’s lawn. My mother warns me not to hit pinecones with the mower. I like the sound they make. “Flut!” They bark, a sharpish sound, like some broken bird cast low, about to ascend to freedom, and then rendered to shrapnel. […]
Wandering Hermit seeking chapbook length submissions Wandering Hermit Press is now open for contest submissions of chapbook length poetry, fiction and nonfiction manuscripts. You will find a description of what we are looking for below. An open call for submissions to our online journal Wandering Hermit Review will be forthcoming as well as an open […]
Golden by Francisco A. De Icaza Beneath the evening gold, above the golden corn, the mill moves slow its jagged sails. Above the golden corn hugely it shovels down from sky to earth the evening hoard.