Artwork featured in the Spring Issue of Third Wednesday:
“Abandoned Ship”, Photograph by Jennifer Lothrigel
Abandoned Ship
Author: Editorial Staff
Morel Hunting
Spring is finally here and some of us will soon be taking to the woods in search of the wily Morel mushroom, Here’s our poem of the week from poet Brad Garber of Lake Owego in Oregon, who likes to talk to his prey while he’s stalking it. Whatever works Brad.
Morel Hunting
It’s your wrinkled countenance I seek
There, beneath the duff, unassuming
Quiet secrets the mark of your being
Aspens, their young around you
Bowing in reverence. I have sought this
In others easier to discover, and louder
Voices calling out from the woods.
There are fireflies along the coast
Calling mariners home, confident
In their place, nothing hidden, nothing.
My boots scuff the ground, moving
Last year’s leaves, like ideas, aside.
All things lying in my way, hiding
Your delicacy, your mysterious choices
Like schools of fish, divert my advance.
In them, seeing myself, covering
The lens of the light until it sneaks
Into itself, erupting like a horn
From the animal beneath the earth
I will find the way to gather you.
Brad G. Garber
Lake Oswego, Oregon
Skiing In March
We’ve had our first day of spring, but it’s still March. Here’s a poem from Canadian poet, Susanne von Rennenkampff, that reminds us that spring may not be just around the corner in all parts of the world, and for some people, that’s cause for celebration.
Skiing In March
Maybe
if you forget it’s March,
forget that elsewhere
they’ve been wearing shorts
for weeks;
if you are suddenly
stopped in your tracks
by the intricate pattern
rising on the white trunk
of a birch, the rows upon rows
of silvery beads;
if you feel the bright splash
of rosehips on fresh snow,
crimson like blood
from the queen’s finger,
and do not flinch;
if you kneel down,
put your two fists
side by side
in the prints
of the moose
that crossed the trail
this morning;
maybe then
you will be grateful
that you still can ski
while elsewhere
snowdrops and primroses
have bloomed for weeks.
Susanne von Rennenkampff
Alberta, Canada
Read the Spring 2017 Issue
The Spring Issue of 3rd Wednesday
The Air Smelled Dirty
Massachusetts poet, Marge Piercy, remembers when houses were heated with coal. My family referred to our coal furnace as “The Octopus”.
The Air Smelled Dirty
Everyone burned coal in our neighborhood,
soft coal they called it from the mountains
of western Pennsylvania where my father
grew up and fled as soon as he could, where
my Welsh cousins dug it down in the dark.
The furnace it fed stood in the dank
basement, its many arms upraised
like Godzilla or some other monster.
It was my job to pull out clinkers
and carry them to the alley bin.
Mornings were chilly, frost on windows
etching magic landscapes. I liked
to stand over the hot air registers
the warmth blowing up my skirts.
But the basement scared me at night.
The fire glowed like a red eye through
the furnace door and the clinkers fell
loud and the shadows came at me as
mice scampered. The washing machine
was tame but the furnace was always hungry.
Marge Piercy
Wellfleet, Massachusetts
Slow Dance in the Kitchen
The best love poems avoid the use cliche words like love, heart, and soul. Here’s an example from Connecticut poet, Gina Forberg.
Slow Dance in the Kitchen
Clumsily he grabs my arm,
threads our fingers,
wraps his spare hand
around my baby fat waist.
Eyes a serious, recessive
blue inch up to my nose,
and he leads me, his arms
pointed, taut like a warrior
with a bow and arrow
toward the open window.
We spin in circles, feet light
on the cold tile floor
and I think of how I still
have to make him lunch,
drive him to the bus stop,
but when I look at his
eyelashes like butterflies
blinking, nothing is more
delicious than this moment
and when he dips me
and presses his lips
a little too long,
a little too hard
against mine,
I lose my balance,
grab his shoulders,
save myself from falling.
Gina Forberg
Fairfield, Connecticut
Your Voice
Our Poem of the Week comes to us from Malta. It’s not easy to write a fresh piece about a topic that’s been written about so much.
Your Voice
I hear your voice
As you talk on the phone with your friends
The kindness in your words is convincing
The laughter genuine
And for a split of a second
I remember
when you used to speak in the same tone to me
the same sincere laughter
and I forget
that it’s the same voice
you use to bludgeon
the insignificant
me
Kristyl Gravina
Zabbar, Malta
Groove Interrupted
Literature is a way for us to have experiences, good or bad, that we have no way to experience for ourselves. Poetry can be especially good at doing this, as demonstrated by our poem of the week, written by California poet, Deborah LaFalle.
Groove Interrupted
Huge ‘fros, perfect spheres of nappiness
five deep in M’s ‘60 Chevy Impala
subtle swaying to the silky smooth soul
of the Delfonics on 8-track
Didn’t I blow your mind this time?
Suddenly a siren, flashing red lights
consume the rear window
Our eyes meet each others’
bewildered – What’s up?
M ejects tape
Heavy-set officer approaches
takes the blue stance
“License and registration.”
We know the drill
M obliges
“Where’re you all going?”
“To get something to eat –
dorm cafeteria closed on weekends.”
I’m thinking…
Why should we have to explain?
“Is there something wrong officer?”
“I’ll ask the questions.”
Silence
flashlight beams in our faces
then in our laps
A walk around the car
looking, hoping
to find something
some small shred of evidence
to cite, worst yet – arrest
“Open the glove box.”
M obliges again
Nothing
Officer chucks M his IDs
“Luck was on your side tonight.”
Once back in his squad car
we exhale, M slides tape back in
but we don’t resume the sway
We’re not hungry anymore
Another day of DWB.
Deborah LeFalle
San Jose, California
Henry’s Swing Club
Satan bebopped into Detroit
with a wad that would choke
The Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse
with a Saturday Night Special
holding a Full Metal Jacket Load
and with a Hell Hound Harmonica
one of those diatonic harps in the Key of C.
The devil came from Kansas City
and went dashing into Henry’s Swing Club
looking to jam with the hipsters and hustlers
the freakish Maltese Kittens and Fly-Girls
thinking he was DOWN with IT
but truth-be-told he was stickin’ like a Honky.
When Satan riffed back for a 12 Bar Blues
trying to hang with Boom, Boom, Boom, Boom
he got the boot once again off the Tree of Life
went for his Roscoe and got it snatched
came up late on his left-hand raise
and got his ass busted wide open again
for a parade of sinners to march on through
just like in that painting by Hieronymous Bosch.
Mark James Andrews
Harper Woods, Michigan
Third Wednesday Magazine 