The Straw Field by Danny Barbare

Laying in the sun
splintering like rays, eyelashes
a crisp memory
yellow as straw
a hideaway
a bed
bug less
soft and thick as a mattress
a pattern
seam of thread
blond hair
spring sheet of air.

"Danny P. Barbare lives in the foothills of the United States Appalachian Mountains. His poetry has recently appeared in Gloom Cupboard, Poem2Day, and others. He enjoys pecan pie in which he has two papershells in his yard. He lives in Greenville, SC. U.S."

Contact Danny @ marionbarbare {at} att.net

Three Short Poems by Emily Manger.

As the title purports the premise is simple, here's three short & delicate poems from Melbourne poet, Emily Manger.

enjoy.

#1.
guilt and obligation lie with beauty
in the eye of the beholden

#2

gourmet cakes
don’t taste backlit

#3

a nursery is a nursery
but a florist is a morgue

"Emily Manger writes poetry to procrastinate while studying for her PhD in psychology. She and her identical twin, Bronwen, can be found at various poetry readings around Melbourne."

Awake & Good Game by Gale Acuff.

Gale Acuff's writing is why I decided to do this journal. 

I received a few poems from her & am going to put them all up in the next few weeks, but let's just start with these two.

***

 

Good Game

Father's watching The Game of the Week, Curt

Gowdy and Tony Kubek announciing

the Yankees and the Red Sox. Tomorrow

morning I have to go to Sunday School.

Last week we learned something about dying.

Why do people die, I ask Father. He

takes a sip of his Schlitz and fishes in

his pocket for a matchbox so that he

can light his Lucky Strike. To make some room

for all the babies that are being born,

he says. Sometimes I get to strike his match

and hold it to his cigarette and blow

it out after we're both sure he's lit-up.

He inhales, then exhales though his nose.

His nostrils--I think that's a funny word.

Oh, I say. Well, where do the dead people

go? He takes another suck. I can keep

him going if I time my questions to

the speed of his smoking. I've got him there.

Go, he repeats. Where do they go? They die.

They don't go anywhere. He blows some rings.

They're as perfect as smoke signals can be.

I know, I say. We bury them. Some folks

even burn them and scatter the ashes.

He raises his left eyebrow. Well, that's true,

he says. Did you learn that in church? No, sir,

I say. I got that from TV. Of course,

he says. He smiles. He looks relieved. Tell me,

he says, where do you think people go when

they die if underground's not good enough

to suit? That's easy, I say. They go to

Heaven or to--the other place. I see,

jhe says. Well, okay. Their bodies remain

behind but their souls go to Heaven or

--that other place. So there's your answer. What's

the score, he asks. Dunno, I say. Do you

believe in God, I ask. Well, sure, why not,

he says. And Jesus, too, I ask. Well, yes,

he says. And Baptism by immersion,

I ask. Well, sprinkling was enough for me,

'he says. But to each his own. His own what,

I ask. His own choice, he answers. Strike

three, Curt shouts, over my shoulder. Rico

Petrocelli whiffs. I don't want to die,

I announce. Well, that's your tough luck, he says.

Everyone has to, and each in his own turn.

I mean, he says, crushing his cigarette,

if you're a good man when you grow up

and don't do evil things then when you die

you'll go to Heaven, sooner or later,

either on Judgment Day or earlier,

I'm a little vague on all the fine points,

and get a new kind of body and meet

God and Jesus and Moses and Mary

and, uh, all the others, and never die

again. Your mother and I will be there,

too, to meet you. Well, at least your mother.

He coughs. But anyway you've got some time

yet to go. You ought to be having fun,

not worrying about dying. Let God

worry about that. Yes sir, I say. I

climb into his lap. He smells like smoke and

Schlitz and Aqua Velva and Brylcreem. He

holds me close. Let's enjoy the game, he yawns.

It looks like a good one. And then we sleep.

                                                       --Gale Acuff

  

Awake

Men fall asleep after sex, she explains.

It's some chemical in their bodies. Oh,

I yawn. In their brains, maybe. You don't have

brains, she says, curling into my side. I'm

wide awake, she says. Let's do that again.

You're kidding, I say. I need some time to

recharge my batteries. They're drained. Alright,

she says, you've got five minutes. Ha, I say.

When I wake because I need to pee, she's gone,

but she left a note: I've gone to a club,

it reads, to meet someone, so don't wait up.

In fact, go home now. Seriously. Oh,

I say. I put my clothes on. Where's my tie?

Who cut it in half? She cut it in half.

Ouch. Should I leave it or take it with me?

I take half and leave half. I take the half

I leave and leave the half I take. That's love.

                                                     --Gale Acuff
 

"Gale Acuff  has had poetry published in Ascent, Ohio Journal, Florida Review, Poem, South Carolina Review, Carolina Quarterly, Maryland Poetry Review, Adirondack Review, Danse Macabre, Aethlon, Worcester Review, South Dakota Review, Santa Barbara Review, and many other journals. I have authored three books of poetry: Buffalo Nickel (BrickHouse, 2004),  The Weight of the World (BrickHouse, 2006), and The Story of My Lives (BrickHouse, 2008). Gale's also taught university English in the US, China, and the Palestinian West Bank."

Mon 2 Nov 2009 4:15 PM by A.S.Patric.

When we met for the first time, I was late. You were early, but you had a broad window to keep you company. You looked out onto Degraves Street and wondered about me and my promises.

I’d assured you so many times already that I do in fact exist. So the first thing I saw in your eyes was that question. And I know you wanted to touch me, just to make sure.

I loved watching you eat for the same reason. I said, well, shall I tell you my name. You nodded, so I said a child once called me Alec by mistake, but my name is Ryan. It’s so easy to get four letters mixed up. And you said that there was no such confusion with you. You were named Arnica, from the day you arrived, though there was a trail of death beforehand it was harder to explain.

I don’t know why we remained so silent afterwards. Why we watched all those people below, passing along Degraves, for such a long time. Passing through Melbourne streets and alleys in clusters and singles and couples like us.

You were thinking, we are so much like spare change, but instead you said, I can’t tell you how much I’ve missed you. I turned away from the window and looked at your face and you will never know how much love I poured into you, though I never said a word, and vanished like I never existed.