Most take the ramp for common needs like heeding nature’s urgent call. No matter where the journey leads, though, for some reason exit all,
Like getting out to have a bite And stretch their legs, to toss a ball, To find a cheap bed for the night And wi-fi, maybe. Exit all,
Including those who stop for vice, Cheap smokes, fireworks and alcohol On frontage roads known to entice The strongest traveler. Exit all.
Most head for some more wholesome spot— South of the Border, Drug (of Wall), And Hershey, too, can get a lot Of visitors, who exit all.
Some get back on the open road, There’s folks to see and freight to haul, But they, too, mind the highway’s code, Sooner or later, exit all.
J.D. Smith has published six collections of poetry, most recently the light verse collection Catalogs for Food Lovers. His other books include the 2022 fiction collection Transit. Smith works in Washington, DC, where he lives with his wife Paula Van Lare and their rescue animals. Occasional updates are available at www.jdsmithwriter.com.
pick up truck chewing tobacco spit in a cup pick up truck flask back pocket white lightning pick up truck faded blue jeans baseball cap pick up truck twitty on the radio a pinch between the cheek and gums
Spring nears March 21st dreams had too late you thought to live
evening diminishes dusk the remaining balances light into darkness a first shadow emerges expands slowly whispering night a last word, you let slip her name enlightening in its own way (our need to name something) a testament of your own design clever the way you talk back to the night you hear a voice say– make room for what you truly love responding to that voice Eurydice awakens you notice a shade walking silently behind you filling her pockets with broken seashells the temptation to turn around my God may the day remain in shadows
T. M. Hudenburg believes in shadows and thinks they follow you.
poster boy collateral damage though it smacks of Merton in the movies
and countless conspiracy theories
In photos he is bald and roly-poly
master of verbal judo
yoga zen
hermit guru
touchstone like Watts
Ram Dass or Castaneda
Holy Trappist Brother Louis
A monk who might have lived out his days
anonymously in Kentucky
Yet chose to relay spiritual keys
A rock star writer, thinker, believer
Those days that carry us
never carry us far enough
Crepuscular Report
Stairways and gateways Dead ends
Promenades Porches and landings
A solitary gizmo
Corruption a la mode
Shameless sinners draped in burgundy
Leftovers
sprinkled with copper flakes
Nothing as far as the ear can hear
Fish on the bottom
Rocks in the shed
Richard Peabody, born in Washington, DC., raised in Bethesda, MD., and now living in Arlington, VA., is a poet, writer, editor, teacher, publisher. The author of a novella and three short story collections, he taught graduate fiction writing at Johns Hopkins University for 15 years. His Gargoyle Magazine (founded 1976) released issue 76 in August 2022. The magazine has since moved online. His most recent poetry volume, Guinness on the Quay, was published in Ireland (Salmon Poetry, 2019). The Richard Peabody Reader, a career-encompassing collection, was released in 2015 by Alan Squire Publishing, as the first book in their ASP Legacy Series.
WITH ME AND THE STARS
No one can tie down the stars
in one place, my father said
as he explained how the summer
constellations were different
from those in December.
The night air was hot and humid
and, half-asleep, I sort of listened
to him point out the shapes and
in which part of the summer sky
to look for these star clusters.
Then he’d tell their stories,
presenting an impression of whom
the person or deity had been and
the legend of how they’d arrived
in the vast and dark sky.
The soft sibilant rise and
drop in the sound of cicadas
made it easy to sort of sleep
and hard to even half-listen,
yet he never nudged me awake
to pay attention to what he was
teaching, never needed me
to rattle back the lesson.
He was happy to be in the back
yard with me and the stars.
Though I now turn to star charts
and probe the old mythologies
for what he’d already explained,
I’m confident that in the end
he recited the right answers
to satisfy the forty-two gods
of ancient Egypt. Yet I wonder
how a heart so full of patience
and love would be in balance
with the weight of a feather.
— But he’d know.
LAUDEMUS
Let us praise evolution
that delivered the vulture
with its ugly, bald head
and its inbred protection
against pernicious bacteria
as it banquets on rank carrion.
Let us also praise the possum,
often spotted near roadkill.
When attacked, this animal
falls on its side, lips drawn back,
teeth bared and its beady eyes
half-closed, as if dead or dying.
Now let us praise the grave,
hollowed out by a backhoe,
the gash in the ground, a narrow
maw waiting for the lowered
casket. Throw your handful
of soil on top of the coffin
and say a prayer for the hole
in your heart, the looming
days of dejection, dire nights
tossing between the what-ifs
and the whys, plus the sad truth
of the empty side of your bed.
Pray for an evolution toward calm
acceptance and, when it comes, praise
the healing, hallelujah, the healing.
Lenny Lianne was born in Washington, DC and raised in Northern Virginia. She is the author of five books of poetry including her latest, Sunshine Has Its Limits (Kelsay Books) and holds an MFA in Creative Writing from George Mason University. Lenny is a world traveler, who now lives in Arizona with her husband and their dog.
Image: “Night Sky Over the Maple Trees” by Mmfgh under Creative Commons Attribution 4.0 international license.
Limerence “The heart writes in indelible ink” ~Steve Almond, “Ecstasy”
I followed you out west, when I was in despair— you took me back, reluctantly. We spent the winter in that tiny trailer house along a washboard road, spooning the frigid nights away, when it went down to five below— and woke to haloes of frost on the wall where our heads had lain.
Though that infernal itch impelled me to move on— I remember you most fondly when it goes down to five below.
Stone on Stone “Caw caw caw crows shriek in the white sun over the grave stones…” ~Allen Ginsberg, Kaddish
Headlights lit in the middle of the day we follow the man (who I’d now call young), borne in heavy traffic through the heart of town to a district of deceptive winding roads and project housing with trampled lawns, shattered bottles, and enumerable crows that ignore the iron gates guarding a deep narrow lot.
There, a phalanx of dull grey stones, some leaning this way and that, all advancing toward a chapel of yellow brick. This is our destination.
He’d said to me, not long before I want to die knowing full well I agreed, suffering as he did, and for so long.
I still get lost whenever I return to snatch up a chunk of gravel from where we park, to place it in remembrance on his stone.
Stone on stone, over the bones of the man I called my father.
I Could Forgive Him “When the night talks to you, you gotta listen… Look at that moon. Listen to that desert.” ~Robert Boris, Electra Glide in Blue
I was not made for abuse, no, I was meant for a gentler hand on my throttle, and a boot with more finesse on my shifter.
But when I got to know him, those sorrowful destinations I took him to, those crazy friends and troubled women he hung with,
I could forgive him. He needed something to take his anger out on, so it might as well have been me. Truth be told, I got to enjoy it, like
that night he and Tony closed down Mr. Henry’s. With a head full of vodka, he took the hairpin turns of Beach Drive so fast it dragged
my footpegs. Or when he held my engine at redline, down the long hill to the Wilson Bridge, his warm belly laying flat on my tank
I couldn’t help but give him all I had. How proud we both were, when my spedo needle froze at one hundred and ten—I never knew I could go
so fast. But that night he met Ilene I was so sure he was going to get laid, until he blew the turn and dumped her in the weeds. She
seemed like a nice girl, a good head on her shoulders, who might have done him some good. They weren’t hurt, but my forks got bent. He
patched me up, damn it all, with second hand parts that didn’t match. Like Ilene, it was too much for me to bear; not long after, I threw a rod along
a lonely stretch of Route 66. Perhaps a better man, with a warm garage and a lighter touch, who loved me for my classic lines, would
have kept me going. But I’ve seen both coasts, and the Gulf of Mexico, blasted up dirt roads in the Rockies. I’ve crossed blistering deserts, and
fired up at five below. Would I trade all that for the nice garage, and pleasant Sunday rides? Not on your life! Just let me rust away.
Peace Piece Ode to Bill Evans
Peace may be within you find the peaceful easy feeling when you love hate is easy love is hard without peace in your heart
Peace you can’t have if you can’t give peace you can’t give if you can’t love peace you can’t find if you can’t know peace won’t happen if you can’t make
Peace know find love make give us
Peace
Alan Abrams has worked in motorcycle shops, construction sites, and architecture studios. He has lived in the heart of big cities, and in the boonies on unpaved roads. His poems and stories have been published in numerous literary journals and anthologies, including The Innisfree Poetry Journal, The Rat’s Ass Review, The Raven’s Perch, Bud and Branch (UK), LitBop, and others. His poem “Aleinu,” published by Bourgeon, is nominated for the 2023 Pushcart Prize.
