The Last Thunder of the Season
by William Doreski
Sliding under a parked truck
to escape a sodden outburst
I surprise you and your lover,
whose face crumbles like a cake.
The air sizzles with blue shocks.
The rain, a cold November rain,
clatters in a sheaf of alloys.
You wanted to evade the dark
that permeates the small talk
that plagues coffee shops and restaurants
and even soils the museums
full of smudged, old-fashioned art.
Now you look a little shopworn
with your lover coiled around you
and the truck engine dripping oil
on the most precious parts of you.
What if with a horrible grunt
that diesel engine should start
and you have to roll out naked
before the huge tires rotate?
Your lover shrugs into his trousers
with enviable agility.
You pull your pieces together
with somewhat grimmer difficulty,
muttering about coincidence
honed and pointed like a harpoon.
The rain will stop soon enough,
but if lightning strikes near enough
we three could fry in colors
the spectrum hasn’t acknowledged
for many thousands of years.
Your lover isn’t used to my talk
and looks insulted and abashed.
You, though, with your favors
briefly exposed, haven’t blushed.
You know me too well to worry
that I’d write up this incident
and emblazon it in public runes
as if hoping to shame you.
The rain wrestles itself blind,
a distant line of trees tosses,
and the last thunder of the season
corrugates across the horizon
like a carnivore with a cough.
Bio: William Doreski's work has appeared in a fair number of journals, and he has taught creative writing for some years. He now lives in the woods and watches the snow fall.
Into The Power
by Robert L. Martin
Into the power, that relentless pulse
That rides with the wind and noble gust,
Out from the mouth of the Almighty One
With fists of velvet and saintly drum,
Beyond the forests and over the trees
Where worlds divide by mystic seas,
Where music abodes with her helping hands
And avails herself to all demands,
As earthly thoughts call for celestial highs
A journey into the power beyond the skies,
The playground of the Gods of the highest order
That live in saintly homes beyond the border,
Where the music wanders from musicians’ minds
As thoughts set out on their upward climbs,
And finds beauty all dressed up in her finest wear
As she casts her knowledge into the melodic air,
Moving the piano fingers with the power of sound
And leaving the bewildered, bewildered all around,
I honor the Music Gods and what they did for me.
Led me into the power, then brought me back home.
Bio: Robert L. Martin's works have appeared in "Mature Years," "Alive Now," "Wilderness House Literary Journal," "Poets' Espresso," "Greensilk Journal," among others. He won two "Faith and Hope" awards, published two chapbooks,and appeared in six anthology books. His main writing influence is Kahlil Gibran. His main hobby is going to the movies.
by Neil Leadbeater
To the rear of Wordsworth Avenue
boys pounding through broomrape
“spikelets oblong or slightly wedge-shaped…
rough towards the tip.”
Whatever it is they are running on
the urge to be first at the finishing line
is uppermost in their minds –
it always has been and it always will be
because things like this never change-
the need to succeed is sown.
Neil Leadbeater is an author, editor, essayist, poet and critic living in Edinburgh, Scotland. His short stories, articles and poems have been published widely in anthologies and journals both at home and abroad. His books include Hoarding Conkers at Hailes Abbey (Littoral Press, 2010), Librettos for the Black Madonna (White Adder Press, 2011); The Worcester Fragments (Original Plus, 2013); The Loveliest Vein of Our Lives (Poetry Space, 2014) and Finding the River Horse (Littoral Press, 2017). He is a regular reviewer for several journals including Galatea Resurrects (A Poetry Engagement) (USA) and Write Out Loud (UK). His work has been translated into Dutch, Romanian, Spanish and Swedish.