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
The Sun Does Not Rise, We Turn To It
My father carries two chairs just past
the dunes and sets them up
as I head for the shoreline
in his racquetball champions jacket,
jeans rolled up to my knees
feet flinching at March's Atlantic.
Scattered beyond a tide pool I find
bits of crustacean sharp skin, and am convinced
they are the jaws of shattered swordfish.
He sits next to the empty chair and won't
come to the water, his hip
hardly lets him walk on the sand.
Down in the wet of the dawn,
I gather the pieces, waxy, smelly,
glittering like black and lavender onyx.
When I was a child I saw
the most beautiful crab that ever existed,
and as I gaped at its colors,
a fisherman's mallet
smashed it apart, into bait.
I arrange my pieces into a fish shape on the beach,
as though they want reunion.
If I could swim to Ohio.
Limping, he carries the chairs to the car,
waves; he'll wait for me there.
Glass: A Journal of Poetry is published by Glass Poetry Press.
All contents © the author.
