Mary Bone has been writing poetry since the age of twelve and has written two books of poetry. She is currently working on a third book. Her poems and short stories have appeared in over two hundred publications including online blogs. The most recent poetry acceptances are at Spillwords , Literary Yard and Scarlet Leaf Review. Word Whisperers Word Whisperers throughout the day Shout words also at night Over intercoms and loud speakers. Voices come at me From many directions. Ventriloquists are on street corners Playing mind games with passersby As they look over their shoulders And keep on walking. Earmuffs are always in my pocket. (Word Whisperers poem has appeared on Literary Yard Magazine) Glowing Embers I pounded bones on old hides-
Music to deaf ears A warning sound to surrounding tribes. Impending doom awaited warriors from Another village- Dare they get too close To glowing embers. The Sand Dunes of Summer I was caught in the sand dunes of summer When winter hit hard. Icicles were my earrings. While catching a wave, Seagulls flew overhead As the sun melted my frozen heart. Somehow, my thoughts are Still lost at sea.
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M. Stone is a bookworm, birdwatcher, and stargazer who writes poetry while living in the foothills of the Blue Ridge Mountains. Her poems have appeared or are forthcoming in San Pedro River Review, SOFTBLOW, Calamus Journal, and numerous other print and online journals. She can be reached at writermstone.wordpress.com. In This Blood, a New DebtSister, we come from an unbroken line of siblings who had knives at the ready, who betrayed family and stole from one another what was dearest—spouses, money, a place at the table. We were set to continue on that way, nursing a hatred surpassing rivalry. We threatened and threw fists and swore, made our father wish for the simplicity of raising boys. After you left home, I despised you over a span of two hundred miles. We still can’t speak of childhood without poking fingers in festering wounds, but approaching middle age erodes our ill will; we are no longer reluctant to embrace. A grace between us borders forgiveness, and while I would gladly give my life for you, I fear letting you draw close. All these years I imagined growing old alone; when my tolerance for existence wore too thin, no obligations would hold me here. Yet ours is a bond of blood and kin, of faulty memories-- yours sometimes supplanting mine—and I find I don’t want to add you to the short list of loved ones who will receive a letter from me in a few decades—more or less—a one-sided goodbye arriving by mail several days too late. OutsiderMy friend invites me to her family reunion, for I am the overly available neighborhood kid who will provide company during the drive. My own family doesn’t have reunions; Dad’s kin has scattered to Midwestern states I recognize only on a map, and Mom’s relatives are estranged. The reunion takes place in a meetinghouse beside train tracks zippering the earth’s mouth. I marvel at all the food, fix myself a plate and sit near the door, aware I am eating a meal my parents didn’t buy. While my friend runs around with her cousins and the adults carry on until their laughter merges into a roar of television static, I stare at a clock on the wall. I have three pennies in my pocket to line up on the sunburned tracks if the train whistle sounds. Light YearsYou were my older sister’s friend,
always around that summer-- playing Monopoly with us while I was quarantined with chickenpox, and tagging along for trips to the lake. I used loose change to buy a wooden heart at the craft store, and with a Sharpie, I wrote your name on it in my neatest hand. You smiled and thanked me, deposited the gift inside your pocket and said no more. Later that fall I sat in my bedroom puzzling over pre-algebra when you called, devastated about a breakup. My sister was out, so you settled for me. I stayed quiet, afraid to say the wrong thing. Instead I listened to you rage and swallow sobs as I etched our initials into the margins of my math notes. Before you faded from our lives, off to college and then off to Texas, I was a kid who had no clue that the distance between twelve years and seventeen might as well be an eon, but you did. Thank god you did. Michael D. Durkota holds a master of fine arts degree from the University of Pittsburgh. His debut novel, Once in a Blue Year, follows two friends during the Persian Gulf War as they struggle with their navy service, adulthood, and relationships. Durkota lives in Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania, with his wife. He is currently working on his second novel and a collection of odd stories and poems. You can follow him on twitter (@durk13) or on his website (durkota.net). Love, at Dusk |
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