Issue #12

Suzanne Osborne

Starfish

The sea is in the trees tonight
fishes nest among the leaves
drowning specks above gleam
like glass in sand; chimneys writhe
in cloud currents; hedges sigh
perplexed; pale sidewalks heave
wringing their sad seaweed
hands

A Dream of the Number 10 Bus

She sparkled gently,
Queen Liz,
as she boarded alone
at the old, scruffy
Abingdon Square
and serenely seated herself up front.

While the bus lurched
uptown, we took her in –
sideways, the way we take in
everyone – just enough to be sure
they’re not too high, too
unhinged, or too unwashed
to come within arm’s length.

The tiara, the lightly sequined
satin gown, the unwavering smile
all screamed “psycho,”
but her quiet confidence
and air of benign interest
confounded us. Covertly,

hunched in our rumpled
denims, thick stockings,
and knitted caps, we studied her
as the early sun flared
in her jewels, and set off
the oyster iridescence
of her dress. How effortlessly
upright she sat. Alert. Open.
Unburdened.

We felt no envy, or at least, no rancor.
For that, we’d need more hope
of attaining her state than the distance
between us allowed. We only marveled,
and felt diminished when we realized
she’d got off somewhere
and taken our radiance with her.

Thursday

Even the rain is tired tonight, plops
lethargically off dying leaves, slides
listlessly down sightless windows.
The ground shrugs it off into oily
puddles and potholes, where it slumps
till forcibly ejected by passing wheels
or feet. There it lies unmoving, unable
to rouse itself to seek the crowded
gutter, make its way past plastic bags,
baby’s socks, and abandoned coffee cups
to rejoin the shift and surge of the sea.

Status Update

Hope is the job of those nubile,
long-haired damsels who kneel,

dainty hands fluttering irresolute,
over the lock of a mysterious chest,

or sit sternly on rocks by the sea,
waiting for who- or whatever to appear.

It is arduous, that waiting – if you recall –
always wondering whether all the ills

of the world will fly out – or a sly, compliant
genie; whether that ship bears a triumphant

prince with a glass slipper and a gleaming heap
of gold – or a wastrel in flip-flops and a faded tee.

Once you know the answers – as you do –
that means you are old. No way to continue

the pretenses of youth. There’s no rhyme
or rapture to it. So face it, it’s time

to get a cat. Or two. Or ten.
That is your job as an old woman.


After an early career in theater, a stint in academia, and many years as a legal secretary, Suzanne Osborne now lives in Queens and writes poetry. Her work has appeared most recently in Indolent Press’s on-line project What Rough Beast, The Front Range Review, and District Lit.

Tim Meyer

Married to the Artist

She painted him half naked, finger up his nose,
pot belly like a pink bean
sucking on a belt.
She captured the cysts and breasts
in colors previously used for shipwreck scenes.
Now he must watch where he dozes.
Gone is the breathtaking man with the turquoise earring,
his golden thumper but a Hershey’s kiss
in a cotton silhouette.
She has consumed him.
It is a mercy killing.

Portland is Cold

Tonight life hands out a leaky sack
of uncertainties for us to make
positives with at our short leisure.
The waves recede revealing treasures,
then the waves surge in higher.
A train moans off toward the coastal range
calling for boarders headed west.
We arrange trays of delicious memories
to sweeten her short days. Standing
is harder now, pain in more places.
We are the double-headed beast of myth:
the front face chirping bird calls,
the one just behind delicately
but deeply sad as we steady
our loves,
stay them, try to call the world
to order with fabrications.

the last season

when the world is below zero
things will be more manageable
this is the precept of winter
the other face of my love

her garland cast aside and wrinkles
flowing over her countenance
she whips the hogs into a frenzy
resembling dying in a white field

the sun is a pinprick in the howl
as we worm under compost to survive
if death can be seen as benign
there is some form of love involved


Tim’s bio: While keeping thine head below the weed tops, create intricate, jeweled boxes with words to contain The Worm.  Recently published in Zombie Logic Review and Blue Collar Review.

Fred Pollack

On a Scale of One to Ten

They always ask that, always
unfairly. How to quantify
pain? It’s enough.
They see you as a Tinguely machine
from your youth, tearing itself noisily,
hilariously apart.
At that age, in those days, entropy
was fun, not yet a revelation.
Imagine them asking,
instead, how much pain
outweighs joy in the universe.
In that context, how are we today?
Do you remember love, or fucking?


Author of two book-length narrative poems, THE ADVENTURE and HAPPINESS, both published by Story Line Press. A collection of poems, A POVERTY OF WORDS, March 2015 from Prolific Press. Another collection, LANDSCAPE WITH MUTANT, to be published in 2018 by Smokestack Books (UK). Many poems in print and online journals. Poetics: neither navelgazing mainstream nor academic pseudo-avant-garde.