June Issue- Week 2
June 10, 2013
Drinking With the Angels
I don’t claim to be an angel
But I know
I’ll be drinking with the angels when I go
Now, I’m not claiming to be free of sin, nor pure
But there’s one thing that I know for certain sure,
When my time is up here’s what I plan to do:
Before I go I’m gonna have a drink or two
I’ll have a short one for the road, then one for you
I’ll have a chaser for my friends
And maybe while
My elbow bends
I’ll raise a toast to Mom and one to dear old Dad
And when that’s gone I’ll maybe pour me just a tad
To toast the gone, forgotten times
Then, as the midnight hour chimes
I’ll stand the house a round or three to say goodbye
Before I head out to that Big Bar in the Sky
Now, where I’m going, well there ain’t no closing time
And all the spirits in those bottles are sublime
And every hour is happy hour
The angels toast each meteor shower
And the tab you’re running’s stamped Eternity
So pardon me
If I don’t claim to be an angel
But I know
I’ll sure be drinkin’ with the angels
I’ll be drinkin with the angels when I go
Judith Mesch reads like a fish drinks, total immersion, that is, from an early age through a late and lingering adolescence, and wrote feverishly through my teens. Then I stopped writing, stopped reading very much, too, for decades until a few years ago when I started writing bits and pieces, then some light verse, a couple of short stories a little flash fiction. I have two children’s stories epublished on Amazon for Kindle and on Smashwords by Twenty or Less Press. They are actually kind of country, “The Strange and Wonderful Cornfield” and A Circle of Frogs”. I had a few pieces published in ezines and a children’s poem in Off The Coast Journal.
************
Scars
by Dawn Schout
The rough
spot on my knee
from when I fell off
my first pony
onto gravel after taking
a corner too fast.
A thin, pale line
above my elbow
where my horse kicked me
on my bare skin.
A darkened line on the edge
of my cuticle
where Destiny stepped
on my toe before he died,
the pain remaining
after he’s gone.
Furrowed Sky
by Dawn Schout
Long rows of clouds look ready for planting.
If plowed by constant gusts
of wind, stars will start to push through.
************
Prospectin’
You slimy ol’ scoundrel!
Keep comin’ after me
I dare ya! I double dare ya!
You sleazy ol’ geezer
Tryin’ to rope and outwit me
And my buddies
You got a few of ‘em and
I’m still mad as hell
There ain’t no forgivin’
I’m gonna kick your teeth in
And give your arse some scars
You relentless sucker!
I hate your pigeon liver guts
And yer billy goat tenacity
(Learned me that word
From a preacher in a camp once)
Keep comin’ after me
Like them spikes in a gear
Back to back pot shots
Missed again! Ha!
You squirrely varmint
Y’ almost got me this time!
I reckon you’ll catch up with me
One day
Until then, piss on you…Death!
Denise Janikowski-Krewal was born on the south-side of Milwaukee, Wisconsin and raised with a blue-collar upbringing. Her varied work background includes years of writing technical correspondence. She is passionate about storytelling and researching genealogy. Please check out her official website at: The Lost Beat http://denisejanikowskikrewal.webs.com/More of her poetry is available on the lost beat blog
December- Week 3
December 20, 2012
Elizabeth Akin Stelling, Managing Editor- CPP traveled to Hawaii this past fall with a quest to find Polynesian Cowboys, and that she did. A chef and poet and sometime photographer her poetry and photography has been published in Referential Magazine, Tuck, Linden Lit Press, Curio, and many others. (photo taken on south side of the big island of Hawaii).
Fat and Sassy
He laughed when he said
I like my women like my horses
Fat and sassy.
I answered
A little hunger’s not a bad thing.
He said, nah
Fat and sassy’s the way to be.
His wife pointed to her geldings
Turned out together in the arena.
The chestnut with the white blaze and two white socks
And the brown with a little star
Kicking up their heels
In a lively
Dusty
Horse dance.
Aren’t they marvelous creatures
She breathed into the wind.
The most marvelous in all god’s creation.
I leaned on the fence
And I watched with her
And I kissed my mare
On her velvet nose
How a woman does love her horse.
Riding Lessons
When I was a girl
I rode horses.
Beneath me
Muscle
Sinew
Coarse hair
Sweat
Horse musk.
Now I am a woman
And I ride young
With equal vigor.
Julia Barrett grew up in rural Iowa. She’s married to the love of her life. They have three amazing children. She’s a writer of poetry and prose, a Registered Nurse and a trained pastry chef. Julia loves to travel and she’s visited or lived in all fifty states. You
will usually find her hiking with her dog or riding her horse. If she’s at home, she’s cooking, baking or writing books. Julia can be reached via twitter: @JuliaRBarrett or her website: http://juliarachelbarrett.net or her Amazon Author page: *http://tinyurl.com/czph8lu*
August Issue- Week 2
August 6, 2012
Landscapes
Never did I dare to dream of deserts,
how they, too, collect things
and arrange them into collages:
Red pebbles mistaken for grass,
cacti growing in hardened earth
not on big box store shelves,
brazen palms touching the sky
without a sea in sight,
and trees I could never name
more glorious than magnolia and pine
who dare to show winter what it means
to be alive.
Telly McGaha is a native Kentuckian who fell in love with the Southwest after visiting Texas and Arizona. His work has appeared in Assaracus, Vox Poetica, Referential Magazine, and Vwa: Poems for Ayiti. His flash fiction, Patches, was the 2008 Hayward Fault Line Competition winner and appeared in Doorknobs & Body Paint.
***
Picket
He saw someone
do this in a movie. Wants
to try. She obliges.
Saddle shifts to the left
when he pulls
himself up onto the horse.
She hands him his guitar.
He strums,
looking intently at the strings,
pudgy fingers lost
in them. She stays
on the ground. Even the horse
seems confused, reins
draped at his sides.
Lowers his neck to graze.
She gave
him what he wanted.
All he sees
is the old, plain
guitar he doesn’t know
how to play.
It’s like she’s not there anymore.
She walks to the barn,
climbs to the hay bale closest
to the rafters,
her hair just below
spider webs, ideas weaving
in her head.
He’s not there anymore.
There are horses, acres
of lush, green pastures, picket
fences to keep crazy men out.
Dawn Schout’s poetry has appeared in more than two dozen publications, including *Fogged Clarity*, *Glass: A Journal of Poetry*, *Muscle & Blood Literary Journal*, *Pemmican*, *Poetry Quarterly*, *Red River Review*, and *Tipton Poetry Journal*. She won the B.J. Rolfzen Memorial Dylan Days Writing Contest, the Lucidity Poetry Journal Contest, and the Academy of American Poets’ Free Verse Project. She lives near Lake Michigan.