Skip to main content

Poetry by Olivia Ciacci, John McKernan, and Rich Murphy


visits me in a dream says,
‘Don’t let them—’
and when the tangles in which I’ve awoken
break from my face
(itself masking an interior broken)
what is there to do
but get up?

Listening to the Campfire

Wet shadows fingered by feeble rain
shade to red and yellow and black

This kind of light makes more sense
at midnight    Consonants pop to melt

to emphasize blue flame    Oak smoke
Hiss and crack of pine   Needle flare

An owl wish-proof dream-silent lifts its
white feathers into the pull of wet

gravity   Something with needles for
feet & beak floats through black air

Dinner by starlight   It’s OK with me
to be hungry at night and not eat

It’s OK to listen to the body within
the body whistling its scream

as if it were a layer of sandpaper skin
just below the skin with its

tans & gashes  tattoos & creases    Even
the corkscrew hairs in weird places

close to the ear that hears almost nothing
close to the eyes without light

seem to know something & begin to     What?
Speak?      When the owl bends its wing

Amusememt Lark

The once in a lifetime experience
concludes with eating apple sauce
“no hands” from a spoon; the thrill
begins with a slide from a love tunnel.

Round the Block Toward Camus

The stone and hill wait for a reply
or to mark a death. The higher
ground never understands the granite
pushed into a place: The peak pinches,
and the boulder bowls over
so that a businessman chases a crag.
Again the weight matters
in the valley where the crust ore slab
test mettle, and the bone wears
before the slag that seems to snowball
upward. If effort achieved.
If purpose had bedrock or reef
where the engineer jerry-rigs
a hurtling geology that owns
mind and body. Relief eases
at the pivoting foot, the short poem
defying the gods before quarry
and renewed query. At bottom,
rocking with a diamond in mind
and anthracite at hand and shoulder,
the rebel without pause smiles
while the clock budges.

Website | + posts

Leave a Reply