Friday, November 30, 2007

December 2007

This month features David Kowalczyk
and Christian Ward

David Kowalczyk

A Small Sacrifice

His innocence was erased
last year by the lion priest,
who consumes
young boys.

His childhood is forever destroyed.
He is lost in astral clouds,
in constant prayers
to obscure saints,
child martyrs all.


Mellow as a mango.
The women, ages nine to ninety,
always dressed in black.
Lavender breezes and waves
nestled on pearled sands.
Flames and flowers emerging
from the laughing surf.
Restless unicorns wandering the beach.
Instant love and never-ending sunsets.
The liquid hush of the jacaranda dawn.

Getting Drunk With The Moon

Darkness upon the waters,
a plague upon the sky,
the tired old moon rides
low above the barren trees.

His edges remain intact.
In his life, he has touched
far too little.

When children ask him,
"What are nightmares made of?',
his reply is inevitably the same.

"Real fear takes imagination."

The sky becomes a field
of burning stones.

David Kowalczyk lives and writes in Tempe, Arizona. He has taught English in South Korea and Guatemala, as well as in several colleges in the USA. His work has appeared in a variety of venues, including Maryland Review, The Buffalo News, St. Ann's Review, and California Quarterly. He is the former editor of Gentle Strength Quarterly.

Christian Ward

The River

after James Richardson

In the museum of the river,
a family portrait can be seen
on its bed. How it escaped
the city, I'll never know.

Standing on the stone bridge,
I watch wind trace its outline
on the water. It is a woman.
That is always the way

of the forgotten, no matter
what they once were. Evening.
The sun starts hiding behind
a blind of night. The house

where I once lived is swollen
after the rain. A willow
whose foliage touches the soil
is wider than the house.

'The faces are here' a caption
reads. They are probably in the bridge
which looks like everything.
They were swept into it. Only their

surprise has been left behind.
I am swept up. The bridge
is moving, though the river is still.
No one ever notices the end of the road.


A crow of dead leaves
ca-caws in the wind.
Sunlight plays on swings.

In the shirtsleeve
of the house, a woman
is becoming a museum

exhibit. Moths exit
the labyrinth of thirties
coats and blouses

to flicker around her
fading light. Cars move
closer, drawn to her electricity.


The widescreen hurricane
agitated the sea. Trawlers,
picked up by a King Kong fist,
were slammed into a skyscraper
of wave. Thunder boomed
in stereo. Lightning pouted,
playing the role of a helpless
damsel. Meanwhile, a Monarch
butterfly was emitting its electricity
somewhere in Mexico.

Christian Ward is a 27 year old London based poet whose work can be seen in journals such as the Fairfield Review, Why Vandalism? and Nthposition. His fourth chapbook, Slippage, will be released next year and Dark Matter Lullabies, a chapbook of experimental poetry, is currently in preparation. His myspace page can be found at

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