Poetry – Page 5 – Novus Literary and Arts Journal

Fairview

Written by Christian Umbach. Posted in Poetry.

On Sunday afternoons in August,

the streets and sidewalks

of Fairview are empty and drowsy.

The gentle buzz of weed wackers,

dispersed every few blocks,

cloaks the neighborhood

with a musing white noise.

Each yard tool operated by working men

dressed in cut-off tees and gym shorts.

In no apparent rush, they move with care

along flower beds and chain-linked fences.

Their shoulders slouched

from the weight of the machine,

their faces mute and expressionless,

neither frustrated nor content, the mind given space to wander.

It is the same face that stares

back through the mirror

each Tuesday morning, while trimming

stubble hidden beneath cheekbones.

Back and forth, the massage of metal against skin,

and the hum of the razor droning on and on,

drowning out fears, longings, hopes: anything

that tries to crop up.

News

Written by Anders Carlson-Wee. Posted in Poetry.

Whoever you are, they take care of you.

Dean leans over and labors the crank-window,

asking where you need to go. Lillian shows

how to clean and reload. Tucker. The Lees.

Savannah shrunk by cancer. Lyle by diet,

ordering you what he can’t eat. Hands that pass

the double cheese and hands that steer the wheel,

a foot floored toward Tennessee, our necks keeping

Hendrix’s beat. Each morning another warning

about the darkness out there. Triple murder,

no suspects. Alien abductions in the Palouse.

A family gone missing. A family found,

their organs removed. Each day, against all this

breaking news, another stranger saving you.

Apple Moons

Written by Delaney Brandon. Posted in Poetry.

For Domby

soft crumbs of salted crackers peppered

across the wooden surface, where grandmother

sits at the table. red nails

grip the glossy flesh of the gala and she raises it to her lips.

I can smell the wet saltiness of the softened saltine,

she swallows – crepe skin undulates as she moves. grandmother

stands at the apple tree, scarlet gems hanging,

swaying in Alabama summers, crooked feet in the feathery grass

mash the spoiled fruit into the clay. grandmother

lays in the bed, wisps of white curl on the sheet

and crimson nails nestle in the linen – apple moons curdle

on paper and crumbs soak in the unfermented wine.

Gathering

Written by Francis Flavin. Posted in Poetry.

They talk of lavender love gardens

And epiphany in the peas.

Hunter-gatherers all,

Making new connections

With old principles and new friends.

Shoshone and Paiutes mainly,

Led to Ga-Du-Gi gardening

By an Eastern Cherokee.

There are visions of course.

We Whites like them set out on paper

To justify our involvement,

And the government funding.

The Native people don’t trust paper much.

We don’t discuss why.

We know why.

“Hoopsters” they laughingly call themselves,

With visions of hoop houses

Springing up like pinion-juniper

Across the high desert.

We write this down under goals and objectives,

And try to fit them into a Spirit Wheel.

Yet, we share enough of our own spirit

To bond with the unstated fears,

The unrealized dreams.

Outside the fresh air heightens our senses.

We have our own Wheel now,

Too ephemeral to discuss,

Lest it vanish in harsh realities.

Decades come and go,

But the Earth abides;

Ready to nurture and sustain

Those attuned to her rhythm and needs.

We are getting there.

Butte

Written by Anders Carlson-Wee. Posted in Poetry.

My brother bolt-cuts a hole through the mesh

over the Family Dollar dumpster in Butte.

I lower myself through. Dull light mumbles

from the car-emptied lot, slumping

on day-old donuts, moldy seed bread,

a bulk bag of oats the rats have chewed through.

I hand up the bread. I hand up the donuts.

I hand up the tub of yogurt someone

bought, opened, tasted, and returned.

I go shoulder-deep through the yolk-crusted bags,

reaching––maybe fruit, maybe meat.

After awhile you can name what you feel.

Groping wet shapes with the tips of your fingers.

Lifting them up to your brother.

Southern Cross

Written by Diane Thiel. Posted in Poetry.

It wasn’t what drew me there,

but when I saw the Southern Cross

that year, visible all night down under,

turning with the hour,

it took me home, to my childhood

when I didn’t quite realize

what had risen

just above the horizon,

but I knew enough to know

I could keep that starry kite

if even for a little while

up above the boundary line.

I didn’t know it then, how special

the sighting was, my place in the world

far south enough to see it,

my hometown floating on the edge.

People looked right at the cross

and didn’t seem to notice

it was there

before it dipped below again.

Almost like a secret, that made it mine.

It was something I could turn to,

away from all the trouble,

and call my own.