Margaret Boles margros7744@yahoo.com Bio (auto) Margaret Boles lives in Dublin Ireland Her poetry collection “Eye of the Tiger” is forthcoming from Sanbun Publishers in India. | | |
The following work is Copyright © 2008, and owned by Margaret Boles and may not be distributed or reprinted in any form whatsoever without written permission from the author.
Black-Hawk Down Black-Hawk down Yet another Black-Hawk Or Apache down One mother’s son With a gun And sons, Young men with Fathers Mothers Somewhere, downed, Brought down From the airNo fatalities, This time. Portuguese Fado Music I want to listen to Fado, And remember the whiff of danger Pale skin on a swarthy ring finger Night growing later, after a meal Of Lourenco Marques prawns Listening to Fado, Fado Thinking of Portuguese sailors Who’d once left Europe Brought their music, Language, and blended It into the African soil The tempo changed The stage was set The neon lights, They shone – And to the music The dancers danced Garments shedding the night club evolved Into strip show, And The dancer revealed For a split minute An unremarkable body, Almost middle-aged!
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Brianna Barrett
Bio (auto) My name is Brianna Barrett I grew up in a lovely, little house tucked away in a little pocket in the forest outside of Portland, Oregon Our roof was two different colors that don’t match, but we had flowerboxes under every window and a big front yard with a patio where I would draw entire towns out of side-walk chalk Now, older, I am a screenwriter and filmmaker bouncing between Portland, LA, and dreams about Canada. | | |
The following work is Copyright © 2008, and owned by Brianna Barrett and may not be distributed or reprinted in any form whatsoever without written permission from the author. The Past Was Never the Present My umbrella is keeping out the sunlight and locking in the rain on a gray Monday-morning-at-the-supermarket can’t-find-what-you-want- but-gotta-pick-something kind of day I told the girl at the bank I’d been turning pages in my checkbook more than pages in my journal She looked like a pinstripe wearing a jacket with pinstripes on it Back in the dayand I say ‘the day’ instead of 1992 because it makes me sound much more expert on the matter I remember when children grew here instead of weeds on babyfat summers where we had permission to get in trouble We commit each day to memory with sunshine as the present clouds with darker shades we can’t see through behind yesterday’s sunglasses I imagine somehow the Now and Then must be two separate entities which have never met It makes no sense that the past lives a vibrant existence between the goalposts of my mind while today seems a still frame photograph in black & white. |
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