OF COLORED REALITIES
by Richard Fein
A green leaf is never green, for the leaf has rejected green.
A true green leaf is black, green is the only color left for our eyes to behold.
We never see the real colors beneath surfaces but only the reflecting light
which gives our eyes no insight beyond the surrounding facades.
White light finds no gateway in, while black allows all other lights an easy passage.
Now reflect on myriad shades of skin for flesh is never all black or all white.
The physics of light blinds our vision to the natural truths within——
that the spectrum of all possible human hues spans all human complexions.
Bio: Richard Fein was a finalist in The 2004 New York Center for Book Arts Chapbook Competition
A Chapbook of his poems was published by Parallel Press, University of Wisconsin, Madison.
He has been published in many web and print journals such as Cordite, Cortland Review,
Reed, Southern Review, Roanoke Review, Green Silk Journal,
Birmingham Poetry Review, Mississippi Review, Paris/atlantic,
Canadian Dimension, Black Swan Review, Exquisite Corpse, Foliate Oak,
Morpo Review, Ken*Again Oregon East, Southern Humanities Review,
Morpo, Skyline, Touchstone, Windsor Review, Maverick, Parnassus Literary Review,
Small Pond, Kansas Quarterly, Blue Unicorn, Exquisite Corpse, Terrain Aroostook Review,
Compass Rose, Whiskey Island Review, Oregon East, Bad Penny Review,
Constellations, The Kentucky Review And Many Others.
DESIGN
by John Grey
We set out to genetically engineer the perfect human being
so why do we make it in the image of ourselves.
The intention is to play God but can't get by the folly
of playing man playing God.
Such brilliant DNA and how we dumb it down.
Operon, cistron, nucleotide, double helix,
stirred up in the same old recurring recipe.
No fancy concoction to hurry the race on
but the 99c special in the same old diners of the world.
All this work and what do we have... more of us.
Another round of head-scratching at life's meaning.
Same old fibers and machinery, eighty years of obsolescence.
Same loneliness when the crowds dissipate,
sorrow when the train of love capsizes.
We reinvest our creations with our flaws, our failures.
For us to move ahead, it's back to boring evolution.
Once again, we just think of what a man should be
and our brain slowly grows to accommodate our conceit.
Bio: John Grey is an Australian poet, US resident. Recently published in New Plains Review, Rockhurst Review and Spindrift with work upcoming in South Carolina Review, Gargoyle, Sanskrit and Louisiana Literature.
Sunshine on the Rubble
by Holly Day
We approach each other’s present-day
as civilizations in decline, look beyond
the conquered walls and shattered windows
scars carved in flesh by unmentionable acts
remnants of wars that must be acknowledged
but written and spoken only as
fixed, immutable points in the past.
instead, we revel in the struts left standing
despite the damage, point out the fine detailing
in frescoed hallways and ornamental lintels
find beauty in even the most accidental of places:
a line of tiny flowers blooming in a sidewalk crack
a spray of green lichen obscuring decades of decay
a statue of a girl I used to be, still standing guard
over the last of the locked doors
I will open only for you.
Bio: Holly Day was born in Hereford, Texas, “The Town Without a Toothache.” She and her family currently live in Minneapolis, Minnesota, where she teaches writing classes at the Loft Literary Center. Her published books include the nonfiction books Music Theory for Dummies, Music Composition for Dummies, Guitar All-in-One for Dummies, Piano All-in-One for Dummies, A Brief History of Nordeast Minneapolis; the poetry books Late-Night Reading for Hardworking Construction Men (The Moon Publishing) and The Smell of Snow (ELJ Publications); and a novel, The Book Of (Damnation Books).Her needlepoints and beadwork have recently appeared on the covers of The Grey Sparrow Journal, QWERTY Magazine, and Kiki Magazine.
