FLIGHT 103 TO LOCKERBIE: HAPPY ANNIVERSARY by Russell Bittner

I have a bit of storm outside my window;
it's weather, pure and simple: just release.
Are these the gales that split the skies of Scotland
that blast that took her children piece by piece?
My bit of storm, quite spent, is now reclining
upon the house, turned inward from the sea.
Our naked coast lies warm and under cover
of snow-drift sheets, a gift from Lockerbie.
From Galloway, cross Dumphries' frozen meadows,
through Strathclyde, teasing heathers down below,
just out of view, the Channel's wildly reeling
from blows of wind and punches packing snow.
You see, my bit of storm is simple comfort:
my children sleep beside me on the floor.
I'm not that mother rocking still at daybreak
with hopes on hinges, staring at the door.

Summer 2007

Out of Rock! NOW by Russell Bittner

In the druse of a rock, in a bed by a stream,
I remember how we'd plan, and I relish how we'd scheme,
search for sloughs in the rock, slither down upon a beam,
and without a worry split through the cracks to a dream,

grab an axe as we'd grind, stave a cradle as we'd scheme,
go for gold in the rock, hew a groove in the beam,
sinking down, as we lay, melding mettle to our dream
of a roof overhead, made of slate, by a stream.

Then we culled through the rock as we mulled on the beam,
grating hard - as we cooed in our cote of a dream
under roof, without rules, in a swale by a stream -
at the stones that would channel us like weirs through our scheme

thinking too, as we grew in the drama of our dream
- while it slid like a rill to a freshet to a stream -
that for babies out of lock, we'd need wedding in our scheme
and to glom to the rock like a burl to a beam.

In the druse of a rock, in a glade by a stream,
I regret how your act blew to smithereens our scheme,
and how I, like a crag, cracked the sinew of the beam,
as from there, we then crashed through the cracks of our dream.


Previously published at AlongStoryShort.net, Oct., '06
The Linnet's Wings, Spring 2007

Taking the road from Crownpoint to Chaco by Ann Walters

Old convertible, top down, and I don't mind my hair blowing In the wind. He likes that. The dirt road is rutted, dusty, curvaceous as a sidewinder. Blue sky swallows us whole, We are driving toward a city that ceased to breathe long ago. Its skeleton takes the form of stone walls, Its dreams are etched on boulders. A faint pulse still beats in the damp sand of the arroyo. We hold hands and let the warm air move through us. The juniper smells like a new beginning.
starlight in canyon
ten thousand ghosts whispering
we ride smooth and swift

Spring 2007

State of Rapture by Marie Fitzpatrick

My mother has trouble remembering my name.
Fifty years ago, they'd say she was mad as snakes.
I think she is one of the saved
who lives in the State of Rapture.

There on this separate plane
she shares beauty and light
with others who are embraced by angels.
And while we keep watch on a shell
she looks down.

2007, Fitzpatrick

Mexican Escape by Yvette Managan

mexican escape
tequila sunsets
you will ice your drink
and bend over ruins
defacing gods

night virgins grind
corn in the sunlight
whisper you are a man
turn the rosaries away
in the dusk

wander through jungles
mosquitoes suck
coldened blood
from the arms
of defiled americans

@ 2007 Yvette Managan

IN TIME,
we will walk on gravel paths
studded with gemstones.
Our plates and bowls
will be chipped porcelain
exquisitely painted.
When we drive in our weary car,
we will listen to Mozart.
Sunlight will fade our carpet
and our windows
will be draped
in fine French lace.
We will dress for work
and undress for pleasure.

Sway and I'll steady you.
If I slip, you'll right me.
Each will soften the landings
of the other's great leaps.

As we sit at this cafe table in Montmartre,
sheltered from the downpour,
I see our future.
I will write it down on torn paper,
using a sapphire pen.


2007-Nonnie Augustine

Memory of a Winter's Day by Ann Walters

There is silence in the cold morning air.
Snow over red rock, green juniper dusted with sugar.
The world is a frosted wedding cake.

It is the Grand Canyon in winter, our third anniversary,
and the empty parking lot echoes the soft clamp
of our hands, the smash of our lips.

The waitress, with a swift seam and a deft hand, is inobtrusive.
She is a young woman of formal motion and friendly voice who does not exist,
while through the window we watch snow drift like lazy confetti.

And the whole world is here right now,
falling at our feet in small pieces of white perfection.
No two flakes are the same, no two moments together
any less singular for the ones that have gone before.

There is silence in the cold morning air.
Snow cloaks red rock, green juniper is dusted with sugar.
The world is a frosted wedding cake.

Ann Walters