Hyacinth in Houston

Nathan S. Hall

The filth-film dulls the streets of my city
Metal on metal pierces my ears
She passes by and acknowledges my state
She is unhappy too

Her smirk reaffirms my hatred for this place
I try to rocket away but plummet, desiccated and trembling
My Hyacinth in Houston could sedate me now
Why does she pretend?

I praise the pockets of pleasure in my city,
Fewer and fewer
She has deep pockets, but they have been sewn shut
If only I had a pair of scissors.

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November

Chris Al Aswad

No bounce in the lengthening shadows across the stippled earth, no light
Comes glittering in . . .

Coldness oozes
Out of porous November, the fields, dull orange and russet
Under mounds of haze, scraped of worth.
The lonely stalklands become
Evanescent and arid.

My neighbor’s garbage is out on his drive,
Flaccid white plastic bag. The red
Draw-string is limp,
Sulking with the faded corn.

Yellowed sheaths blow across empty plots.
Crows stalk the dead lands in herds,
Lifting detritus with their beaks.
The combine groans, beating the last of the chaff.

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Pilgrim III

Robert S. Fulk

Two feet beat dust that Romans tread,
Eyes see sites seen by great thinkers,
Hands climb mountains touched by Ares,
And a soul sparks.

He is a foreigner, outside, searching for insight
Crawling through alleys and forums, watching them open like a clearing in the forest
As he sees the castles of the past fade,
He builds his house,
And coats his bricks in the mortar of journey.

A new patient ethic, observed from timeless men
Learned from trials to harden the gem
To make crucible magic
To become man.

His place at the round table lays vacant,
As he quests for his grail.

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