Shirley Obitz
Shirley Obitz is a writer, musician, composer, poet, and photographer. She has produced music for Grant Brett, one of Portland, Oregon’s upcoming innovative singer-songwriters, and scored the music to Pandora’s box, a two-act play written by the late JD Chandler, a well-known Portland crime historian and author of several books on the subject. Shirley has worked as a Production Assistant on Le Tram, an award-winning film by El Gato Negro. In addition, she worked behind the camera shooting music concerts and documentaries. She currently resides in Albuquerque, New Mexico. Visit Shirley on the web here.
The following work is Copyright © 2022, and owned by Shirley Obitz and may not be distributed or reprinted in any form whatsoever without written permission from the author.
When Angie Speaks
When Angie speaks
It’s not words I hear
It’s the clack of a pool ball mouth
When Angie speaks
It’s the burn of whiskey on a dry throat
It’s crushed cigarettes
Buried deep in the sand
On some Corpus Christi beach
When Angie speaks
I hear agony in Texas grit nightmares
Exploding in her mind
When Angie speaks
I hear her head bashed in
I hear her feet
Wildly trampling over the grass
When Angie speaks
With lowered eyes
I hear caskets shut
I hear the flowers cry
I hear Angie’s joy die
It’s not words I hear
When Angie speaks
Adele Kenny
Adele Kenny, author of 25 books (poetry and nonfiction), has been widely published in the U.S. and abroad. Her awards include first prize in the 2021 Allen Ginsberg Poetry Awards, NJ State Arts Council poetry fellowships, a Merton Poetry of the Sacred Award, and Kean University’s Distinguished Alumni Award. Her book A Lightness … was a Paterson Poetry prize finalist. She is also the author of Wind Over Stones. She is poetry editor of Tiferet Journal and founding director of the Carriage House Poetry Series. Visit Adele on the web here.
The following work is Copyright © 2022, and owned by Adele Kenny and may not be distributed or reprinted in any form whatsoever without written permission from the author.
Stars, Like Souls
When I was a child, my father made
sense of it. Orion tilted at his fingertips,
and he rocked Cassiopeia’s chair with
hands so big I thought he would hold
me and all the stars forever. But stars,
like souls, step out of their bodies –
light more than light.
Tonight, frost burns the marigolds. A
last bird sings. I sit at my table and turn
a spoon sticky with sugar over and over
in my hands until my fingers shine the
way my father’s did in that neighborhood
of stars, that world I believed was the
world without end.
