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Poetry 5
Spring 2011






Lady Named Philosophia


     by RL Greenfield




She stood on the threshold

Of dazzling white velvet


We drank our black French coffees

In the cool California night


That first night at table

The moon bit into me like a bison


Then I tracked her down

I tracked her down


This gaping hole in my chest

Is of the moon bison


The glow in my bones

Her eyes made.




Bio: RL Greenfield lives in & loves  Los Angeles, California. Recent work online: Stride Magazine ( 4 poems, Aug. 2010); Poetic Matrix ( 3 poems Dec  2010);   Flutter Journal, January, 2011;   Sein und Werden, Jan. 2011;  Red Fez Publications, January 2011;   9 January & 1 December 2009---Reviews of Charles Wright’s Littlefoot and Russell Edson’s See Jack;  review of Cormac McCarthy’s The Road, November, 2010, Gently Read Literature.  Forthcoming poems & prose Red Ochre, The Denver Quarterly, Chiron Review, Nether, Eunoia Review, Write FromWrong,  & Zouch Magazine.  Numerous other publications in national reviews such as The New York Quarterly, The Minnesota Review, Poetry/LA, The Wallace Stevens Journal.


RLG received NEA fellowship in literature for mss of poems in 1995.  Created television program that year The Greenfield Code & produced & hosted 150 one-hr shows in Santa Barbara featuring local & national writers & artists.  It was a splendidly successful & thrilling experience that transformed his esthetic forever.    







 39th Street Starbuck's


  by Lola Nation

The table by the entrance

keeps the conversation close to the door,

He hasn’t seen her since he’s not sure just

when, sometime between the last kiss

and the last of the furniture he carried to her car. 

She cut her hair, as they always do and is making small talk

about couples who are still together, did he meet them?

Does he remember?  Of course, he does... 

She sold his art an auction to his silent dismay,

he no longer hangs largely in her living room, stark white

walls, she can’t bear to decorate, not yet.   He sips

black coffee, while she stir-sticks her papercup, smiling

nervously, talking incessantly to fill the empty

space that used to be considered one

true love.


The table by the soon to be inconvenient sound of

the coffee grinder has an nervous man, looking at each

woman who passes through the door, yes, he could,

he thinks.  Then she finally comes, zeros in and walks

right up to the empty chair, drops her magenta coat, revealing

a hot pink sweater and plaid ankle length skirt in matching

stitches of off the rack color.   She is twenty to thirty pounds more

than he imagined, her picture dated from what he’d seen.

They discuss work, alcohol and snipers.   Voices above

their regular octaves, speaking faster than verbally comfortable,

hurrying right along, pausing only between Christmas blends

bagged for regular customers or the fire station donation basket.

The foaming madness behind them overshadowing

the caffeinated banter of meeting for the first time.


He was wearing a pin striped suit when he walked in,

The jacket is by the chair, but from the last glance he has changed

into jeans, still wearing his Stacey Adams interview shoes

and his shirt now loosely unbuttoned, lost the tie in the

messenger bag he carried with him as he reads

the local news.


The homeless man is back, picking up the scraps

of scones and folding newspaper paper boats.  Maybe it will

rain and he can sail his ships down the 39th Street gutters.



   by Lola Nation


I know I'm pretty, I know I'm smart

but tell me why does the other girl

always get my part?


Bio: Lola Nation is a poet originally from Venice Beach, California and now resides in Kansas City, Missouri.   She writes short stories and poetry. 


Lady with ermine

   by David Raymond


She and the ermine look to their left

Beyond the black space that

Intensifies the bright edge of her shoulder.

Her black necklace an affection of circumference, draping over

Her breasts behind her hand and fingers touching

Almost not the shoulder and neck of the little beast

Whose snout is framed in the dark green folds

That fall from her left shoulder over her red dress.

Her hair wraps under her jaw

Like paint; her smile is sister to her hand.


Bio: David Raymond is  a sculptor and painter and professor of fine arts at Merrimack College in Massachusetts. He is also a contributing editor and art writer for Art New England Magazine. He  lives in New Hampshire, but would be happy to relocate to Italy with a modest stipend and a Fiat.