Poetry – Page 8 – Novus Literary and Arts Journal

Gathering Firewood on Tinpan

Written by Anders Carlson-Wee. Posted in Poetry.

I bundle them against my chest, not sure

if they’re dry enough. Gauging how long

they’ll keep me warm by the thickness.

I step around carefully, looking for

the deadest, searching the low places

for something small and old that will catch.

I pick up the dander loosened

as my father folds his hands, lowers his head.

The rolling thunder on the surface of a nail.

I pick up the cross that seesaws his chest

with each step. The day I lost my faith.

The night my dog ran away and came back sick.

The battery-pump of her final breath.

Still wondering if she left alone,

or if my father walked her out of this world.

Still wondering what he used for a leash.

I go further into the trees and find

more fuel. My friends faded on oxy

and percocet. My cousin Josh

buried young in the floodplain.

My brother and the ways I burden him.

Living it over and over each night.

My father walking into every dream.

My fire not bright enough to reveal anything.

Not even his face. Not even the leash.

Sputnik V

Written by J. C. Cordova. Posted in Poetry.

V is for vaccine:

the primal adversary against

a viral pathogen, ubiquitous and yet sparingly lethal,

heretofore unseen and yet hauntingly familiar.

Or is V for vector?

A vehicle, designed specifically to thrust

viral mRNA upon the human genome;

a vicarious introduction intended to blunt infectivity.

Or is V for victory, as Sputnik is for victory?

A vanquishing, simultaneously thwarting coronal encroachment

and the superiority complex of the West;

a political venture, a recasting of races for armament and space.

Or is V for vainglorious?

A virginal attempt, devoid of proper data?

An avaricious impropriety, shipping uncertainty across

taciturn borders into countries and continents of desperation.

V can be used to victimize or verify.

It can validate unsafe medical practices, encouraging replication,

or can be seen as a nadir of villainy, a confirmation of fraud and ineptitude.

Only time and the virus have the voices to tell.

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.