Mike Schneider: Elvis Night at Johnny’s
You wanted anything by Elvis, large
as kinetic energy, like the wiggle-waggle
of ocean breeze through palm fronds.
Hosanna. Jesus cruising down
the Avenue on his ass
Lisel Mueller: Necessities
A map of the world. Not the one in the atlas,
but the one in our heads, the one we keep coloring in.
With the blue thread of the river by which we grew up.
The green smear of the woods we first made love in.
John Guzlowski: Two poems about my mother
My mother still remembers
The long train to Magdeburg
the box cars
bleached gray
by Baltic winters
Elise Kazanjian: How To Be A Successful Dummy
Roll your googly-eyes
every few minutes.
Agree with him.
He will believe you.
CL Bledsoe: Hunting Bigfoot
I expected an overcast sky, perfect
for hiding. Maybe you were
wearing one of those sundresses
that stop my breath.
Diane Wakoski: Braised Leeks & Framboise
The Saturnian taste
of old raspberries, and the moon’s
clear-fingered insistence
of leek. These two intangible things
I owe you
Naomi Shihab Nye: Every day as a wide field, every page
And there were so many more poems to read!
Countless friends to listen to.
We didn’t have to be in the same room—
the great modern magic.
David Kirby: Significant Pieces of Information
Did you know monkeys peel bananas from the bottom up?
Ever try it that way? It’s easier. Monkeys know this.
People know it, too, or at least they do now, but
they don’t do it. People tend to be set in their ways
Ron Smith: Berlioz
“I was finishing
my cantata when the revolution broke out …
dashed off the final pages … to the sound of
stray bullets coming over the roofs and pattering
on the wall outside my window….”
Elizabeth Romero: Morning
My friend Peter and I
Argued about love one time
Before he died.
Jordan Smith: Ducktail
if you want
A good story, he told me, I mean one
You can take to heart, don’t ask anyone
With one foot out the car door
Alison Hurwitz: My Son Runs Out of Time
Inside his syncopated thinking, there is only now:
a sound, and he’s a fox kit caught in sudden shift, head cocked,
one paw lifted from the leaves.
Tony Gloeggler: Minimum Wages
He’d talk about the summer
he worked behind a counter,
slicing meat, creating fully
loaded heroes like works of art.
Jane Kenyon: The Beaver Pool in December
The beavers thrive somewhere
else, eating the bark of hoarded
saplings. How they struggled
to pull the long branches
over the stiffening bank…
