April's 2nd New Moon Special
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Tantric
William E. Heston |
In the kitchen,
Bodhidharma and I sit, A bucket of gas station fried chicken Split between us. “The world is at its end,” I tell him. “What do we do When we’ve lost our moral center? When without breath, the walls begin to hyperventilate In rhythm with our chests?” He eats, Crumbs tumbling down the front of his robe, Tea leaf eyelids hung In perpetual rest. He smiles at me. “What do we do When time unravels?” I ask. “When String Theory unwinds; When the stairs go Nowhere?” Still, he sits, Cross-legged on the linoleum, Slopping up the greasy skin Of a drumstick. "Bodhidharma, I'm tired, and, frankly, disgusted. The stench of grief hangs on the breath Of dead dreams That used to call to us. How am I supposed to answer them? How do YOU suppose I answer?" He rubs his single bare foot, Picks at the sandal on the other, And I wait with a festering sense of impatience. The evening sun disappears from my back window, Receding into the urban overgrowth Of the yard. “We’re at war!” I exclaim, “Why are we without territory this time? Why are we fighting Simply to maintain the line? How senseless can the ends get If there’s always a means to defend them? I need answers. I don’t trust you’re here. Who else Do I have left?” He drops the bone in the bucket. He grabs his staff to stand, The missing sandal hung atop. He turns to me And asks "Why?" |
April Full Moon Special
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Nature's Embrace
Hasib Iftekhar |
(An ode to all the ones battling hopelessness)
The hustling in the trees, & carrying of the breeze, They do speak to me. And a whisper so droll, a bow to the bole, Wheezes out in silence: ‘Keep on keeping on, and don’t let go’. Rile across the skin, with an agony to the bone - I twitch and look up between all the moans, In a weary body and dragging head, I attempt to look farther, As my frame sinks further - Ninety-nine days of frozen still, in my lone infirmary bed. Isolation, ventilation, so dreadful is the prohibition! Smacked down I am by nauseating preconditions. In desolation, meandering thoughts are what I mime - to a reflection on the dusk window: my audience. Leave room out there in the pane for Melancholy, To stain the glass a gloomy purple. Mornings though, shines through hope, To a rancid soul that struggles to cope. Leaves swoosh in with songbirds chirping, Hops me back alive & retorting. And the sky, o my! Such cerulean frame. Dots of cotton – a broom there? Or button? From here to Serengeti, via the eternity, So grand & so big, puts a Renoir to shame. And I sense the vitals soar & goosebumps appear, Cracks turning fade and demons steer clear. On there a plateau, I lay flat and serene, As evened-out as I could ever be. The kindness amongst all things I feel, Stoking a bliss within me. |
April's 1st New Moon Special
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Sponge-Grass
Mehreen Ahmed |
I stood on a patch of grass in the wetlands. I called it the sponge-grass. If one were to step on it, the sponge-grass patch, typically, sprung up and down under one’s feet movement, not submerge completely. This porous patch of the drenched grass, as resilient as it was held up some promise of stability, but not a whole lot.
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Standing on it, I also watched birds through handheld binoculars at a distance. Today, I watched something spectacular—the rare ospreys. I almost thought they had disappeared from this part of the globe—the wetlands. Almost, they never flew in here at all. But here they were, today, alive and well.
The ospreys helped my mood to turn around. I was in a downward trajectory of my writing career. My blues had reached its outer limits with all the rejections I’d received in one day. Doubts gnawed at me like termites. That perhaps I was deluding myself as a writer. Perhaps, I should leave writing with the more sophisticated minds, and be an astute reader in its stead—less stress and more enjoyment—win-win. This self-flagellation of despair was a trigger towards being a defeatist—a quitter, which I was not.
At a difficult moment like this, I had met him. A random guy whom I dared to choose online from my friend’s list. That I was so bored, I wanted to do something—anything. It had all started with a song. I had recorded a song and sent it through to him via messenger. The response was almost immediate. He sent me back one of his voice-recorded song clips, but deaf to the tune. By far, I least sang in tune. I thought this exchange was funny listening to his off-tune songs which he sang so much in earnest to impress me, taking the trouble of recording and sending them through.
The ospreys helped my mood to turn around. I was in a downward trajectory of my writing career. My blues had reached its outer limits with all the rejections I’d received in one day. Doubts gnawed at me like termites. That perhaps I was deluding myself as a writer. Perhaps, I should leave writing with the more sophisticated minds, and be an astute reader in its stead—less stress and more enjoyment—win-win. This self-flagellation of despair was a trigger towards being a defeatist—a quitter, which I was not.
At a difficult moment like this, I had met him. A random guy whom I dared to choose online from my friend’s list. That I was so bored, I wanted to do something—anything. It had all started with a song. I had recorded a song and sent it through to him via messenger. The response was almost immediate. He sent me back one of his voice-recorded song clips, but deaf to the tune. By far, I least sang in tune. I thought this exchange was funny listening to his off-tune songs which he sang so much in earnest to impress me, taking the trouble of recording and sending them through.
March Full Moon Special
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Saturday Afternoon
Emily Moon |
Long ago summer
I looked out the window toward the shimmery turquoise water of Kailua Bay. Jefferson Airplane played in the background. A dreamy sunny Saturday, mynah birds on the path beneath spindly kiawe trees. pink and red hibiscus blooms down the lane. Swimmers in the water, waves rolling in. The graceful double yellow lines of the two-lane road curve around the bend toward Lanikai, trace the way around a rocky outcrop. I thought of a girl I knew. Incense in the air, mellow acid rock chords stretched out to match the mood. Saturday Afternoon... it’s a time for caring and a time for sharing Love Yes – I thought – yes |
March New Moon Special Feature
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a thank you to my college baseball coach
Ty Brack |
Plans made.
Note ready. One of the last steps. I entered your office. Sat down. Ready with the lie. I can’t play anymore. Doctor says my knee injuries need time to heal. Don’t want to redshirt. Need to focus on school. Graduate on time. You spun around in your chair. Eyes reading. Body language inviting. Don’t cry. I sputtered the first lying words. Stopped. Mouth quivering. Eyes darting. Don’t cry. You leaned closer. You knew. You spoke. Don’t cry. I didn’t hear them, but I felt your words understood. I cried. Hard. Sucking for air hard. You said it was okay. To cry. To a man. It’d never been okay before. We hugged. I left. Confused. Alive. New plans made. Note disproven? One of the first steps. |
February Full Moon Special Feature
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Lady Donahue
Tim Donahue |
My manhood’s underestimate
Of the times I go unseen My manhood of oldest testimate Cripples my moments in between. Lady Donahue, lady martyr, lady love me some more Bring me flowers underneath the stars, my manhood’s search for lore I, the knightly character I, the noble steed I, weathered into calloused immunity I'm a man. That’s something to believe. I am my manhood in desire I am all things others may conceive All things I’ve been wired to believe I am alone in mortal seeds I am my mother’s child I am what you want me to be. |
February New Moon Special Feature
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Your Hair was like Moonlight
Chelsea Locke |
You’ve aged
since the night I’d cradled the phone to my ear and held your rosary in my hands. Every winter I pray for my hair to turn the same shade of moonlight as yours- like the moonlight that hung over your shoulders that night we’d braved the cold to watch the eclipse lengthen the shadows from the cypress trees to create the nothingness below our feet. Did you grasp at that darkness in the hopes that it’d save you? Did you know that time was handing you memories it never intended you to be able to keep? |
January Full Moon Special Feature
Sort Of
Sophie Kuhn
Sophie Kuhn
When he says you’re sort of pretty
Tell him he’s sort of right
Like how the sun is sort of kissing the horizon
And flowers sort of bloom in Spring
Unfurling their petals
Desperate to reach for the sky
Only to be plucked
By a pair of unfamiliar fingers
Delicate rosebuds become
Merely decorative things
Wilting in his presence
Sort of wasted on him
Tell him he’s sort of right
Like how the sun is sort of kissing the horizon
And flowers sort of bloom in Spring
Unfurling their petals
Desperate to reach for the sky
Only to be plucked
By a pair of unfamiliar fingers
Delicate rosebuds become
Merely decorative things
Wilting in his presence
Sort of wasted on him