J.F.KADLEC

Just another
one
looking for the
light switch

he wrote upon
a sea of gravestones

k.j. maas

Silence

She wondered what it was like in his silent
world, and wished she could tell him. Instead,
she traced his eyebrows with her fingertips.

[from HINT FICTION]

Poor Sparrow’s Almanac

SPARROW

In a “free store” in Woodstock, New York, I found The Autobiography and Other Writings, by Benjamin Franklin — an edition celebrating the three-hundredth an­niversary of Franklin’s birth. I’d already read the autobiography, so I began the se­lected writings. Early in our history Franklin helped define the American personality, most notably through his proverbs, published in Poor Richard’s Almanack: “There are no Gains, without Pains.” “Diligence is the Mother of Good Luck.” “Plow deep, while Sluggards sleep, and you shall have Corn to sell and to keep.” All that industry, hard work, and thrift — just reading it is exhausting! I vowed to write a new series of proverbs to counteract Franklin’s and free Americans from busyness and worry. My goal is to assemble an army of daydreamers.

Don’t put off till tomorrow what you can put off for three days.
There will be plenty of time to work when you’re dead.
Jesus quit his job.
The unexamined life is not worth examining.
Even God worked for only six days, then took a vacation.
Smart people save their pennies; fools give lavish banquets. But who has more friends?
If at first you don’t succeed, stop trying so hard.
No man is self-sufficient (though some women are).
Sisyphus was a highly productive worker.
We have free-range chickens, but where are the free-range people?
How sad that so many hammocks are empty!
What looks like inefficiency is often happiness.
The rich chuckle; the poor laugh.
The concept of “stress” has made the world more stressful.
Tap your potential — but tap it lightly!

[from THE SUN, August 2012]

Excerpts:
LILLIPUT REVIEW
#186, #187

Editor’s Note: Literature-ly speaking—-STILL, one of the best bangs for your buck to be found on the little mag scene here or abroad. Don Wentworth knows the territory (write small, publish ‘little’, think big), knows the word, cherishes and celebrates it like few others on the little mag/small press scene. Not to mention he keeps the doors of publication open to one and all, first-timers, old-timers… Something rare. We all owe him our support.

LR is published quarterly, shipped two issues at a time, every 4th issue being a broadside that features the work of a single poet. All poems submitted should be 10 lines or less, 3 poem maximum per submission. SASE or in the trash. All poems should be previously unpublished, unless noted. Payment for accepted work is 2 copies of the issue in which the work appears. Reporting time is 2 to 12 weeks.

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– Norbert Blei

chill
summer suddenly old age

- t. kilgore splake

Crow
is back—

spring’s black eye.

- Robert E. Wood

around my neck
the knot
my father taught me

- Noel Sloboda

from LILLIPUT, #186, Summer 2012, $1]

RICHARD JONES

WHITE TOWELS

I have been studying the difference
between solitude and loneliness,
telling the story of my life
to the clean white towels taken from the dryer.
I carry them through the house
as though they were my children
asleep in my arms.

[from THE BLESSING: New and Selected Poems, Copper Canyon Press 2000]

LOUIS SIMPSON

IN THE SUBURBS

There’s no way out.
You were born to waste your life.
You were born to this middleclass life

As others before you
Were born to walk in procession
To the temple, singing.

–Louis Simpson

[from: AT THE END OF THE OPEN ROAD, Wesleyan, 1960]

DAVE ETTER

PATRICIA WELLS:

Monday Morning

The six
fat crows
that sit
on the
bare limbs
of my
ash tree
stare with
dead eyes.

They know
damn well
I have
heavy
debts I
cannot
never
ever
repay.

CRYSTAL GAVIS:

Depressed After Being Fired from Another Job

The black ant drags a bread crumb
clear across the kitchen floor.

That’s something else I can’t do.

ESTELLE ETHEREGE:

Fifty

Today I am 50 years old. 50!

Coming up the hill from the meat market,
I can see that my house is in sad shape.
The front porch sags, a window is broken,
and the wind chips off flakes of paint.

51, 52, 53, 54, 55, 56…70!

[from ALLIANCE, ILLINOIS, Spoon River Poetry Press, 1983]

SHINKICHI TAKAHASHI

The wind blows hard among the pines
toward the beginning
of an endless past.
Listen: you’ve heard everything.