Regarding Lemons

(R.A.D. Stainforth and lemons and so on...)


Those lemons I bought at Christmas

are still in the fridge―

I had the best intentions

of squeezing them in Bloody Marys,

slathering curd on holiday toast,

but my pucker forgot,

preoccupied with pressing

unseasonal lemonade,

playing spoon and sugar,

flaying lodberries

with your lips.

tk/February 2013

Joseph Lorusso 

Join The Mag creative writing group.

Godiva

My mouth rides

the escalator,

releases the beast.

I rise from my socks,

leave my clothes

on the mezzanine,

settle on a pair

of God's holy trousers.

Valentine's is a reason

to buy myself a box.

tk/February 2012

Listen to R.A.D. Stainforth's scrumptious reading:

Visit his excellent blog Black Dogs.

Join The Mag creative writing group.

modern fugue

We sing plain American

and play, achingly similar,

in a flux of singing telegrams.

Through well-tempered episodes

and false entries, we build

like a Midwest summer

fever, an infection

of synonymous tumors, ripe

with tonic chords

Gershwin would admire.

The house water runs

warm and loud until everything

goes silent; but it’s never

entirely silent, to be murdered

by a song.



Tess Kincaid
February 2011



Would you like me to read it to you?

Painting by American artist George Tooker.

valentine

Make me a willow cabin at your gate,

And call upon my soul within the house;

Write loyal cantons of contemned love

And sing them loud even in the dead of night;

Halloo your name to the reverberate hills

And make the babbling gossip of the air

Cry out 'Olivia!' O, You should not rest

Between the elements of air and earth,

But you should pity me!
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William Shakespeare

from Twelfth Night, Act I, Scene V

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photo google images