December 2-8, 2019: Poetry from Robert Wynne and Yvonne Morris

Robert Wynne and Yvonne Morris

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Robert Wynne
robert.wynne@sbcglobal.net

Bio (auto)

Robert Wynne earned his MFA in Creative Writing from Antioch University. A former co-editor of Cider Press Review, he has published 6 chapbooks, and 3 full-length books of poetry, the most recent being “Self-Portrait as Odysseus,” published in 2011 by Tebot Bach Press. He’s won numerous prizes, and his poetry has appeared in magazines and anthologies throughout North America. He lives in Burleson, TX with his wife and 3 rambunctious dogs. Visit Robert on the web here.

The following work is Copyright © 2019, and owned by Robert Wynne and may not be distributed or reprinted in any form whatsoever without written permission from the author.

 

Salvador Dali Prepares a Late Snack

– For Jaimes Palacio

The forgetful horizon peels like old wallpaper,
draping the buttery moon with blinking stars

until it’s winking even more coyly than usual.
A copy of the Beatles unreleased Beige album

melts into caramel over a bowl of white popcorn
as olive oil rains down like drunken applause

near the end of another wedding reception.
On the back of a burro with mile long legs

a thick piece of sharp cheddar is arguing
with a hunk of gouda, while what’s left of

a mini turkey sandwich folds itself awkwardly
over the edge of a jukebox like an apology.

Baby Carrots birth themselves bright orange
from open hands with teeth in each palm.

The artist’s face is reflected crimson
in a still pool of water with a dash of blood –

or perhaps cranberry juice, more bitter –
because this world’s not going to eat itself

despite the yawning pink tongue just waking
from dreams of clocks made entirely of ants,

faces hidden in plain sight, the hungry sun,
and words, always such useless words.

 

Belief

I have always questioned the existence
of dogs, so perfect at providing comfort
yet maddeningly impulsive, they seem

like a dream God might have had,
if there were a God. And maybe there is
reason to believe in mozzarella sticks

as they stretch so far from our lips
it’s like time travel in reverse.
The future welcomes us to wonder

what became of Brad Matson,
attic full of his father’s Playboys,
or Lester Sutton, wearing his anger

like a new Boy Scout badge. Childhood fails
to provide the context necessary
for us to understand the way

planes fall out of the sky every so often
no matter how much we wish
we could believe in anything

other than that which we can see:
bowling pins twirling their final dance,
the crescent moon obscured by clouds,

the cover of a Pink Floyd album
with no words, just black lines on white,
another theology waiting for us

to finally invent it.

 

 

 


Yvonne Morris
a.yvonne.morris@kctcs.edu

Bio (auto)

Yvonne Morris is the author of the chapbook Mother was a Sweater Girl (The Heartland Review Press, 2016). Her work has appeared in a variety of journals, most recently The Lake, and one of her poems is upcoming in Friday Poems. She has taught communication courses and tutored writing skills at Elizabethtown Community and Technical College for twenty-four years.

The following work is Copyright © 2019, and owned by Yvonne Morris and may not be distributed or reprinted in any form whatsoever without written permission from the author.

 

Mother was a Sweater Girl

Mother was a sweater girl who swore she’d seen Dillinger
standing on the running board of a coupe speeding down
the dirt road she lived next to outside Montpelier, Indiana—
a place she dreamed so hard of leaving that she ordered
herself a suitcase, and her mom and dad laughed, but she
colored her lips barn-red and found a man she couldn’t
get rid of, so she married him and made coffee and babies
and planted begonias, singing back to the birds and to me,
“Sweet, sweet, sweet.” By the time I was sixteen, mother
was ahead of her time at glamorizing men’s wear, making
all the wolves howl as she gardened in my father’s T-shirts
and growled to me, “Whoever gets you, girl, will have a tiger
by the tail” and warned me that I better learn to “nail my
pork chops down,” which I guess meant for me to be sensible,
but how could I be, being too much my mother’s kitten, and one
of the last times I saw her, she showed me a new pair of boots,
and I realized I’d bought a pair just like them. They were the kind,
we both could see, that would make the men wail Ahhhhooooh.

Previously published in the chapbook, Mother was a Sweater Girl
(Heartland Review Press, 2016)

 

 

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