Posts for June 24, 2015

Katrin Flores

Infatuation: Orchestra

Sometimes the tip of my bow
catches a little on the strings
and sometimes
the shift to a
celestial position
is a half-step or so off,
but sometimes
cacophony itches
the pesky little spot
that can never be reached
and silence is the most
chilling music.


Jargon Jibe

He, Jabiru, jabs her with his elbow

trying to quiet the young girl’s nonsense.

She jabbers incessant jabberwocky.

One minute the jabiru

is resting in the jaborandi grove

wearing jacinth robes while Jack and his jackal

lead a jackass with a jackdaw astride-

the next minute she cranks

the jack-in-the-box holding a jackknife,

poised and ready to slit the clowns

throat, grinning like a jack-o’-lantern

all the time ranting like a Jacobin.


He is worried that her jactitation

may be jaded from the jaggery

she and her pet jaguarondi

lapped for an afternoon delight.

She is jailbait living in a jalopy.

She is in a jam between two jambs.

She toils as a janitor, speaks jargon,

smells of jasmine and glows like a jasper necklace.

Her skin is slightly jaundice like a watered down spicy mustard.


He knows she needs help.

He wonders if there exists Jaws of Life

big and strong enough to

pry her from Jekyll and Hyde.

He jettisons his jewels

buys a Jew’s-harp

jibes his life, jigs a jitterbug

attempts to rid her of the jive

that joggles her mind.


Joie de vivre drives her to join

in the jollity, jolting her out

of the journey that has plagued

her since some jowly bastard

squashed joy as he joy rode

her tiny body.




Carole Johnston


she rises
to tangerinerosemelon
paints her midnight dreams
with monarch wings and tears
stained by the death of myth

Lennart Lundh

Traveler’s Therapy

Shadows on the road grow long,
become shadows of themselves
within the fans of headlights
when the sun is gone. 

Moving west through some state,
right-angled to the new moon,
the concrete snakes through forest
like a lover heading for a mistress. 

Six weeks on the road with six to go.
He’s tired of sleeping in strange towns.
He lies in bed, looking at her picture,
the one she sent two nights ago. 

She is leaning against their headboard,
wearing a camisole with one strap
slipping off her shoulder. He dares
imagine boy shorts below the photo.   

The paisley cloth is a Rorschach to him.
He sees her breasts, one boldly bare,
the other peeking timidly through hair,
a country river flowing down it.

Gaby Bedetti

Looking Forward to Hearing from You Re: Aug 7, 2013 Submission #714

August 29, 2013

Dear Professor,
Thank you for your submission, “Collaborative college
playwriting and performance: A core course ‘trespassing’
onto the dramatic arts.” In future correspondence
please refer to your manuscript as #714. Your manuscript
will move through the review process, which can take up to six months.
Thanks for your interest in the International Journal of Education and the Arts.
Sincerely, Christine T.

September 23, 2014

Thanks for your submission. I do not have any information
to share with you. I have forwarded your email to all the editors.
Thank you for your patience.
Best, Christine T.

November 2, 2014

I’m looking into this now, Professor.
Best wishes, Alex B.

May 27, 2015

Dear Professor,
Thank you for your message, and I am sorry
about the long delay in this process.
This matter just came to our attention and will be now
resolved with extra speed and care.
On behalf of the editorial board, Eva F.

May 27, 2015
Dear Professor,
I will check on this when I return from vacation next week.
Your manuscript would have been sent to Bill for review,
the co-editor of manuscripts at that time;
Bill (and I) are no longer with the journal
but I can trace the review process with his help.
I am sorry for the delay. Christine T.

Pat Owen

Across the River

What is that rumble I’m hearing
pounding the earth?
A train in Indiana, sound
blown over ruffled water.

Train whistle, tracks vibrate–
an underling bustling energy
as though it’s Monday morning
a week’s worth of work to be done.


When All Emotions

Poem 24, June 24


When all emotions


When all emotions surge thru me,

keeping me awake in a lonely room,

I close my eyes to find you.

I listen for your voice

until I hear it,


as the first whip-poor-will

in May.


My life no longer drains away

like Old Seventy Creek flowing downhill,

& my sleepless, closed eyes are able

to write words on eyelids, poet

that I am by want, need, by choice.

I have a bottle of Amaretto for you,

its taste a little bitter & there is one bloom

in a blue vase. Slowly,


I open my eyes to avoid apologizing

to you for plucking a bearded daylily.