POETRY: Jason Bertucci – A Farewell to Becky

A Farewell to Becky

a country girl reclines on her back porch

the twinkle of moonshine in her eye

born and raised in her small town

she sits on the precipice of change

one last party at her little house

a bittersweet haze in the air

old memories packed in boxes

familiar scents drifting away

the young girl tired of gossip

and the same old people she knows

she’s moving on to New York City

a big grey bird flies to her new home

there’s a job waiting on the 9th floor

and a new, faster way of life

trading barns, horses and wheat fields

for hope, glass, concrete and stone

she’ll find subways and taxis

instead of old pickups and dirt roads

from one world to a melting pot

only takes one dream to rule them all

maybe she’ll get lost in the shadows

or wind up on the cover of a magazine

she has only a few contacts

but she’ll make plenty more

one last look back over her shoulder

as she winds up for that giant leap

and opens a brand new door



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POETRY: Jessica Wiseman Lawrence – Birds




Water breaks for Terns and Petrels

diving to an unknown thing,

then up from water into air –

with no clumsy shaking or annoyance –

for them this is life and as easy as the atmosphere.


I saw a little grey sparrow land on a fence

when I arrived at a place I promised I’d be.

My car hummed,

and everything was humming,

and everything was noise.

We are just noise to everything.


Ahead, two crows pecked at grass, at seemingly nothing,

and feasted on worms and fleas

ignored. We toss simple things

away, we’ve thrown up


our hands to more food than could feed

countries full of children.

There is no flight enough to make us

comfortable with the animals we are.

There is nothing enough to make us the birds

we could be.


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POETRY: Bonnie Wehle – O’Hare, Gate C22

O’Hare, Gate C22

He was sobbing,

swarthy, unshaven,
and wore a fringed scarf loosely wrapped
around his neck.
Perhaps he was leaving home, a loved one,
traveling to a parent’s funeral.

Swarthy, unshaven, fringed scarf around his neck.

He paused opposite me, set down a duffle bag,
rummaged in it, removed an object
covered in brown paper. I immediately thought of a bomb.
Next he took out a prayer rug, unrolled it,
knelt down, touched his head to the rug and prayed.

A fringed scarf around his neck.

Was he asking Allah for courage? Was he
on my flight? Should I
alert security? I was not the only worrier: the woman
next to me had begun to fidget.

Swarthy, unshaven

Still crying audibly, he packed up the object and his rug
headed down the concourse, away from my gate.
No planes were blown up that day and none
were turned back because of a sobbing,
man who wore a scarf around his neck.


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