MP

“MY AUTHOR PHOTO,” by Howie Good

Like a lace-
bordered

handkerchief
used to mop

up fires,
a gold

Ecuadorian
doubloon

the sun
has begun

to melt,
a look that says,

If anyone
finds a key

to a Volkswagen,
please

let me know.

Advertisements

“Autumn Orange,” by Ron Koppelberger

      The burning orange glow of twilight skies and sun burnished paths of eternity, the wind in synchronicity with the rows of wheat bloom and corn shoot, he lifts his arms in supplication to fall coronas of saffron glow and the faded underside of spring. Leaves quicken to brown and crackling exhaustions of billowy carpeting; crunching beneath his feet, flowing in rambling heaps around his ankles they flitter and fold in harmony with the onset of autumn fame. He blinks away the summer sparrow as the echo of crow caw fills the air and suspiring in breaths of fresh satisfaction the cool northern breeze blows like a mythical tempest.
      He smiles a burlap buttoned scarecrow grin and moves through lanes of fiery summer to the changing chrysalis of autumn fare, an affirmation of pumpkin angels and concealed serenades of waiting winter wash, waiting in death yet animated seasons of change, waiting for unchained winds to shift in silhouettes of fall fathers and uncanny mysteries of rebirth, evolution, waiting for god’s yearly revolution and the hands of time beckoning the beginning of a new passage.

“A Gardener’s Glove,” by Matthew Dexter

      I knew there was something familiar about her face, as if she had come from a place I had been, decades earlier, before the world closed in, before ending up a balding child psychologist trapped in an undecorated office barely larger than an oversized coffin, across from JCPenney and the Foot Locker. There was something about her that seemed strange, though I couldn’t place my finger on it. Wilson Elementary referred her to my office after she bit the tip off her gym teacher’s thumb. We needed to make sure it wouldn’t happen again. Click here to read more.