Nickie Albert

Sick Day

I’m taking the day off

to mourn my life

 

which is not something

I can do at work

 

surrounded by computers

and codes.

 

Grief and regret – that one

we’re implored to deny –

 

can’t be codified.

They can be washed in tears

 

or taken for a walk

to the park, in the rain.

 

Or written down and out

in the hope of freedom

 

or better yet, redemption.

They can’t be summarized

 

into a memo to a choice few,

and copied to a few more.

 

Written quickly

and typed from memory,

 

that memo would be

an embarrassment

 

to the Professionals.

They would think, well,

 

she’s really lost it now,

telling us this. All the while

 

keeping back their own tears

welling up inside.

 

The Color of Wind

The end of his fingertips are pressed tightly against his eyelids,

praying for a color, a pink, a deep blue –

 

he knows nothing of pink or deep blue.

He knows the smell of watermelon

 

on a hot, humid day.

A seed gets spit onto a paper plate.

 

He knows the feel of seersucker against his legs –

that soft, corrugated cotton

 

moving with the breeze.

A bell rings on a quiet porch.

 

The wind blows an easy hello while he

makes his way through the living room.

 

Sitting on a chair in the shade

he listens to the bell chime

 

for his sound heart

and his telling tongue.

 

The wind greets him across the morning

through the wildflower fields

 

filled with the deep reds of poppies

the purple of flowering salvia.

 

Review of a Lifetime

There are angels in this city

with cameras slung round their necks.

 

Disguised as tourists, they take pictures

of us. Documenting our time on Earth.

 

Did you give the bum

a quarter or a smoke?

 

Did you cross at the light

or run when you could?

 

Did you smile at the stranger

as she snapped your photo

 

taking it to God for the review

of your life?

 

There are angels in this city

on the sidewalks, in the streets.

 

They are the cabdrivers, the waitresses,

the docents at the museum.

 

They are the clerks at Duane Reade

and the millionaires in their town cars.

 

They are the journalists of heaven

under the cover of humanity

 

watching over and watching us,

making sure we keep the pact

 

made at birth.

The deal of innocence

 

played out over a lifetime,

a wingspan, encompassing

 

all the hours

from birth to death.

 
Nickie Albert

G David Schwartz

I’ll Not Pay The Piper

I’ll not pay the piper

Nor shall I sing

And forget about

That long flung shout

Which makes a man feel dumb

Have a little care

The grave is just down there

and with but a stoke

Of dumb luck or perhaps a joke

Pinch a penny and drag a shoe

There is much we ought to know

Just in time to get on by

And past the day or time we die

 

 

What Are You Thinking

(Bev asked me)

 

I am so glad that you are you

And I am so glad you are you

I am just so dang glad

As well as happy too

And in as much as that may bore you

I will tell you again and true

I am so glad that you are you

And I am so glad you are you

I’ve Got A Smile On My Face

G David Schwartz

I’ve got a smile on my face

And I take it every place

Every single place I go

 

G David Schwartz

 

Schwartz is the author of A Jewish Appraisal of Dialogue. Currently a volunteer at Drake Hospital in Cincinnati, Schwartz continues to write. His new book, Midrash and Working Out Of The Book is now in stores or can be ordered.

Frank Rossini

tough guy in moonlight

in 7th grade he sat

last row last seat

head on desk asleep Sister

Cleopha slapped

his ear he laughed her face red

hand

trembling on the playground no one

looked him in the eye afraid

to wake his hands

two furious stones tearing

holes in God’s light

 

seven years later I poured

drinks in a seaside bar I’d learned

to know a little

about a lot

could talk to the toughest guy who’d

be in the Series where

to find parts for a ’63

Impala how

he knocked that motheringfucking

bartender from down the street flat

out I gave him free drinks

to cool

the bad drunks

 

now he leans

on a thick

stick worn

smooth by broken

hand & muscled

weight the woman the nuns

warned 7th grade

girls they’d become if

they danced with the tough guy holds

his empty hand full

moon sways

him to her

light

 

street preacher

when I close my eyes I hear

the father’s voice not

his son’s as he cautiously becomes

man not

the spirit’s tongue

of feathers & fire I hear

continents grind

time’s big drum the voice of no

not what could or should not

being’s eternal quarrel

but when I speak a starling

argues

with its own

reflection

 

I know

one day I’ll open

my eyes see

his voice a pillar

of sound my breath

braids around & you

will stop & you

you & you

will listen

 

Frank Rossini

 

Frank Rossini has been published in various magazines including Poetry Now, The Seattle Review, and Wisconsin Review.

Listed at Duotrope
Listed with Poets & Writers
CLMP Member
List with Art Deadline
Follow us on MagCloud