Monday, February 27, 2012

Waking Up


Look if you like, but you will have to leap. – Auden

In waiting there is hope—there is hope,
and dread: both somehow preferable
to certainty, if outwardly appropriate,

that may scathe. You are due your ineffable
deliberation, but I’ll concede
in the flash of my waking (in guilt

you hadn’t let me drive,
                                                you fetched a quilt,
                                                            closed

your eyes—
morning caught us hungover and clothed
though no accountability exists,

no reason to diminish, fear, or forgo
this                        ) I was happy. Yeah, I said so.



-by Jen Coleman

Jen Coleman is from Lynchburg, Virginia, where she dropped out of high school. She received a fellowship from the MFA program at Hollins University. “Waking Up” is featured in the Fall 2011 edition of Jackson Hole Review, www.jhreview.com.

Destiny Is a Red


Light filters through a crystal glass of red
Wine smoky and pure merlot
shines a color down to your very soul.
Heart red sounds a pure note
like a Flugel horn from a deep canyon
quiet, then suddenly full of chesty call.

In these passing storms of love,
one minute drenched, the next thundering dry,
A note echoes—in white porticoes
whose columns frame winsome gestures
of tender touch enfolding a young face
in time’s winnowing hand-held by some design.

In these corridors, where destiny walks naked
for all to see, hang ornate tapestries of time
scriven on by human multitudes unguided
save for some design because destiny dances
to a far off horn, blushing the color of dawn’s
light through a crystal glass of red.

-by Monte Rosen


Monte Rosen is the assistant facilities manager at the Center for the Arts. His poetry has been published in Birdcage Review, Dakota Home Journal, and other publications. He lives in Victor, Idaho.

Kicking Cairns

Nothing recommends this boulder
over the ten thousand others
in the field, except that
someone else, as lost as you,
thought to pile some stones here.

The chaos that confronts you
will evolve into a pattern
that bigger things broke into.
The freedom measured by each fall:
No one knows where you are.

It’s easy to make a statement out of
stones piled up within arm’s reach:
Here I have been; harder to know
which of the piles you come upon
you should kick down.

-by Rick Kempa


Rick Kempa lives in Rock Springs, Wyoming, where he teaches writing and philosophy at Western Wyoming College. “Kicking Cairns” is featured in the Fall 2011 edition of Jackson Hole Review, www.jhreview.com.

Friday, February 10, 2012

The Choice


My body and soul are entwined,
chained unto yours
until the mental sword releases us.
What then…?
Will my heart be finally silenced,
or will it quicken and bloom again?
Is there a spark in these dying embers –
one to allow mending, to reweave the chains,
transforming them into golden threads of an
exquisite tapestry – a design woven to flow
from me to you and back again,
devoid of the strangling tentacles.
The essence of that choice
hangs in the air like smoke from burning incense,
            and yet
I cannot choose, oh God…
            not yet…


-by Claudia Gillette

Claudia Gillette lives in Jackson, Wyoming.

Wednesday, February 1, 2012

Whole list teabags dance on desks


                            Bones of the dresser sound elegant
ability, drag and sweep stairs. Far farm studio shakes all
different nuts to chew loud pieces.    

Paramedics save energy laughing all over the country. 

Worse than plans in glass “won’t recognize me the street
started fishing well, frozen pond. A long time remembered
emergency room.

Huggy people erase the legs of a chair and all this paper. 
Daughters came in fear of lunch pitied by Geppetto’s
forceful finish. Stealing across the square,

the legs of The Wooden Chair. Fell dogs fuss perfectly mountains of
confetti on the tongue. Bench journals lunch. James Page mittens documentary.

The poor don’t want, are happy only earthlight weaves to the spot,
moves on to the best received innocence written on tables,
enwreathed in ghosts.

I’ll disappear if one were to ask how erasing any awkwardness
candles in the street. Angles bend the line fish a busy room full of
shoes need repair.

Deep peg grocery bags change his sign to closed.
Guests arrive having picked the familiar face  I ‘ m  s u p p o s e d  t o 
think is insistent upon the faith of a trombone someone plays.

In the flash of a cackle, she warns, like me, the morning will capture,
needs to be praised.


-by Hanz Olson


Hanz Olson is currently a writer of poetry living in Casper, Wyoming after finishing school in Laramie. His poems have been selected for publication and appeared in Expression Literary and Arts Magazine, Open Window Literary Magazine, and Haggard and Halloo Publications.