ISSN: 1941-4137
POETRY THAT ENACTS THE ARTISTIC AND CREATIVE PURITY OF GLASS
POETRY THAT ENACTS THE ARTISTIC AND CREATIVE PURITY OF GLASS
Cover
Masthead
Susan Deer Cloud:
Playing Marbles
Dan Nowak:
A Return to the Past After History Failed Me
Katie Hartsock:
The Sun Does Not Rise, We Turn To It
Naomi Glassman:
Miles until Michigan
Michael Keshigian:
Landlord
Andrew Terhune:
The Rabbits of Chicago Wait Only for Me
Mel Sarnese:
Family Reunion
David W. Landrum:
Jugville, USA
Todd Heldt:
The Problem with Memory
Tad Richards:
Mittens
Benjamin Russell:
Picasso's Loaves, 1952 (a photograph by Robert Doisneau)
Richard Lighthouse:
activities during meetings
Ryan A. Bunch:
At the Graveyard
Samuel S. Vargo:
Just a Rainy Night in Georgia
Caitlin Ramsey:
Handy
Kyi May Kaung:
Geese
Steve Klepetar:
Kids Today
Steve Trebellas:
Sweet Dimes
Dan Nowak:
Walking Through a Snow Storm is Like Waiting to Call Yourself
Kathleen Boyle:
O Nonni
Katerina Stoykova-Klemer:
Stones
Susan Deer Cloud:
Asthma
Patty Paine:
salt; or the night you left
Kyi May Kaung:
I come from …
Allan Peterson:
My Math
Maw Shein Win:
throwing sparklers at the green mezzanine
Kim Roberts:
Summer Rain
Samuel S. Vargo:
Fotophone
Janice D. Rubin:
Interstate 5
Patrick Loafman:
An Idiot's Guide to the Blue Cat
Saeed Jones:
Eve on Top
Jean Tupper:
Gisela, my friend …
Michael Spring:
Leaving Belfast
Ryan A. Bunch:
Annual Toads
Katie Hartsock:
Leaving the Forest
Contributors
Volume One Issue Two
Playing Marbles
-for Erelene & Danny
They were talking over the phone about February,
the way winter drags on, how they used to play marbles
at the first sign of thaw. They marveled at why kids
no longer play marbles. The younger sister said
sometimes she discovered lost marbles or shards
of them gleaming in dirt by the old schoolhouse.
She always carried such treasures home
to place around flower pots. They spoke
about crystals, aggies, cat's eyes, their colors
far prettier than jewels. The elder sister asked,
"Do you still have our marbles? When I visit
the Catskills, let's shoot marbles in the melting
snow." They both started laughing. What?
Them lose their marbles? They mourned
those who had metamorphosed to zombies,
the "grown ups" who believed it foolish
to pump themselves up on swings to see
if they might touch the sky. Come spring,
they vowed once more they'd swing high, fly
over sparkles beading Willowemoc River,
hair lifting in sun as silver wings. They
agreed to keep childlikeness in their hearts.
Nor did they use any big words like God.
They didn't need to. Rolling the sacred hoops
of marbles across snow crystals, dreaming
towards the light until they were eagles,
was enough.
Glass: A Journal of Poetry is published by Glass Poetry Press.
All contents © the author.
