Month: September 2024

WHAT FALLS BY JACALYN SHELLEY

I behold the slate-colored juncos landing beneath the feeder, trace the droppings of mice cracking my house open as crickets grieve. Into the evening I step to catch sassafras hands the colors of wild strawberries, dandelions,...

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ALL QUIET ON THE COVID FRONT BY SAM FRIEDMAN

As all the wise and good officialdom of every bank, every government, and much of civil society everywhere, all over our overheated globe, assure us the COVID siege is over; and every government commissions Commissions to write...

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IT IS MY OWN FAULT BY SAM FRIEDMAN

As old age encroaches upon my lifestyle, it must be my lifestyle that is to blame. Tumors and cancers are my fault, since I have smoked mega-packs, gorged box-cars of pan-fried bacon, treated fruits and vegetables as traif to be...

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SAMSARA SUTRA BY RICHARD MARRANCA

Early morning, ornamented like orange-black butterfly wings, filtered in the small window and urged us toward action. The monks looked resplendent in their robes. Chan wore a black shirt with a circle in the center and the words...

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THE VISITOR BY MARY WOODWORTH

I needed something to do. Dark frayed edges intruded inside my morning. My goals became wrapped and hidden from view. Outside the autumn air was warm and sweet, a space to place myself, fuse longing with a spotless sky. I went...

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SHADOWS BY MARY WOODWORTH

Four o’clock, church bells chime. Below me on the sidewalk pedestrians leave their workplace, move from one building to another. Arms sway back and forth, left and right as people propel themselves forward through the sharp cool...

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THE ATHENS OF OURSELVES BY DAVID RADAVICH

The city lies before us with its millions of eyes. Some of them dating back to 500 B.C. Others modern as a frail yucca plant blooming just this morning at the side of an intersection. Who would guess, among all the ruins, that...

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ON RE-READING CAVAFY BY DAVID RADAVICH

This is the Greece that never was. Only in Alexandria and in the mind, idealized bodies, vanished glory, flesh that lives in eyes and song. His longing breathes like silk and time wanders from ancient regimes into the present...

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CHILDHOOD BY DAVID RADAVICH

I remember the white house on Fourth Street with its fan window in front of the garage and the boy who got run over by the dump truck backing into his bike—my first taste of death. Kindergarten was colored blocks and songs, the...

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MUSICIAN BY DAVID RADAVICH

His life is a flute with conspicuous holes that produce concordant sounds, arpeggios and sometimes dissonance in the night, a full throat of wind blowing across and out the end into the air around that doesn’t expect a world to...

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