Not with the light itself

lifting this page closer

though the breeze already left 

–you need glasses, the kind

crystal-gazers use

and for centuries would weep

to birds that go on living 

–cockpit-glass! pressed

against your forehead

by wings and distances 

–in the end the book too

will lose its slack, approach

with the window in front

closed and even its shadow

had no chance to escape.

Simon Perchik is an attorney whose poetry has appeared in Partisan Review, The Nation, The New Yorker and elsewhere.  His latest book is titled “Family of Man” (Cholla Needles Library 2021).

the branches swoop calligraphically,

black like squares on a checkerboard,

striped against yellow leaves,

camouflaging with a bumblebee.

leaves unfallen

cast shadows on the unraked leaves below,

the creek a line

cut through the grass,

separating summer from fall,

one side of the bank

green as a garden snake,

the other richly deepening

to a shade of maple,

the carpet of leaves darkening.

the creek is a scale, 

setting things to rights,

uniting sides of the earth

with its reflective mirror,

a ribbon

tying everything together

like a mediator.

the creek is an eagle

on its flight of fancy,

meandering along

among the seasons.

they are roads to the sky,

leading wherever

your dreams will go,

and as you walk,

the light dappled on the creek

seems to follow.

Kathryn Sadakierski is a 22-year-old writer whose work has been published in anthologies, magazines, and literary journals around the world, including Blue Marble Review, Halfway Down the Stairs, October Hill Magazine, Northern New England Review, seashores: an international journal to share the spirit of haiku, Snapdragon: A Journal of Art and Healing, The Scriblerus, Tomorrow and Tomorrow, Toyon Literary Magazine, Yellow Arrow Journal, and elsewhere. She graduated summa cum laude with a B.A. and M.S. from Bay Path University in Longmeadow, Massachusetts.

There is the most lovely, forlorn cloudsong

Of orange-gold purple-pink

In the skies still haunted

By the footprints snow left

In dizzying swirls

Like the ballet of butterflies

Through air diaphanous as soap bubbles,

Plièing through filaments of frost

In the humble, faint needlepoint stitchings of trees

With prematurely sugared leaves.

Tracks have been so deeply pressed

In the snow-dusted dirt

Where we walked, in our same circles

Every night, 

When the cold is too much

For even the pantheon of stars to bear,

Those friends and relatives gathered 

Around the dinner table, talking 

About what’s on the stage below,

Before the curtain of morning is drawn

And they exit the theater,

Murmuring about the show they saw. 

*

The sun, a bored duchess,

Somnolent, indolent,

Sprawls on a dais

That lowers to the ground as she readies

For bed, taking one final glance

In her looking glass, the lake

That feeds her vanity.

With a final gaping yawn and stretch,

She tucks herself in under the coverlets

Of stars, the moon

A valance above her four-poster bed,

And, sometimes, a pillow

On which to rest her head, a translucent cheek

Turned as she sinks into the eiderdown duvet

Of grass ebonied by nightfall,

The moon a nightlight churning 

Kaleidoscope colors

Until all is opal.

Kathryn Sadakierski is a 22-year-old writer whose work has been published in anthologies, magazines, and literary journals around the world, including Blue Marble Review, Halfway Down the Stairs, October Hill Magazine, Northern New England Review, seashores: an international journal to share the spirit of haiku, Snapdragon: A Journal of Art and Healing, The Scriblerus, Tomorrow and Tomorrow, Toyon Literary Magazine, Yellow Arrow Journal, and elsewhere. She graduated summa cum laude with a B.A. and M.S. from Bay Path University in Longmeadow, Massachusetts.

The colors of the trees

Are like a softly flickering fire in the hearth at home,

The sweetness of burnt caramel,

Faded fawn browns, bright oranges and reds

Dusted with the hues of sunset, descending.

The geese fly towards the autumn moon,

Gold on a sheaf of pink sky,

Like foil shapes embossed on an envelope, a card,

Pressed into the air,

Punched like paper cutouts into the heavens,

Letters falling down like candies in a pinata, 

Shiny wrappers catching the starlight.

We waver from this time of harvest

To the lean landscapes of winter,

Snow on the horizon,

Luminous as this moon

On the window’s rim

Like sunshine ricocheting off a silver cup’s edge,

And fly into the great distances,

Off to find our life’s next season.

last day of junior year,

high school English class,

we wrote memories of each other.

“going places for sure”

one girl said of me.

I wonder where

as I contemplate the road

riddled with pine needles,

whittled to a narrow arrow

by fringes of fall leaves.

autumn bares the core of what is,

like a peeled apple,

there is no husk 

of past reflections

to shy behind like flowers beneath the frost.

every mask is shed,

if there were any worn,

true colors shine

like the infantile fingertip of sun,

an extended branch,

reached out to touch the grass,

dry sheaves of corn the sunset is lost in

as though the pond of light

is a purse in which 

a coin of resilient hope is slipped,

so the future waits.

some birds find their place

in the labyrinth of trees,

and therefore, uncover their song.

a yellow school bus

like a black-striped caterpillar

whose markings foretell the change of seasons,

inches its way up the climbing country hills,

the weaving roads that recede into the trees,

tunnels of sun-laced shapes,

shifting fragments of a dream

unfolding in the mind’s eye

of your afternoon nap

on a picnic blanket of light outside,

immersed in sun,

the leaves rustle and rattle 

above your eyes,

like stars on a mobile

over a child’s crib.

it’s been so long, and yet

the days here, in the silver goblet of now,

are a blur.

I was on that bus 

of yesterday

not so long ago,

feeling like only a minute had passed

between today and then,

but now I’m back home,

unsure of where to find my way

in the crowded intersections

of a world so deafened

by its own chatter,

proclamations, premonitions,

predictions and persuasions,

convictions and conditions.

I can only let this light

live long in my soul,

letting it lead me

wherever I may go.

I have not failed at being a writer.
The implication of failure conveys a lie:
A series of accomplishments required to be a writer
Rather than an identity of which I cannot be stripped.

Like a virgin who slyly knows
How she craves to ride the wave
Of tremors that send shockwaves
From her stomach to her knees,
I compose these words in secret.

“Irresponsible career choice”
Through thoughts of ambition echo,
Resounding with connotations of a shouted
“Whore!”

Corporate America raped me,
Shoving my knees to my chest
And insisting that I consented
Because a barely living wage
Can still grant permission.

Rape does not negate virginity
So I fantasize of this composition
And its power to transform
My naivety into prowess.
I will rock your word.

Author Bio
Laura Jeu lives in Pennsylvania with her dog, Scout. When not writing, she can be found trekking up and down mountains. Her gracious mom and considerate brothers provide helpful critiques, receiving the author’s chidings in return.