Poetry – THE CITY KEY

Three Poems by Ed Meek

Soundtrack of the City

The soundtrack of the city
can keep you up nights
or hum in the background
a discordant tune of wheels turning
and gears interlocking, trucks
unloading, planes taking off
and coming down.
The bass thumping in a passing
smoke-filled car. A Harley roaring
down the street. Sirens wailing
of rescues and D.O.A.
daytimes the volume
jumps to life with the birds
who serenade leaf blowers, lawn mowers,
horns, the ebb and flow
of traffic, the heavy breathing buses
the scraping skateboards,
barking dogs. The disembodied voices
of neighbors you’ll never know.

The Reserved Section

I’d wandered into the reserved section by mistake
but the performance had begun
and it was too late to escape
to the seats for the general public
my inexpensive ticket already paid for.
It was as if I had pulled back the curtain
and entered the first-class cabin–
been admitted to the club
and seated at the head table.
The champagne was vintage.
The caviar Russian.
The lights dimmed.
I was just behind
a Guggenheim and a Rockefeller.
They didn’t seem to see me.
I was invisible as I often am.
For once it was an advantage.
I glanced down the row at two
black women who smiled and nodded.

Hostages to Heat

In Brooklyn when the temp hits 90
the heat invades our claustrophobic co-op.
Outside, the cement sends the heat
up through our bodies in waves.
We float in our sweat like seals in the shallows.
I used to love the feel of sweat
blanketing my body
running in the mid-day sun
and playing pick-up basketball on black tar.
Now we dread summer days when
an orange disk occupies a hazy sky,
Particles of ash coat our lungs
and the sunlight sears our eyes.

Ed Meek is the author of four books of poetry and a collection of short stories. He has had work in The Sun, The Paris Review, Plume, The North American Review, The Boston Globe. He writes book reviews for The Arts Fuse. He is a contributing editor for The Rivanna Review. He teaches creative writing at the Osher Lifelong Learning Institute. He lives in Great Barrington with his wife Elizabeth and their labradoodle Mookie. His most recent book is High Tide.

“Temp Job” by James B. Nicola

Walk down Fifth Avenue for lunch hour when
you have a temp job in the Forties or
the Fifties; next day, do the walk again
and I’ll bet you a hundred to one you’re
not going to see any of the same
faces. I did this for about a year
when suddenly I thought I heard my name,
or something similar (I’m still not sure).

I turned and shook a total stranger’s hand.
He squeezed, I think, my upper elbow too
as if some mutual past permitted such
a thing. The passing gesture, so unplanned,
impressed me. I could not say where he knew
me from, but I shall not forget that touch.

James B. Nicola, a returning contributor, is the author of eight collections of poetry, the latest three being Fires of Heaven: Poems of Faith and Sense, Turns & Twists, and Natural Tendencies. His nonfiction book Playing the Audience: The Practical Actor’s Guide to Live Performance won a Choice magazine award.

“To Khulood al-Zaidi, Women’s Rights Activist” by Suzanne Morris

“Just to have the freedom to go wherever I wanted,
and to not think something bad might happen to me.”

I try to step outside
freedom’s airy shelter

and look in through
the open windows of my day:

how I stroll from house
to road, unafraid,

and, heart unflinching,
open the box to withdraw
the mail, then

wave at a friendly honk
from a passing car.

Nothing worthy of note
along the way.

Or so it seems,
until I think of her:

how, alone that time in Amman
she heeded a warning

and boarded a plane
for San Francisco

then rode the bus for hours
just because she could,

rode and rode
all over San Francisco,
just because she could

maybe her thoughts
drifting to Fern, who

might be there too,
had she survived

the short ride from Baghdad.

Imagine how,
by habit of mind,
she might have

lowered her eyes
from a stranger’s gaze

then, stepping out,
surveyed
the sloping street

for any suspicious sign;

how she might have
smiled to herself then, that

being free and being safe would
take some getting used to

at least for as long
as she was here

how she might already
have known that

Duty would call her home.

I think of her as I sit down
on my porch of an evening,
to read a book

how heedlessly I surrender
to a world of make-believe,

how easy it is to take
this small freedom
for granted.

The breeze picks up
and I look around,

suddenly alert.

I bring my fingers
to my cheeks,

trying to imagine myself
inside her skin:

the breeze upon her face
as she waits for the bus

in San Francisco.

Suzanne Morris is a novelist with eight published works, and a poet. Her poems have appeared in several recent anthologies, and in online poetry journals including The New Verse News, The Texas Poetry Assignment, Stone Poetry Quarterly and The Courtship of Winds. She resides in Cherokee County, Texas.

Two Poems by Shontay Luna

Chicago (in the early ‘90s)

I. North Side – A Yuppie and Generation X
potluck constantly battling each other as they
sit between streeted throngs of decapitating
movie theaters, army surplus and fetish shops.
A full day’s shopping on Belmont from the Red
Line; two blocks from west to east you can get
a burger, tattoo, condoms, and a doughnut in all
in one swing. Baseball’s most disillusioned fans
in their red and blue regalia, herd themselves
bleary eyed with Pabst in hand four blocks
north of the urban jungle.

II. South Side – Baseball’s flip side, slightly more
civilized but still hungry~ Chinatown a world by itself
within another windy one. Walking down it’s on avenue
encompassing; like passing through an avenue of
time. Bronzeville used to be a glistening as it sounded;
the ensuing decades dulling it’s former polish. Former
middle class turned buppieville Chatham reigns further
south while Hyde Park gives off Greenwich Village
vibes while providing a landscape for a generation x
stomping ground to the east.

III. West Side – Mexico’s a Little Village and a modernized
time travel trip upon the twenty and the 6. Helplessly dotted with
year – round molasses ass traffic before disappearing into
the realms of Cicero and Berwyn. Beyond that, the Spindle
and the mall. Commercialism a beer belly in a too-tight shirt.
Northeast of that, urban poverty simmers and reeks while
suburban spectators cheer for the Bulls.

IV. East Side – Waltzes with Indiana’s frontier, hugging the
farthest curve of Lake Michigan. Beaches of rocky shores
and outlines of warehouses that billow smoke in the not too
far distance. Ten miles south of downtown, it once was an
area of factories: its hardworking streets lined with rows of
homeowners who worked at any of the five steel mills in
the area. Offering anything along Commercial Avenue
so as not be bothered with making the lengthy trip downtown.
For a taste of aged cornucopia, come to my home, Chicago.

Typical Chicago Weather

The gentle
branches
flutter in
the early
Autumn
breezes
traveling
in July.
Weaving
through
pavé glass
vases
embellished
in color
crepe squares,
jumbled into
pixelated
rainbows.

Chicagoan Shontay Luna is a poet, blogger and fanfiction author. Her work first appeared in Anthology and Capper’s and her most recent appearances include The Crucible, Press II Press and Blue Lake Review. Her newest book is ‘The Goddess Journal – a tool for unlocking the Goddess within every Woman.’

“Sailing to Sanctuary” by LindaAnn LoSchiavo

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“Send these, the homeless, tempest-tost to me,
I lift my lamp beside the golden door!” Emma Lazarus, 1883

What made them leave their native lands by boat?

Some heard fierce military thunder, saw
A blood moon rise in new duplicitous
Skies gone gunmetal gray, ruth camouflaged.

Some farmers ached from death’s cruel carpet ride,
Drought, famine, floods, the disintegration
Of dreams, all gone, one at a time.

Some faced more personal oppression: skin
Tone, birthright’s claims denied, religious foes,
Recognizing that falsehoods were designed
To dominate. Truth’s weapons were inert.

Some knew their powerlessness to outgrow
A humble past or lifelong poverty.

Approaching Ellis Island, side by side,
Examining our Lady Liberty,
Dropping an arm’s warm anchor happily
Around each other’s neck, they sense change
Is close along with assimilation — —
The circularity of homeland’s quest.

LindaAnn LoSchiavo: Native New Yorker. Elgin Award winner. Nominated for The Pushcart Prize, Best of the Net, Ippy, Firecracker, etc. Member: BFS, HWA, SFPA, Dramatists Guild. Recent titles: “Vampire Ventures,” “Apprenticed to the Night,” “Always Haunted: Hallowe’en Poems.”

https://VampireVenturesPoems.com
LindaAnn Literary: https://www.youtube.com/channel/UCHm1NZIlTZybLTFA44wwdfg

“Cairo at Dusk” by Fred Tudiver

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The loudspeaker calling to sunset Maghrib prayer
carries through the sluice
of cardamom Cairo air
into the waterless, sandy dusk
filled with cars that speak their resolve.

I pray our ’82 Lada Zhiguli taxi
will make it to the hotel in Gezira,
memories of the last taxi ride break down
in Tahrir Square still fresh.

I can taste that pizza chased with iced karkadé tea
in Maison Thomas Pizza, under the flyover near the Marriott,
where the restaurant servers could not stop
touching Burt’s 3-year-old daughter’s blonde hair,
a shade they had never seen before.

After, we walk over to the hotel
and sip cold limones in the verdant garden bar
at the back.
Filled with stories.

Here’s the thing:
This poem is filled with vaporous nostalgia for
a Peace Corps style of working and living,
long forgotten by most.
Yet, perhaps this was my favorite life.

Fred Tudiver holds a BSc from McGill University, and an MD from Memorial University of Newfoundland. He is a new poet and likes to explore the human condition and the natural world. He has published in Black Moon magazine, Tennessee Voices Anthology, and the Canadian Medical Association Journal.

Two Poems by Richard Collins

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UNCLE HARLAN

I always loved when Uncle Harlan came to visit
Not often but when he did I didn’t miss it

He was what I didn’t know existed
Something our women called sophisticated

Back again from Europe he treated us
To a slideshow: Madrid, London, Paris

He wasn’t an uncle really of course
But some distant cousin, third or fourth

Handsome Uncle Harlan had style and taste
All the women whispered it was such a waste

That he was a (quote/unquote) Confirmed Bachelor
Which meant in those days he either played the women

Or played the woman to other men. I didn’t care
He was tall and angular, long neck and slick black hair

Peppered his speech with French and Spanish phrases
Failed to teach me not tongues but how to tie my shoes

I tie them still with clumsy loops like cowboy lassoes
That elicit laughter, so I switched to loafers like his

Soft Italian leather like skin to touch
Buffed to perfection, that is: not too much

He didn’t want to be tied down. Convention kills
He confided. His European souvenirs were personal

Secrets to be savored, not shared as public art
But hidden in the hollow camera of the heart

To this kid, it was no one’s business what he did
He’d been to Paris, London and Madrid.

SACRED CITIES AND PROFANE

Tlachihualtepetl

From the Garden of Edinburgh
Back to the city of brotherly love

A taxi stuck in snow in Swansea
Never reaches London, much less Copenhagen

A train breaks down at Saint Pancras Station
Canceled pilgrimage to Canterbury

A blushing romance in Bath
A surrender, a seduction, a velvet rejection

Legs remembered and streets forgotten
Amsterdam, Paris, Brussels, the Hague.

***

A plane lands clumsy as an Albatross
On a hijacked Grecian runway

For a honeymoon in Cretan caves
Pink and black Santorini sand

Worship in the bay of Kythera
Deep bows to terraced Sifnos vines

Tours and detours of Istanbul
Drowned nudes in underground cisterns

Selçuk’s Cavern of the Seven Sleepers
The sickness not quite unto Ephesus

Then back to mathematical Samos
And the legends of long-legged Lesbos

That was one life; this is another
In no particular order.

***

Driven to city after profane city
Touching down in Sofia, Timișoara

Far from naked rocks in the sea
Corinth and Thessaloniki

To Budapest and Bucharest
Cities asleep without rest

This is one life; that was another
Mixed like a cocktail with bitters and ice.

***

What about the car wreck on River Road
What about the pool cue sold

And what about the train wreck on the way from Trieste
To Belgrade, the engineer spatchcocked on a flatcar

On the very day that protesters in Tiananmen Square
Faced down tanks, next morning headlines in Athens told us.

***

Fact is, I died long before that in the City of Angels’
Valley of Slow Death, ascended in a Delta jet

Looked out over the panorama of my youth
Dry sands of Cucamonga to muddy waters of Pacoima

From the islands of Balboa to the beaches of Laguna
A trip to Venice for the price of a pawned guitar

Stolen kisses, kitsch and country music cliches
Marriages and mockeries and blood-soaked clouds

Tumbled down at last dead drunk and lost
In the haze of Ciudad de México, then Puebla

Long before the more fortunate infidelities of the fall
Resurrection an empty promise, or threat.

Richard Collins has lived in Eugene and Baton Rouge, Bucharest and Timisoara, Los Angeles and London, Swansea and now in Sewanee, Tennessee. His recent work has appeared in The Plenitudes, Willows Wept, and Marrow. A memoir, In Search of the Hermaphrodite, is out from Tough Poets Press (2024).

Two Poems by Ryan Harper

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Flight Path, St. Louis

Stressed skin—we were in descent—
there is only guessing westward
until the islands, the confluence,
the slant waters begin to tell true.

We have known Missouri by the props
and seams: levees, bottoms,
struts and stays of the highways
in crossing, headstones of Calvary
and Bellefontaine growing

on approach. We are knowing ourselves
as the great arch sways, close
quarters and wind-swung, teasing
expansive glances through small
frames—catenary upended, still
and ever bearing fantastic weight

in the base sectors. We course down
into Missouri, heavy in the current
that holds, resists our passage—
a landing just downstream from the last
great union until Cairo, Defiance,
all things between us arch
and flatter, a hyperbolic function.

Hudson Yards

Clear and Roman
the tug mid-river,
anchored with its cargo,
awaiting this day
its orders, its holdings low.

And the day arrives
in mute pangs of fire,
exacting dawn distending
between the ribs of the city
against the far shore—

the glass, the gathering flow,
the sun-drowsy vessels
clear for passage, holding
bleached economies
in freighted light.

Ryan Harper is an Assistant Professor of the Practice at Fairfield University-Bellarmine in Bridgeport, Connecticut. He is the author of My Beloved Had a Vineyard (Poetry Press of Press Americana, 2018). Ryan is the creative arts editor of American Religion Journal and lives in Bridgeport, Connecticut.

Three Roman Poems by Carlo Rey Lacsamana

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I
Morning is laid out like a tablecloth
over the gardens of Villa Borghese
the whole of existence sparkles like the trumpet
moaning in full blast at the piazza overlooking Piazza
del Popolo
how the winter clothes bite the warm crust of sunlight like bread
how the ears drink the never-ending songs of fountains like wine
-songs of return songs of leaving-
and as I step into the shadows of trees
I remember what brought us here
to feast on this mystery like sheep that feed on grass
stuff our mouths with marvel and green air fill
our bellies with gratitude and poems
we stay close to each other listen to the wind
play with our hair our good intent for the world
reunites with our sorrow in the freshly cut grass
to love what is left to love in this loveless world
we lean back our heads in the light with eyes closed
as though we carry the answers

Temporarily on display
at the Galleria Borghese
is Rubens’ Risen Christ from 1615

to rise like the Christ in Rubens’ painting
waking up from death with a face washed by forgetfulness
not of indifference but of surrender
a face that says “it could not have been otherwise”
the dignity of the wounded
his body looks healthy and fresh
as though it has forgotten the wounds and the injury
it has suffered
even the stab hole on his lower right chest does not speak of pain
but like a tiny mouth that wants to sing
his feet longing to touch the warm earth again to walk all over again
pass through fatigue and thirst and hunger all over again
the angel lifting the shroud from his head with a surprised look
to see in Christ’s eyes the love of life as great as the suffering endured
dying indeed is the beginning for this is what Resurrection is
we are summoned to live again to love again to be hurt again
to die again

III

As old as Rome is my love for you
as chaotic as the tourists in Fontana di Trevi
is my desire for you
the way Bernini grasped chisel and hammer
I grasp you in my heat to shape this desire
to make a body of this wanting give it head arms and legs
miraculous as marble
maybe along Trastevere our glance will meet
when everyone is on his way to work when every fucking tourist
returns to his hotel when the sun grants refuge to the cold
and brokenhearted or in some corner in Piazza Spagna
where people show off their clothes or in some bar at
Piazza Navona where the fountains say your name all the time
over a cup of coffee our glance will meet
because your eyes are the city
that I feel enclosed engulfed enveloped like a gladiator
in the Colosseum but I do not fight there are no cheers
no rewards no condemnation
I am only a poet whose weapon is a flock of sparrows in his throat
whose appetite for loneliness runs further that the Tiber River
whose longing is as steadfast as your seven hills
I would rather be punished if punishment means
to be devoured by your touch
who can I make friends with here but the wind passing by like myself
sighing through neighborhoods razing the palaces and squares
with its cold breath of nostalgia
she keeps me company like a mother leading me by the hand
taking my heart to all the places where metaphors
lead to another existence where every line of a poem leads eventually
to you
yes, the wind whipping against my face exposes my heart
the heart which has too many secrets intrigues dark passages
like the Vatican but its walls crumble when it hears your footsteps
when the fragrance of your hair invades my body with tremors
and my voice is silenced like the paintings I survey for hours
at the museum searching for your face sometimes I dream of entering
the paintings of me becoming Christ crucified and you embracing me
like the Madonna weeping or me becoming Saint Sebastian
tied to a pole and you the arrows entering me without mercy
I loving the pain or I want you to be the nude like those of Rubens’
so loved by the painter you can tell by the folds and softness of their flesh
outside of these art galleries the moon wells up brighter and wiser
the lampposts flicker the river flares up the burning waters
carrying your reflection the rumble of cars over the road
the dying civilization words pile up in me like the dreams of immigrants
along the roadsides
the ghost of Anna Magnani appears in Piazza del Popolo dancing like
a madwoman
I dance with your shadow while the Neros of this world
set the temple on fire
maybe civilization is a bad idea who can tell
all these noise and madness tearing us apart
what about this dancing beneath the winter stars
the smoke-signs above the railways there is another road
we can turn into and the secret you impart in my ear
there is still a reason to live

Carlo Rey Lacsamana is a Filipino writer, poet, and artist born and raised in Manila, Philippines. Since 2005, he has been living and working in the Tuscan town of Lucca, Italy. He regularly contributes to journals in the Philippines, writing politics, culture, and art. His works have appeared in Esquire Magazine, The Citron Review, Mediterranean Poetry (Stockholm), Amsterdam Quarterly, Lumpen Journal (London), The Berlin Literary Review, Literary Shanghai and in other numerous magazines. His short story Toulouse has been recorded as a podcast story in the narrative podcast Pillow Talking (Australia). Follow him on Instagram@carlo_rey_lacsamana

“The Same Songs” by Frank Modica

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A Crosby, Stills, Nash and Young
song blares from my car speakers
while I drive to my mother’s
west suburban bungalow
after a short trip to Aldi’s.
The lyrics about lost
loves ring out
unexpected, streaky
tears on my cold,
wrinkled cheekbones.
“Life is so unfair,”
I shout at the radio,
“Too many wasted days and nights.”
I don’t stop to consider
whether this same
soundtrack disturbs
the quiet daydreams
of other restless drivers
who drive around Chicago
trying to forget the loves
they lost in all
the same places.

Frank C. Modica is a cancer survivor and retired teacher who taught over 34 years. Frank’s first chapbook, “What We Harvest,” nominated for an Eric Hoffer book award, was published in 2021 by Kelsay Books. His second chapbook, “Old Friends,” was published in 2022 by Cyberwit Press.