Featured Reader & Member Poems

Daedalus' Daughter

My father and I both fly at night.
He takes off from a waterbed
moored at the edge of the lake,
while I, a land-locked second-story sleeper,
rise and skim the night air
thirty miles away.

He soars high, agile and air-borne,
bursting out of formation  
while I hover below ceilings
rise through doorways
swim just above the details of the day.

And tho' we've never met
on these nocturnal trips
we each recognized at once
the joy the other recalled:
the muscles in the arms drawing down
as the torso rises aloft, pulling away, coasting,
veering with the will of the body.

In these solitary flights, not buoyed
by mite-bitten feathers,
castoffs of a better bird,
but borne up entirely
and only  
by the arched frame of imagination
we leave behind the ideograms of our lives
the sculpted rooms, gardens, and roads:
seen from above,
a labyrinth.

                                 — Anne Coon
                                 February 2005

from Daedalus’ Daughter (FootHills Press, 2004)

 that my summer need for you
             has vanished…
wood smoke up a winter chimney

                                       — Ruth Kennedy
                                        December, 2004


Cardinals and classical
Unwrite the rhetoric
Remind me of missions
And methods.

A gardener, I nourish
Soils and seeds
Throw up the sun
Past the saints

Watch the ivy creep
Through classrooms
Crumble the brick
Of before.

                             — Jennifer Kehoe
                             November, 2004

      A Fan
   A Jump

Ball spins toward
The shooter
even as it glides
away from her
to slip -- a perfect
Cinderella foot –
into the net
to be caressed
by the soft twine
for a moment
and released.

Shadowed Light

by the stained glass
bathes his sweaty
hairy chest
He guides
the boy's hand
to different hair

                     — Ed Scutt
                     October, 2004

At the Intersection of
Clinton and Broad

Then I was out in it:
   milked up evening, sudden
glistenings of sun on
   sodden pavement
gustings through of
   half-yolk winds that kissed
my clothes my skin my hourly
   wage-earning hands.

   Then I was into it:
clear sunlit streaks of ink
   on inked up air the street
       was buzzing sharp
   my feet     high heals
like hardened light hit one-two
   one down into darkling bright.

                         — Harmony Button
                         September, 2004

Coalition of the Willing

I’m gonna start a Coalition of the Willing –
Nate, Zeke, me, and Nate’s kid sister Lorna
We’re gonna go down to the gun show at the drive-in parking lot
And pick up a couple semi-automatics, a shotgun, and some pistols
We’re gonna go down to the First USA Bank
and give that teller an ultimatum
Yes, the Coalition of the Willing’s going to show the flag and be a pretty sight, I’ll tell
    you, with all that hardware agleamin’
We’re gonna make a friendly withdrawal, and no one better get in our way, or there’ll be
    a few collateral damages
The way we see it, what’s good enough for the President is good enough for us
We’re gonna conduct a pre-emptive strike against the possibility of empty pockets
And we don’t need no UN authorization to do it.

                                                                                 — John Roche
                                                                                 August, 2004


If I want you
to open this jar
I'll ask
It angers me when
you take it
to show me how
Don't wave flags
over my head

My own soil
is not to belittle
I'm heady-strong
arsenal at ready
and before you open
anything I want to know
what's in this jar

                                 — Wynne McClure
from Torn for Peace (FootHills Press, 2004)


Black Is Now White

We're coming to bless you with bombs.
We rape your women and
shoot your children because
we love you
and want you to
prosper and be happy.
We only lie about you so
truth can triumph.
You are evil, but we love you
and pour our love upon you with
devotedly guided missiles
don't you understand?
We are enslaving you
to make you free.

                                       — Paul Bither
from Torn for Peace (FootHills Press, 2004)