Cheryl Caesar is an ex- expatriate, having lived in Paris, Tuscany and Sligo (Republic of Ireland) for 25 years. She earned her doctorate in comparative literature at the Sorbonne, and now teaches writing at Michigan State University. Her chapbook Flatman: Poems of Protest in the Trump Era is available from Amazon, although she hopes it will soon be of historical interest only. You can find her poems and artwork in Words Across the Water, published by Fractal Edge Press. Visit Cheryl on the web here.
The following work is Copyright © 2023, and owned by Cheryl Caesar and may not be distributed or reprinted in any form whatsoever without written permission from the author.
Meditations from the throne
In window squares of sky I see profiles
pillow-white, speaking softly,
parents in a nursery.
I tear off a square white piece; the paper chaff
flies up like phantoms in surcease,
thoughts I’m ready to release.
Toes flex against tile, to the weeest pig,
who cried. Muscles stretch and smile,
all up the back body, while
a soft voice says, in the ear’s bone hollow,
Go easily on your way.
You have all you need today.
David M. Harris
Until 2003, David M. Harris had never lived more than fifty miles from New York City. Since then he has moved to Tennessee, acquired a daughter and a classic MG, and gotten serious about poetry. His work has appeared in Pirene’s Fountain (and in First Water, the Best of Pirene’s Fountain anthology), Gargoyle, The Labletter, The Pedestal, and other places. His first collection of poetry, The Review Mirror, was published by Unsolicited Press in 2013. He lives in the outskirts of Kingston Springs, TN.
The following work is Copyright © 2023, and owned by David M. Harris and may not be distributed or reprinted in any form whatsoever without written permission from the author.
Bacon, scrambled eggs, oatmeal
(butter melting on top), and oranges on the table.
Coffee, too, of course; the priest led the charge there,
grabbed her cup of morning consciousness
and opened the discussion: “A loving god wants us
to be awake to appreciate his creation.”
What Gets Lost
Does my daughter dial her phone,
or punch numbers, or even use it
to make calls? Does she know why
those changing numbers
on a clock are called a face?
She has never seen a television
where you could change the channels
by hand, without a remote. Maybe in
an old movie, so old it has no
CGI. Those ancient pop groups
that Dad makes her listen to —
The Grateful Dead, The Rolling Stones —
are as distant from her
as Al Jolson is from me.
No wonder she doesn’t get
so many of my jokes. I miss a lot
of hers. But she knows how to change
the channels and find my shows
when we watch tv together.