by Peycho Kanev
Just sitting and observing. On the ceiling
one shadow creeps. Leaving dark stains upon
the peeled paint. The stains can adopt human
form and sink into the sewer. The human will
fall in the dirt. The water is eternal into the Time.
In the corner is the baby crib. On the window
sparrow sits. Imaginary cat sleep by the cold
fireplace. The man sinks into the rocking chair,
like a pearl in oyster. Waiting for the pliers
of the unpredictable destiny. A happy tune is falling
encloses the calendar of everything written before
time was time and yet it sounds reassuring to
the sparrow that is no longer here.
Bio: Peycho Kanev’s work has been published or is forthcoming in Poetry Quarterly, Welter, Ann Arbor Review, The Shine Journal, The 13th Warrior Review, Mascara Literary Review, The Arava Review, The Mayo Review, Windmills, The Aroostook Review, Chiron Review, Tonopah Review, Mad Swirl, In Posse Review, 322 Review, Naugatuck River Review, The Houston Literary Review and many others. He is nominated for Pushcart Award and lives in Chicago. His collaborative collection "r", containing poetry by him and Felino Soriano, as well as photography from Duane Locke and Edward Wells II is available at Amazon.com. His new poetry collection “Bone Silence” will be published in September 2010 by Desperanto, New York.
by Hugh Fox
Slowly realizing that she was now entering the obit-possibilities,
every morning going through the obituaries during oatmeal time, the
saddest the young ones in their twenties, sometimes in the obits a
picture of some ancient lady (91) next to a picture of her when she was
19, already 80 but she wanted to make it to 90+ like her mother and
grandmother, five granddaughters, three grandsons, the oldest
(Marcella) in her teens ("Tea-ins" as she always put it, an addict to
green-tea, "It's a life-lengthener....anti-oxident, who wants to get
oxidized"), talking about going into oncology ("Maybe I can even cure
you, if you last that long")....last that long, that was the trick,
wanting to live forever, out in the New Hampshire landscape in a
mansion on a hill overlooking a river that was beautiful all year
around, loving the snow and ice just as much as the water and leaves,
always something going on in Durham at the University, and there were
always holiday visits from Sarah or Rivka,
Beatrice...Barney....parents, kiddies, pretty soon grandkiddies...even
with Husband Frank gone, he was still ghostily there next to her when
she'd watch the evening news and films or when she was munching on
shrimps and (anti-oxident) crasins....not worried about afterlives and
eternities, every minute eternal now, eternal old dresses and the
eternal rugs and sofas,
the summer-magic screened-in back porch, les animaux, the birds, maybe she'd like to go
Avignon for Christmas to be with her oldest, Sam, her French a little
crippled like herself, but she could walk, talk, simply BE, like a
night star-swirls, hit-the-pillow (hard) eternal dreams.
Bio: Hugh Fox is 78, originally from Chicago, 110 books published, his
latest THE COLLECTED POETRY OF HUGH FOX (540 pages, from World Audience
in NYC) and THE PLACE OF THE YELLOW WOODPECKER (The Drill Press). Check
him out on Google.
Wow. GSJ is quite honored.
The Six Inch Tuna at Subway
by Robert Phelps
The smiling Punjabi lady dressed in her
blue blouse with ‘Sandwich Artist’ stitched
over her sincere heart, placed my six inch
tuna fish sandwich into a small plastic bag;
the entire sub-continent,
blessing me, and wishing the fish and Diet Coke
to be a communion of sorts, celebrating that
divine call to feed all who hunger and
thirst; And who happen to have
six dollars and fifty-two cents.
Bio: Robert Phelps is a 70 year-old parish priest living and working on the shore of the Great South Bay in East Patchogue, New York, about 65 miles due east from the Big Apple. He has been writing since he made a private weekend retreat in the rain forest of western Maui back in 1991.