Poetry Pages

Poetry Pages

Poetry Editor: Jerry Airth

CalliopePoets@comcast.net

Sunrise

by Isabella Taylor

Breaking mooring lines
Impassive faces dawned
Oak oars pulled through serene water
Rich smoke rises from rusted chimneys aloft
Nothing audible but the rocking of the boat creas-
    ing the steady sheet of water
Fog's cloak covers the sky
The watchful eye of god peeking through the
   somber curtains
Red as fishes' blood
Bold
Its never blinking gaze.

I lie down in our made bed --
dream back to my fingers twined in yours,

our bodies curved like parentheses
capturing our momentary digressions -- before we let go,

before then became now.
Before, I was a child. Now,

I carry a child; am endless
with questions of who and what and why.

You are not here to answer.
The world you have entered is stocked

with swear words, guns, and weeks spent in foxholes;
factors that shape men from the outside in.

I huddle on our bed
thinking how your language is being drenched in blood;
how it will sink our house's frame, turn the green grass
brown under the Full Hunger Moon.

1946 Questions

by Elissa Leichter

Mable -- the Keys!

by Clif Blanc, Jr.

Where are my car keys, Mable?
I know I left ‘em on the table.
Or at least that’s what I think.
I know I had ‘em when I was by the sink.
Without them we can’t go out.
Sorry if I’m starting to shout.
Where are my keys?
Mable -- please!

I don’t know where they are?
I didn’t drive the car!
Is this like the time you lost your glasses?
And searched the house in several passes.
Your glasses were on your head.
If you’d just looked in the mirror instead.
Or the time you lost your lucky comb.
And tore apart our home.
The comb was in the pocket of your shirt.
What was that embarrassment worth?

But not this time, Mable, I’m sure.
This is not like those times before.
This time the keys have up and walked.
I’d yell for them if they could just talk.
I tell you I’ve looked everywhere.
On the dresser, under the chair.
I keep them hooked to my lucky locket.
Which is right here in my pants . . .

I’ll be in the car.



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The Longest Time

by Bob Cengr

After the game
we went to the local pizza joint
and ordered hard-plastic pitchers
of frothy root beer to celebrate.
We peeled the paper wrapping off our straws,
wadded it into spitballs,
and shot them at each other.
We played Ms. Pac Man and Donkey Kong,
inhaling their acid trip
storylines and sound effects.
We fed quarters into the jukebox
and crooned the lyrics to
“For the Longest Time”
along with Billy Joel.

Because even though
we were only 11 years old,
we had just won
the Little League championship
and we were sure
we knew exactly what it was like
to be in love with a woman.