Lori Lamothe llamothe29@gmail.com Bio (auto) I’ve got a chapbook, Camera Obscura, which was published by Finishing Line Press My poems have appeared in Blackbird, SHAMPOO, Alaska Quarterly Review, Linebreak and other magazines; I also have work forthcoming in failbetter.com and Barn Owl Review I live in Templeton, MA with my eight-year-old daughter and review books for Mostly Fiction and Curled Up with a Good Book. | | |
The following work is Copyright © 2008, and owned by Lori Lamothe and may not be distributed or reprinted in any form whatsoever without written permission from the author.
Dog Days Our neighbor draws a line across invisible, warns us even a big toe can trip the alarm between lives Meanwhile, my ringtone’s stuck on elevator and yes, there really is a fly trapped on the streaky side of ordinary .Laundry accumulates Spiders string guilt across unmown lawn and a Christmas tree orange as October daydreams about its funeral pyre This morning a deer leapt across expectation It leapt so high we felt like we were watching t.v As we drove home, we couldn’t help .noticing how the geraniums kept ungluing themselves from scenery, how the street had dropped its coat and stepped naked into rain. Cave of the Great Galleries
There were tales, though, from the early 1700s in which the Native Americans spoke of “Otsgaragee,” translated as “Cave of the Great Galleries” or “Great Valley Cave “ .The Remarkable Howe Caverns You would never guess not from the surface Big block letters laid out in stereo, white glaring on green as if the farmer who found rock blowing wind is still shouting his name When you arrive in Cretaceous sixteen stories down what surprises you most is not the way the music of water seems so much slower than the dripping of your own faucet, not the schools of blind fish threading paths through fear What surprises you most is how the walls keep opening into rooms never imagined what was hidden multiplying like mirrors blooming (originally published in Seattle Review)
|
Pamela Miller pmiller.enteract@rcn.com Bio (auto) Chicago poet Pamela Miller has published three books of poetry, most recently Recipe for Disaster (Mayapple Press, 2003) Her poetry has appeared in many print and online literary magazines and anthologies, including The Paris Review, Free Lunch, Pudding, After Hours, Wicked Alice, The MacGuffin, Zuzu’s Petals Quarterly Online, Spout, Dangerous Dames and Inhabiting the Body Her awards include three Illinois Arts Council Literary Awards for poetry, two First Prize awards in the Feminist Writers Guild poetry contest, and First and Second Prize in ChicagoPoetry.com’s Frieda Stein Fenster Memorial Poetry Awards She has performed her work in New York City, San Francisco, Detroit and many Chicago venues, including the Printer’s Row Book Fair, the Guild Complex, Woman Made Gallery, WBEZ (Chicago Public Radio) and the Chicago Cultural Center. | | |
The following work is Copyright © 2008, and owned by Pamela Miller and may not be distributed or reprinted in any form whatsoever without written permission from the author. Prophecies for the Year 2050 There will be sightings of fiery spaceships in the President’s bathroom mirror There will be hell to pay and water to bail Our hearts will grow as tiny and stony as cherry pits There will be whales in the bracken and penguins in the pines and skies so slippery the stars slide off There will be making of preternatural din The earth will evolve into fire and the water will crawl up on dry land The trees will be brittle as fingernails, bald as bats The mountains will twist into cryptic shapes There will be really nasty rainbows as grimy as unwashed necks There will be factories of laughter implanted in our chins The gargoyles on Notre Dame will read trashy novels all day The plague will start in Chile and gnaw its way north, then pinwheel across the world like a spinning scimitar Those rickety old stairs up to Heaven will be destroyed by a fire of suspicious origin Our leaders will be as soft and boneless as marshmallow Peeps There will be creepy-looking writing on walls of light that burst from the earth at night like ghostly fists Our dead will return wearing nightgowns of smoke and set our houses on fire And they’ll howl at us in foghorn tones, “It’s all your fault, your sticky-fingered fault!” There will be nothing left but fire and granite-hearted God, and He’ll have bigger things than fish to fry (Previously published in the print magazine After Hours, Issue No 17, Summer 2008 ) |
|