Slave Driver - John L. Stanizzi
The Bars Have Had Too Much of You - Arthur Maurer
Old Man - Richard Schnap
Soulmates - Richard Schnap
Neighbor - Richard Schnap
Jackie - Ed Severson
At the Rec Center - Steve Klepetar
Lost in the Zoo - Steve Klepetar
Trust Me - Steve Klepetar
Trying to Be a Little Better - Tim Suermondt
The Perfect Day Arrives - Tim Suermondt
Perfect Lips - Keith Tornheim
There Never Will Truly Be Closure - Keith Tornheim
After Fifty Years Together - Rob Jackson
Ghost - Dennis Herrell
Lookin' - Dennis Herrell
Kittenishness - Larry D. Thomas
Lady Godiva - Vincent S. Green
A Year Beyond the Accident - John Grey
Normalizing Relations - Danny Earl Simmons
Focal Point - Laura Rodley
Walking the Tangle - Larua Rodley
Timeless - Doug Mathewson
Super Power - Doug Mathewson
Husbands Lost in Florida - Michael Maul
The Solitude of Noise - Michael C. Keith
Memories - Barbara Brooks
Adolescent Affection - Jack M. Freedman
Linda - Daniel Nelson
Cousin Timothy - Patricia Rossi
Saigon Grapes - Jimmy Pappas
Hartford, Connecticut, 1957
John L. Stanizzi
Once while staying at my grandmother’s house,
looking out an open 3rd floor window
into the alley that separated
her building from the Red Ash Bar and Grille,
its massive neon cigarette flashing
on and off, the hollow thump of the band
mixed with the thrum of cars out on the street
and the shallow cackle of high laughter,
I saw in the darkness of the alley
a man stabbing a man against the wall
of the noisy bar, disappearing and
reappearing in the staccato flash
of smoky light in and out of blackness,
a fitful phantascope projected there.
East Hatford, Connecticut, 1959
John L. Stanizzi
My mother always laughed when the coach said
Come on, Snow Flake! You gotta make that catch!
Irvin, the only black kid on the block,
would laugh, and although we were only 12,
I could see that in truth he didn’t think
there was one thing cute about that nickname.
And one day when Irvin came to my house
after school to help me finish my chores
he was at the kitchen sink doing the
dishes when she came walking in and stopped,
shock on her face as indelible as
skin color. She still talks about when she
came home from work and found “a big black man
man at my sink, washing my dishes!
John L. Stanizzi is the author of the Chapbook, Windows. His full length collections are Ecstasy Among Ghosts, Sleepwalking, Dance Against the Wall Antrim House Books, and After the Bell, and Hallalujah Time! Big Table Publishing. His poems have appeared in Prairie Schooner, The New York Quarterly, Tar River Poetry, Rattle, Passages North, The Spoon River Quarterly, Poet Lore, The Connecticut River Review, Freshwater, and many other publications. John has read at many venues throughout Connecticut, including The Sunken Garden Poetry Festival, RJ Julia Booksellers, and the Arts Café Mystic. He is currently an adjunct professor at Manchester Community College. He lives with his wife, Carol, in Coventry, Connecticut. The poems in this issue of Boston Literary Magazine are from Mr. Stanizzi’s forthcoming book, Hallelujah Time! – Volume II. Mr. Stanizzi’s website – JohnLStanizzi.com.
The Bars Have Had Too Much of You
The bars have had too much of you.
You linger like a codfish on sodden stools
downing whiskey after whiskey with style.
My friend, they’ll put you on the streets.
They’ll bury you in a bottle. Just wait.
Rise. I've got the cure for your heartache.
Not a pill, not a rope, not a gun,
not a wedding ring or a fifth of gin.
It’s me, the silence of the universe.
And I'm the best friend you’ll ever get.
Arthur Maurer lives in St. Louis and is a recent graduate of the University of Missouri--St. Louis, where his poetry has appeared in the undergraduate literary magazines Litmag and Bellerive.
He was retired
From the post office
And lived alone
In a furnished room
Remembering the wife
That died long ago
And sometimes he’d call
A prostitute he knew
That didn’t change much
Whose rented love
Helped him to feel
He was still alive
Time after time
He kept falling in love
With the same woman
Like a soap opera
With a character played
By different actors
But the plot never changed
The next picking up
Where the last left off
The only difference
Was that each one seemed
Like the one he waited for
He passes with heavy strides
Like he’s punishing the sidewalk
For being in his way
While eyeing me with a scowl
As if I’m some animal
He wishes he could kill
But sometimes I’ve seen him
Holding hands with a girl
As a smile graces his face
And I feel he must have a twin
That inherited the heart
Leaving him with the bitterness
Richard Schnap is a poet, songwriter and collagist living in Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania. His poems have most recently appeared locally, nationally and overseas in a variety of print and online publications.
A half century ago,
we thrashed among the sheets
at two a.m., our fitful limbs
obliging our eager demands.
Now, late at night, I wake up
to her face, lit by her e-book,
as if she had left the porch light on
to make sure I'd get home safely.
Ed Severson served four years in the U.S. Navy, earned a degree in English from the University of Arizona and spent twenty years as a reporter and columnist for the Arizona Daily Star in Tucson. In retirement, he has written many poems and published many poems and has published a few in obscure magazine.
At the Rec Center
Cold morning. Outside the rec center
a fire engine and an ambulance.
Upstairs outside the track, a few people
milling, waiting as paramedics work
on a lady who’s collapsed—“blood
pressure dropped real low,” someone says.
They come now, pushing open
the heavy door. She’s awake, but woozy,
gurney-strapped as they roll slowly
into the elevator. We part for them, mumbling
well wishes in words that fade—“take care,
hope everything will be ok…”
The paramedics turn to us, solemn looks
on their intense young faces, and without
a trace of irony, tell us to have a nice day.
Lost in the Zoo
My father keeps a bestiary in his head.
I push his wheelchair slowly, stop at each enclosure.
“The rhinoceros,” he says,
“is a descendant of the Triceratops.”
His gray gaze traces the elephant’s hide, smile
of recognition flits across his dry lips.
“Yes,” he whispers,
my totem, my friend.”
He seems enchanted by a squirrel
crouched in the groin of a huge oak branch.
“In Europe they were red” he tells me
and his green eyes empty of light.
Inside the tiger moat a female traces
the circumference, shoulder muscles
bulging as she pads.
“Look, her husband sleeps” he says.
That night he falls asleep in his rust colored chair, dreaming
of brilliant macaws in fiery feathers of crimson and gold.
In Brussels, on the crowded
street, a woman stoops
to make kissing sounds at a silky
gray cat. Then a young man
crouches beside her,
purrs in her ear. After that
it is love. Drunk with it,
they do their best to stumble
to where someone stays.
You can take it on faith
that lovers push past
what they see, to what feels
like satin on bruised fingertips.
Trust me, their tongues
will lap the very milk of dreams.
Steve Klepetar’s work has received several nominations for the Pushcart Prize and Best of the Net, including three in 2014. Three collections appeared in 2013: Speaking to the Field Mice (Sweatshoppe Publications), Blue Season (with Joseph Lisowski, mgv2 publishing), and My Son Writes a Report on he Warsaw Ghetto (Flutter Press). An e-chapbook, Return of the Bride of Frankenstein, came out in 2014 as part of the Barometric Pressures series of e-chapbooks by Kind of a Hurricane Press.
Trying to Do a Little Better
The moon, that patrician of the night,
looks uneasy, disappointed.
Maybe it’s had a glance at the awful
t.v. movie I’ve been watching—the one
where the sexy but murderous substitute
falls for the clueless, high school principal.
I have no defense and the moon knows it.
The good news is I fall asleep before
the climatic ending—before, I suppose,
the speech the killer gives, blaming it all
on her first husband and her mother too,
right before the police arrive to rescue
the principal and his daughter and filling
our substitute with bursts of bullets—
and I wake to the sports round up
and notice that the moon seems flushed
with a brighter color, a clear contentment
on its strong-willed, craggy façade.
Tomorrow, I tell it, I’ll check out the first
part of the three part series ‘Monetary History
from the Ancient World to the Modern’—
the least I can do for the moon, shabby as I am.
The Perfect Day Arrives
Which means there’s nothing required of me
and I take full unabashed advantage.
I do, albeit slowly, make my way
onto the carousel of the world, grabbing
the pole and enjoying the ride on my high horse.
When it stops I slide off and head right
for the ice cream shop that’s been closed for decades
and is open now only until midnight, open for me
and the multitudes I see gathering quickly.
Take your time, tomorrow, everyone waiting,
longing for a scoop has to be served.
Tim Suermondt is the author of two full-length collections of poems: Trying to Help the Elephant Man Dance (The Backwaters Press, 2007) and Just Beautiful (New York Quarterly Books, 2010.) His third collection Election Night and The Five Satins will be published early in 2016 by Glass Lyre Press. He has poems published and forthcoming in Poetry, The Georgia Review, Prairie Schooner, Ploughshares, Blackbird, Bellevue Literary Review, PANK, North Dakota Quarterly, december magazine, Plume Poetry Journal and Stand Magazine (U.K.) among others. He lives in Cambridge, MA with his wife, the poet Pui Ying Wong.
To my eye, she had the perfect pair of lips,
the young woman seated in the trolley car.
The top one curved just so,
curling slightly upward at the tips,
thus bracketing a central pair of small pink peaks
first formed when God’s finger pressed
beneath her nostrils to give her breath.
It reclined upon the lower one,
like a lady balanced on an ottoman,
a plush pink pillow of a pedestal.
I thought of asking for a smile,
for a keepsake held in memory,
but in the end decided not to interrupt
her eyes downcast in the modern mode,
not so much in modesty, just intent
in watching words in ranks
scroll across her phone.
There Never Will Truly Be Closure
Each year your birthday rubs the scab off my heart.
I remember the sorrow of loss, reexperience it.
Grief somehow seems energized,
not dulled, by repetition, by practice.
As I have told others,
I can’t say it gets better,
but it does get different;
the familiarity gives echoes,
Why am I such a bell,
a bell that strikes itself?
The clapper is my heart,
and so is the bell.
Keith Tornheim, a biochemistry professor at Boston University School of Medicine, has been published in Ibbetson Street, Boston Literary Magazine, Poetica, Spare Change News, Muddy River Poetry Review, and Lyrical Somerville (The Somerville News). His poems have been a part of High Holiday and other services of his congregation. www.shirhadash-ma.org/poetry.html. His poem cycle Spoiled Fruit: Adam and Eve in Eden and Beyond (Poetica) has just been published, and Fireflies (Big Table Publishing) will appear this fall.
After Fifty Years Together
there is no more resentment
when she cooks his eggs each morning
and doesn’t sprinkle them with enough cayenne.
When he says, “Stop moving my god-damned things,”
he says it with a smile,
even when he means it.
When she thinks of the apartment in the city
where she designed gold-lamé scarves of soaring birds
and which she took to escape the loneliness and silence
that met her when he was writing,
she is glad to be home.
When they have a drink together each night they listen,
enjoying the memories, the stories, the silence.
When they hold hands,
they are no longer thinking about other things
or other people,
When they close each day sitting on the porch
of the house he built stone on stone,
and they watch the sunset paint the fields he used to plant,
the colors and the stillness and the courtship songs
of the Chuck-will’s-widows are enough.
Rob Jackson is a Stanford professor whose most recent poems have appeared in Southwest Review and Avocet. He has published two books of children's poetry with the Highlights magazine group (Animal Mischief and Weekend Mischief) and has read his poetry on National Public Radio.
Last night he saw
at the porch door
an image visit of his son,
wavering along a line of speed—
standing there, shaking and mumbling
with dazed, scattered looks, haunted eyes
shifting, avoiding anything direct and honest.
The young man tottered off the bottom step,
regained a bit of balance. Thin shoulders were bent
under the weight of a large backpack, with handles
and pieces of this and that sticking out.
He said he was tired, so very tired and hungry.
Eyes pleaded. Mouth opened and shut. Opened. Shut.
Finally, a ten-dollar bill turned those eyes away.
When she turned forty-one, she decided
enough was enough and went downtown.
She wore her killer black-spangled dress
with fm heels, and chic black-beaded purse.
She walked into her favorite bar,
slowly placed her butt upon a stool,
and looked around to address
what might happen if she erased
away a bit of forty-one.
She chanced a glance at a neighboring male,
worked up a smile for him. She spent
his dollars talking wiles
and exercising female guiles.
Then at the moment of last call,
she rubbed his arm, felt young black hairs
curl up around her fingers. She smiled,
nodded, and that was that.
Dennis Herrell writes both serious and humorous poems about his life in this civilized society. (Poking fun at himself is almost a full-time job.) He especially likes to look at the small things in everyday life that make us (him) so individual and vulnerable. Recent acceptances by Atlanta Review, Aura, Aurorean, Christian Science Monitor, Confrontation, Connecticut River Review, Pearl, Poem, Poet Lore, and others.
Larry D. Thomas
On paws furred and padded for quiet,
he oozes like a glob of warm honey
to a square of Mexican tile
where he naps on a rectangle
of noon sun pouring into the room
through a skylight like golden grain
in a silo. The silent blur
of a little insect stirs him awake.
He stalks it, swats it a time or two,
pins it to the tile with a paw,
tears off its legs one at a time,
and eats it. When night falls he'll climb
clothes in the closet of his mistress,
take a daring leap, curl fast asleep,
and dream tomorrow's antics
on a beam of the cathedral ceiling.
Larry D. Thomas, a member of the Texas Institute of Letters and the 2008 Texas Poet Laureate, is a longtime contributor of poetry to the Boston Literary Magazine. He has published several collections of poetry, the most recent of which is As If Light Actually Matters: New & Selected Poems which was released in June 2015 by Texas Review Press (Member, Texas A&M University Press Consortium).
Vincent S. Green
There is no air-conditioning and it
is too hot to sleep inside.
So my grandfather and I lie
on cots in our backyard.
Our neighbors arrive home from the beer
joint at midnight, drunk and quarreling.
He says, “Jesus, you were trotting around
half naked, no wonder he tried to grab you.”
She says, “Keep it up and I’ll be
buck naked next time.”
Then a man creeps up under our
neighbors’ window and listens.
He sees a ladder leaning against the
apricot tree and silently leans it
against the house and peers in.
The fight is over and I can hear
our neighbors moaning. The man
climbs higher on the ladder
to watch the lovemaking.
I whisper to my grandfather.
“Shouldn’t we do something?”
“No,” he says, “I’ll let him know in
the morning and he will gouge his
eyes out. Fucking Peeping Tom”
Vince Green is a partner and trial lawyer in a national law firm in Los Angeles. His poems have appeared in Cottonwood, Country Journal, Green Mountain Review and Boston Literary Magazine.
A Year Beyond the Accident
the body has not forgotten
where the Gods cruelly left their marks,
even as it sleeps half-naked in the sheets,
the presence of the imperfection
is its sea, its sky, its islands, stars—
a scar points to the eye labeled tired,
another to the brow where, behind the skin,
inside the skull, a brain tries to dream a better world
for a surface under siege—
but even inside her head
where children play
in grimly laughing parody of adults,
a long stretch of wet road
connects sand-box to pop-up book—
no matter where dreams may be;
the body gets behind the wheel anyhow,
hands steer, shins navigate,
stomach unfolds the maps,
feet take turns staring at the oncoming traffic,
ears scream at the car that jumps
the body has a good memory,
too good for the mind—
John Grey is an Australian poet, US resident. Recently published in New Plains Review, Perceptions and Sanskrit with work upcoming in South Carolina Review, Gargoyle, Owen Wister Review and Louisiana Literature.
Danny Earl Simmons
After three straight nights of butt-to-butt,
he indicates a willingness to surrender
by rolling to his right and coaxing her
into a hushed and giggly negotiation.
She twists against his raised white flag
and their lust for normalized relations
makes coming to terms a very easy thing.
But, just seconds before final ratification,
she pants, How about, a little later, we really talk?
He kisses her forehead, rolls back to his left
and shivers inside another lost détente.
Danny Earl Simmons is an Oregonian and a proud graduate of Corvallis High School. He is a friend of the Linn-Benton Community College Poetry Club and enjoys community theater. His poems have appeared in a variety of journals such as The Pedestal Magazine, Little Pautexent Review, IthacaLit, San Pedro River Review, and Off the Coast where he now assists as a member of the editorial staff.
After three days labor
and dilated to six centimeters
and trying not to push,
holding my legs together
as though they were the fulcrum
of a pair of scissors,
pretzels, my daughter’s head,
available to touch,
becoming pointed, a cone-head,
the doctor informed us
a C-section was her only way out,
so I lay on my side in a green
room buffeted by windows
and lots of bullseye glass
as the anesthesiologist inserted
a needle into my spine between
and even during contractions,
hold still don’t breathe, another
contraction, waves without end,
and then lying back, my hands
taped to two boards outstretched
Jesus on the Cross, I.V.s inserted,
the lights bright over me, suns
that birthed a world,
Jim sitting beside my head
wearing a green mask, or was he
standing? And then our little
baby out into the air,
crying, until Jim talked to her
and her world started in air
breathing, silented now by the comfort
of his voice, breathing in moisture
so different from the sea
I carried inside me,
that I had to let go,
let her air come in.
Walking the Tangle
To walk the tangle of daily living
I have a cat and a dog,
my heroin, my cocaine
my valium, all at once
taken internally through my eyes
or through my skin as I pat them;
no tightrope of bills worry they,
it’s only the caterpillar sleuthing
or the truck passing or how
soft is my pillow;
my meditators who know
nothing of Zen but everything
about forgiveness; sentient beings,
they forgive every moment,
they let everyone go before them.
Laura Rodley: Pushcart Prize winner, with work in Pushcart Prize XXXVII Best of the Small Presses, Best Indie Lit of NE, and Hunger Mountain, she is a quadruple Pushcart Prize nominee, quintuple Best of the Net nominee. Her chapbook, Your Left Front Wheel Is Coming Loose was nominated for a PEN L.L.Winship Award and Mass Book Award; her chapbook, Rappelling Blue Light also nominated for a Mass Book Award by publisher Finishing Line Press. Rodley published and edited five volumes of As You Write It, A Franklin County Anthology, of which Volume IV was nominated for a Massachusetts Book Award.
Mega Death shirt
Sideways Lakers cap
BMX bike in “Dark of the Moon Black”
Different generation, that’s all
But I do love her
She’s my Grandma after all
and Power brunch.
The Power gained is mighty.
An ability to pop buttons
off the straining fabric
of my cheap plaid shirt.
Doug Mathewson is seriously annoyed by the current “Mindfulness” movement. Annoyed to the degree he proposes an opposing campaign of “Mindlessness”. Anyone wishing to offer support or experience managing Kickstarter funding may contact him via this publication. Most recently his work has or soon will appear in Boston Literary Magazine, The Song Is, Poetry Pacific, and Virtual Verse.
Husbands Lost in Florida
They are still great destroyers of good women,
no longer deflowering, but widowing their wives.
Men shuffle and mill at heaven’s gate,
like a mass beaching before the Pro Shop door.
On the days men die they reveal their true selves,
sneaking off with tasks half-done,
never fulfilling all she wished or even what he promised.
But the hatchet is buried now from that old war.
Soon she’ll be moving, too, to a one-floor
house that will become her second story,
where the end will play out, leaving behind
friends, and a few shaky men
who, when husbands go away, seem to wander in.
But, she’ll admit, in bed on some nights
on her lips she still feels a kiss, slight and thin as
if they are kids again practicing to get it right,
and nagging reminders too, whenever she leaves,
to turn out the lights, because money doesn’t grow on trees.
As if he still is weighing in
while cruising by in his new infinity.
Where, after not hearing from him since forever,
he wants to invite her out again. Aw, Men.
Michael Maul has worked as everything from a janitor and dishwasher to a copywriter and assistant professor of English. He is currently living on Florida’s Gulf Coast near Anna Maria Island, where in addition to writing he also plays bluegrass music. His work has appeared in various literary publications, including Gravel Literary Review (March 2015), Pentimento magazine (January 2015), The Blue Lake Review (September 2014), The Front Porch Review (April and July 2014), The Montucky Review, Big River Poetry Review, and Bitterzoet Magazine. He is also a past winner of the Mercantile Library Prize for Fiction.
The Solitude of Noise
Michael C. Keith
Refuge for me exists in chaos.
So I shall stave off silence
with the roar of my breathing
and the clamor of my pulse.
Michael C. Keith teaches college and writes fiction. michaelckeith.com
They peer at me from the bureau;
sit on the box topped with two small
Seiko watches and wedding rings.
They skulk behind me: walking the dog
or in the quiet moment when the sun is setting.
Behind the framed pictures, they cry with me.
They grab a taste of the applesauce cakes
as they cool on the old racks. They clamber onto my shoulder
when looking at mountains or changing the car’s oil.
Ambushed, I thank that walnut box
for holding them secure.
Barbara Brooks, author of “The Catbird Sang” and “A Shell to Return to the Sea” chapbooks, is a member of Poet Fools. Her work has been accepted in Avalon Literary Review, Chagrin River Review, The Foundling Review, Blue Lake Review, Granny Smith Magazine, Third Wednesday, Shadow Road Quarterly, Indigo Mosaic Muddy River Poetry Review, Boston Literary Magazine and on line at Southern Women’s Review, Poetry Quarterly, Big River Poetry, Agave Magazine among others. She currently lives in North Carolina with her dog.
Jack M. Freedman
I remember our romp
Upon a flimsy bed
We were clothed
Yet our jeans served as skins
That bonded our legs
My torso covered you like a tent
And I shielded the storms
Deep chills from the air conditioner
And the tears in your eyes
I wiped as I touched your face
We were both depressed
To the point of being dangerous
To ourselves predominantly
And we were young
Two teenage boys
All we did was cuddle in the dark
Body warmth blocking the cold breeze
I rubbed your back with care
As you shook with anxiety
Upon the sweat-soaked sheets
Before my discharge from the psych ward
We were in each other's arms
Hugging each other for dear life
Our groins pressed against each other
As we squeezed the fear away
You loosened up as I massaged your shoulders
Caressed your back and tickled your armpits
For that period of time locked up
We gave each other our affection unconditionally
The kind when young boys attempt suicide and family isn't enough
Jack M. Freedman is a poet and spoken word artist from Staten Island, NY. He is the author of a book of poetry entitled Serotonin Seas and the editor of an anthology of poetry entitled Trails Through the Greenbelt. As a student, he recently graduated from The New School for Public Engagement with a certificate in Creative Arts and Healthcare.
I heard you died.
Why didn’t you ask me?
There are so
To have said
That now must
Writing verse and other creative endeavors have been part of Dan Nelson’s life since pre-adolescence. Like many for whom writing is central to their identity, he was encouraged and supported by marvelous teachers who motivated his writing. The iconic chair of The Johns Hopkins University Writing Seminar from 1947-1977, Dr. Elliot Coleman, was one of Nelson’s greatest influences and critics. Dan Nelson’s first book of poetry Performance was published in the early 1990s (Wombat Press, Nova Scotia, Canada), and a second volume will appear in 2016 tentatively entitled Minnesota & Other Poems.
His Caribbean blue eyes and boyish good looks tethered to effervescent charm.
Illuminated with compassion, his warm smile.
His very being woven into a charismatic and entrepreneurial cloak.
Only thirty two.
Born to surf.
He hailed from Rockaway Beach.
Majestically he conquered the most ferocious of waves.
But on a sun-drenched weekend in July,
A fatal head injury.
The tranquil call of the ocean ousted.
Our blood curdling screams reverberate.
Sterile fluorescent lit hospital corridors.
We form huddled masses
Faith shaken, endlessly we question.
His spirit, his presence relegated to a faint echo?
In time we learn, a young woman, blind since the age of ten sees once more.
A wounded war veteran, forty seven, breathes without a ventilator.
A sixty one year old male, no longer a prisoner to a dialysis machine.
Life emerges from death.
Cousin Timothy an organ donor.
His presence, his spirit scattered.
Patricia Rossi is an attorney, freelance artist and writer. Her poetry has been featured in Long Island magazines and published in “Poetry Haiku. Her personal essays have been published in major New York newspapers. One of her academic papers was featured in New York Magazine. Patricia leads creative writing workshops for cancer survivors. She is also the recipient of a number of New York state funded individual artist grants. Patricia has utilized the grant monies to create and implement writing empowerment workshops for women specifically in underserved communities in New York State. Patricia lives on Long Island with her husband Ed and their adorable pup, Flanagan.
I sat with my buddy who had a decision
to make. I'm thinking of marrying her,
man. We looked across at his girlfriend.
I don't blame you, man. She's the second
best looking bar girl in all of Saigon. He
laughed, knowing I referred to my own
girl friend. Yeah, but can you imagine the first
time I introduce her to my parents. Suppose
she squats down on her haunches? We contemplated
this. She saw us looking at her and smiled. Then
she reached her right leg out, picked up a grape
with her toes, and popped it in her mouth. This
added a whole new dimension to the problem.
It took us a while for it to sink in. At last
I looked at him and said, Well I guess that about ices it, man.
He nodded his head, but he was still
befuddled. Yeah, man, but . . . in what direction?
Jimmy Pappas served in Saigon, South Vietnam, under the Palace Dog program as an English language instructor for South Vietnamese soldiers. His poems are based on his experiences and those of his fellow Vietnam veterans. He went on to earn his M.A. in literature from Rivier University. Jimmy lives in Chichester NH where he is in the process of preparing his poetry for publication. His poems have appeared in such journals as Kentucky Review, Atticus Review, Red River Review, and War, Literature and the Arts. He is the most recent first prize winner of the New Hampshire Poetry Society's National Contest.