Scroll to read the prose inspired by the work in the exhibition. Exhibition catalog are availible for purchase by calling 217-544-2787.
View images of all the artwork on installation by viisting us on Artsy.
View images of all the artwork on installation by viisting us on Artsy.
Pelt IV, 2018 by Kristina Aas (Bergen, Norway)
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Untitled (after Aas’ Pelt IV)With him lying at arm's length she could reach and lazily trace the curves presented by his bare shoulders and back.
And he would respond in rye humor, yawny and half-buried in linen and down There was a crooked man And he (gaped out with a great suck of breath) waaa-ll-kkked, a crooked mile and the next line would rise and fall and taper He found a crOOked sixpence againstacrooked stile to the pace she kept. Skating with her nails the slopes and hollows, founding the X of a figure-eight over and over at the spot where his skin thinned over his spine. Without turning he inched with spare rocking, closer to her and continued his recitation punctuated with dozey whirrs and made-up dropsy tangents to deliver them both to a little crooked house. Liberated by his lead she escaped in the meander of her fingers hair-pinning like Thomas Cole's ox-bow. Ox-bow, before it was Cole's, was the summer program she attended her first year in art school. It was a time ungiven to anyone and she would with a full stretch of day ahead plant her easel mast-like in a canoe, cross the lagoon dock and clear the easy rise of the dunes that gave way to the lake where the alewives having swum ashore now collected in the sand. In fresh repose, still corpulent, they invited small bands of sand flies clattering like so many little patrons of the local where the alewife gave generously. In late season they dried to fragile antique lace silver flecked and gauzey skin stretched across thin ribs bleaching in the sun. Like gilded prongs of a doll's crown. When she tired she lay flat and brought her arm across, locked at the elbow and allowed it to drop by her side. And after a time he let his hand blindly find her upper arm and as was his fashion, gently knead her flesh between his thumb and two sometimes three fingers, animating the bit that met with her torso to form an ox-bow. - A. Coffey, 2018 Astoria, NY |
Beach Day 1 by Gwen Arkin (Pukalani, HI)
Beach Day 12by Gwen Arkin (Pukalani, HI)
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This is the place his soul lives. He feels it all here. The peace. The pain. The joy. He feels alive, with every fiber of his body.
He is able to breathe here. Deep inhales, long exhales. He stands at the water’s edge, silent. Eyes closed. The only sound he hears is the soothing song of the waves flirting with the sand, then retreating and coming back again. He could stand here forever. Just feeling the thick salty air on his skin, staring into the glassy blue water that touches the sky. He feels it all here. It’s where he has always been the most alive. And now where he will spend eternity, when the ashes of his being are scattered in the deep water. It’s his wish to be here. The place he learned to swim. Where he learned in order to survive, he must keep kicking while keeping his head out of water. Breathing, always breathing. It’s the place he walked hour after hour along the water’s edge, his toes digging deep in the powdery sand. He learned to surf here, riding the waves made him feel invincible and strong, like a superhero. He’s not afraid. He’s not angry. He came here to remember all the beach has taught him about life. And to help him feel it all. The peace. The pain. The joy. This is the place his soul lives. - Penny Zimmerman-Wills, 2018 Pleasant Plains, IL |
The Rock, 2016 by Alexis Avlamis (Athens, Greece)
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In a cog in cog cosmos,
Destruction fuels production fuels destruction, As artifacts and buildings interweave To form a mechanical tapestry Spreading across space And so comprising a new night sky. Through machines the human race Replace Nature and so too thus ourselves-- Or so much so as may be In the kingdom of the possible. In the kingdom of the possible There is no perpetual motion; Its impossibility Inevitably Conquers the impulse for mechanical conquest. Cogs lose force and then lose form, Reverting to the metals nature gave them, Then to accept Anew, as again Nature gives shapes and motions. Nature gives shapes and motions Of utter simplicity to the soul, Thus Utterly precluding Full and irreversible absorption to its Promethean attachments. The soul’s metal is prior to the forms and forces It takes on And ultimately takes off. We are ever still the spear-hunter Stalking out the stars Of whose dust we came And will return to Before and after We have lived In a cog in cog cosmos. - James Bockmier, 2018 Springfield, IL |
​Ready to Burst, 2018 by Pamela Benham (Santa Barbara, CA)
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Ink Dancing as
channels Yin and Yang Chi Into vines About their and tendrils original enlightenment Swirling In the in interlace Buddha-womb With the Of the crane and Great Ultimate dragon of the Way. - James Bockmier, 2018 Springfield, IL |
Turmoil of Waiting, 2017 by Karen Bennett (Westminster, CO)
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Women Wait - 1960's
Women wait. Wait for your turn. Wait for your brother. Wait to be chosen for a side in the game. (Do we HAVE to take her?) Wait in a line of chairs along the wall to be asked to dance. (I’m pretending to have fun just sitting here.) Wait to be old enough. (You are too young to wear make-up . . . to go out on a date . . . to stay out past ten.) Wait to be asked for a date. (I called you to see if you can give me your friend’s number.) Wait for an education. (We don’t have enough money to send your brother AND you.) Wait to be told that your career choices are secretary, nurse or teacher. Wait for freedom. Wait for recognition. Wait for a job. (Sorry, we are giving the job to a man. He has a family to support.) Wait for a letter from Viet Nam. (Please keep him safe.) Wait for your soldier’s return and the reunion. Wait to be asked to get married. (Let’s take it slowly—except for sex.) Wait for the pregnancy test results. (Did the rabbit die?) Wait for morning sickness to end. (Nope, it lasted all nine months.) Wait to give birth. (Are you having triplets?) Wait in lines at the store. Wait in lines at the bank. Wait in lines at the doctor’s office. Wait in lines of automobiles inching slowly down the street. Wait for a promotion. (You are doing a good job, but we are giving the promotion to Harry. He has a family to support.) Wait for people to realize that you have talent, that you are worthy, that you have a family to support. - Katherine Pippin Pauley, 2018 Springfield, IL |
Shopping Mall, 2016 by David Brodsky (Springfield IL)
Waiting, 2016 by David Brodsky (Springfield, IL)
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Shopping Mall
Slyly observational irony couched within an impeccably composed image is just a typical day at the office for photographer David Brodsky. “Shopping Mall” manages to be both poignant and darkly humorous, featuring a nominally normal shopper, taking a humble breather on a mall bench, being menaced by a pair of gigantic, looming fashion models who appear over her shoulder like insouciant, vapid Godzillas. As viewers, we are aware on a practical level that the towering youths are part of an outsize advertisement. On its own terms, though, the image presents a tableau of two grotesquely large, idealized capitalist predators and the ostensible target of the sales pitch implied by their very existence. In addition, the visual echo of black and white stripes, seen on both the female model’s sweater and the foregrounded woman’s blouse, drives home the often lopsided aspirational aspects of consumerism. It is clear which species is dominant and which is submissive in this scenario. As is often the case in Brodsky’s work, the photographer’s eye subverts quotidian reality to provide commentary that neither his unwitting subject nor other (perhaps less insightful and mischievous) passersby would be likely to notice. The effect is like a private joke between photographer and viewer, albeit one that simultaneously functions as a beautiful piece of visual art. - Scott Faingold, 2018 Springfield, IL |
Moon Dog, 2017 by Jerry Cagel (Tucson, AZ)
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Newspaper clipping from Aug. 15, 1956, Iowa City News
Halts Searches In Baffling Lone Tree Disappearance Penny Zimmerman-Wills IOWA CITY _ Searches for missing Lone Tree resident Delmar Cane are being halted, but authorities will review any new evidence that surfaces in the baffling disappearance, the Johnson County sheriff announced Thursday. “Our deputies have searched the area thoroughly. There is nothing more to be gained by diverting them from other pressing duties,” Sheriff Boyd Atkins said. Cane, 45, was last seen at the Metropolis Moon Café about 8 a.m. July 15. His automobile, a 1952 two-door green Ford with white sidewall tires, was found around 8 p.m. the next night on the side of County Road 1152, about two miles east of Lone Tree. His black, mixed-breed dog, Beetle, was beside the car. The elderly couple that found Cane’s car report that the dog was whimpering. Authorities say there was no sign of Cane and no indication of possible violence. Searches conducted by foot, by air and by automobile yielded no sign of the missing Cane. Detectives from the Iowa City Police Department and the Iowa Division of Criminal Investigation were called in but have uncovered no additional information. NO CLUES Sheriff Atkins said that without further developments, there is nothing for his men to go on. “I can’t remember a case where there was such little evidence for such a long period of time. This man just vanished. It’s like a flying saucer plucked him off that road,” Atkins said. The disappearance has rocked this small farming community of 1,500. Cane worked as a bank teller at the Iowa City National Bank, was single and mostly “kept to himself,” according to neighbors. He was described as being 6 feet tall; of slender build, weighing about 150 pounds. He was last seen wearing tan trousers, a blue shirt and gray hat. □ |
Deep Hole,, 2018 by Betsy Dollar (Springfield IL)
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Okay right off the bat I have a few questions, running around in my head:
I feel less discombobulated, I now feel it is time for me to fly out of the more curious darkness, and back into the less curious light. I instinctively feel that maybe these killers of my kind can not help themselves any more than I instinctively feel the need to fly above a nearby group of these killers and make what my kind deem appropriate sounds of warning and alert to at least try and direct them towards the separated killer. next to the object reminiscent to the thing on which I have stood, which is .... in the dark space with light on top. - Jeff C Williams, 2018 Springfield, IL |
Pick One, 2017 by MIchael Faris (Maryville, MO)
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Everything we’re taking,
now is being taken from us. Deluded in vain glory, we must glean a sacred trust. Ties that we have broken, they are still ours to mend. Powers we have harnessed, are enough to be our end. We must all be wise now, nurture what may grow. There’s love enough for all, go ahead and let them know. - Will Redwood, 2018 Springfield, IL |
Elmo and Zelta, 2018 by ​Teresa Foster (Arlington, TX)
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Elmo and Zelta
She shrugged him off, turning once more to the open window, whose sill bore the imprint of her steadfast elbows, resolute in their command of this threshold onto the bustling promenade below, as they had been on many previous occasions. This silent aperture, quite grandiose in scale, as they used to build things two centuries ago, and somewhat at odds with the dimensions of her humble apartment, once more gave release to her fermenting frustrations, as if the moist, acrid air, like smelling-salts, could chase out the demons in her psyche. Once again, as if by habit after years of struggle, her eyes made the journey her body could only dream of, outward bound across a forest made of the masts of sailing boats pointing upwards, swaying back and forth in gesture, as if yearning for an answer from the sky to some unfathomable request. Looking beyond the obstinate harbor walls of ageless granite, her gaze skipped outward across frothy white peaks, penetrating deep into the fusing blues and grays of ocean and sky. This vision of freedom, calibrated only by the cycle of sunsets burning holes in the horizon at the end of each day, again and again, in relentless waves, punctuating the claustrophobia of her life, was, just for a few fleeting moments, enough to sustain a fragile hope for something other. Poised upon this window ledge, she had embarked on countless imaginary expeditions. She had circumnavigated the globe numerous times, being welcomed into the villages of unknown indigenous peoples in landscapes of such original beauty no words had yet been invented to describe them adequately. She had dived with whales into the deepest trenches of seas abundant from spontaneous eruptions of life, new species breaking the conventions of established knowledge. She had flown with condors, levitating on the updrafts from undiscovered canyons that carved erratic grooves into sedimented bedrock laden with the fragmentary fossils of strange and exquisite organisms. In navigating the oceanic currents of her unfettered imagination, she was captain of her own extraordinary vessel, a mariner of sorts, an expert at losing herself without ever being lost, drafting the maps of uncharted imaginary waters as she went. This time, upon return - and she always returned - while she moored her boat of dreams to the safety of a quayside sheltered in the tranquility of her closing eyes, she felt a warmth emanating from something behind her back, a steady, familiar, welcoming warmth that, despite her many, one could say, selfish excursions, persisted like a beacon on the shoreline, unperturbed by storms and swells, relentlessly radiating. - Clive Knights, 2018 Portland, OR |
Dinner Divided, 2016 by ​Sarah Heyward (Pleasant Hill, CA)
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Untitled (after Heyward’s Dinner Divided)
set unserved unjoined unbroken why isn't it like through the looking glass everything on one side is meant to have a mate on the other side that's the rule there's the sewing shears, perhaps not hers, like hers they make the same snip snap when she cut an errant thread before stepping back then leaning in to smooth with the flat of her hand my trouser fronts it's only because they're to the right that they fall from view and my rucksack, if I move my leg I will feel its weight though nothing's seen below the mantle and the floppy target, if I turn around I will find hung its round face in reverse but of course then I won't see her, it's a trick still the tear I hear echo when I pull a fuzzy dart confirms she is there why is mine the tarnished and eaten away looking glass I am cheated of all that is pushed to the periphery unseen untaken unreal was she - A. Coffey, 2018 Astoria, NY |
To Reveal, To Conceal, 2018 by Erin Hoffman (Allentown, PA)
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To Reveal, To Conceal
I brushed the blush onto my cheeks and sat back to look at my work. The tiny square at the bottom of my screen showed movement and I spared a glance to see that Aleah had returned, cat in tow. “Hey.” “Hey! So how do you like it? All those babysitting jobs worth it?” With a nod I turn my head to check how evenly I had applied the foundation again, “I have to say, having a mirror/computer/TV thing is pretty sweet. Plus we can watch our shows together even when you’re sick or something.” “And you can switch which screen you use for what.” Aleah shifted her cat in her arms, the squirmy feline had wriggled half out of her grasp, “Hey, has your set done anything weird?” I pause, my lip gloss halfway to my mouth, “Like what?” “Like, I don’t know, glitched, I guess? Mikey from school, that little kid in the Drama Club? He was saying that his setup just stopped working all of a sudden, but like a day later it was fine.” “How’d he fix it?” “He didn’t. That’s the weird part. He said it’s like the whole thing just needed a break and was fine for a week until it died again.” “Well how often does he use it?” “I didn’t ask. You’ve had yours like a week now, how long do you spend on it?” I was quiet for a while. I hadn’t really left it for almost that whole week if I was being honest. If I wasn’t actively online or watching something, it was on in the background to play music or download stuff. “Uh…pretty frequent…you think you can overdo it? Like wear it down and then it forces you to take a break?” “Yeah? I mean I know you love talking to your family on here; but I haven’t seen you in—” I jerk back at the quick static which filled my screens. No sound was coming from the speakers in the back anymore and the screens themselves were going black. “What the—” ‘SCREEN SCREEN SCREEN SCREEN SCREEN…’ “Uh…” The word repeated on my mirrors in groups, switching around where they were facing and how bright they were. The constant changes in light and color made them look like monochrome oyster shells, pretty but a little hard to look at. The undulating size and composition did nothing to help with this. “…Did that just happen?” A small chime from my phones tells me Aleah had the same trouble. Quickly shutting it all down, I rise from my seat. I needed to do some errands anyway, a little time away from the screens wouldn’t be too bad. They were great for talking to people far away, but I had people here, too. - Samantha Helm, 2018 Taylorville, IL |
Seance, 2018 by Joy Ray (Kailua Kona, HI)
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with the lights dimmed low and candles flickering a lonely howl ripples rapidly from palm to palm its too late; no apology can patch this mess up just kick the phone from its cradle and wrap his neck in a dial tone click! - Megan Craddock, 2018 Springfield, IL |
Untitled, 2018 by Olivia Hunter (New York, NY)
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The Kiss: Part I
At eight o’clock on the evening of the twentieth of May, twelve local artists were gathered in a home in Springfield, the largest city in central Illinois. Moments before the incident, they were debating the merits of Franz Kline, best known for his distinctive black and white paintings. “The most beautiful paintings I have ever seen.” “He could do six in a lovely afternoon. What was it Gertrude Stein said about Oakland?” “Who are you? John Ruskin?” At the host’s insistence, each of the eleven guests made a hand print as they arrived, one by one, directly on a cloud-white wall. While everyone else simply applied their blackened left hand, the final guest to arrive dragged her hand and created an unintelligible smear. “What’s that?” she was asked. “A metaphor.” “For what?’ “I don’t know. Rituals, rules, counting. Struggles with mental illness.” “Self-portrait? “Maybe.” “You interest me. Rather vaguely.” “Are you a prizefighter?” “No. A photographer.” “Names please.” “Arbus, of course.” “Too easy. Keep going.” “Cindy Sherman. My favorite is Doisneau.” “Better.” Kline, who grew up in Pennsylvania and was a high school cartoonist, became an alcoholic. It was, he said, in his contract. Across the room, an argument was just beginning. “It’s debatable.” “What is?” “Whether or not Kline could draw.” “Of course, he could draw.” “No one can draw anymore.” “That’s not true.” “Yes, it is. Learning how to draw, really draw, is far too time consuming. Painting is much easier.” “There’s someone here tonight who can draw — beautifully.” “Who?” “She’s in the kitchen.” At that moment, the lights went out throughout the house. - Craig Marshall Smith, 2018 Highlands Ranch, CO |
Kitchen, 2016 by Corrin Smithson McWhirter (Springfield, IL)
Of This Interior/Exterior - Door, Floor, Siding, 2016 by Corrin Smithson McWhirter (Springfield IL)
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The Kiss: Part II
She walked a few steps and bumped into a table and then a chair. “I’ll just stand still until the lights come on,” she said to herself. And then she met with a little adventure. She heard the kitchen door open and close and someone, better at moving around in the dark than she was, approached her, touched her around the waist, moved two hands up to her face, and kissed her. “Oh,” she said and stepped back. The stranger found the door, and was gone. There were no sounds at all for half a minute, and then she heard voices in the other room. “Candles?” “Here.” A thin line of light showed at the bottom of the kitchen door, and she walked to it. She opened the door and began to look from face to face: was she kissed by a man or by a woman? There was nothing in the kiss to give that away, only that it had aroused her. Her mind was elsewhere when she heard a voice. “Drink?” a stunning young woman with very short, white-blonde hair asked. “Yes, I’d like one.” She meant she needed one. Could she be the one? A man with black hair standing close by touched the blonde lightly on the face with a forefinger and said, “Who is this?” “I don’t know. I just met her. I’ll get you that drink. Red wine?” “White.” She was now alone with a man who was looking at her with more than a casual interest. Or was it just her imagination? - Craig Marshall Smith, 2018 Highlands Ranch, CO Inspired by Kitchen by Corrin Smithson McWhirter |
Infectiousness, 2017 by Brad Venable (Terre Haute, IN)
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The Kiss: Part III
The lights returned, and she looked directly at him, hoping to see a sign, a small smile, anything, but there was nothing, and the blonde wasn’t co-operating either. “What if it had been a woman?” she said to herself. She took a deep breath and said, “I’d like that.” Another man, wearing a black turtleneck, overheard her. “What?” “Oh, I was talking to myself. I was thinking about the Chekov reading that is coming up at the museum.” “You like Chekov?” “Yes.” “You don’t think his short stories are plodding and humorless?” She smiled: “Of course — plodding, humorless. And cerebral.” (She said the word almost with affection.) “You know he was a medical doctor, don’t you?” “No, I didn’t know that.” “When he died, they returned his body to Moscow in a refrigerated train car that was meant for oysters.” “I didn’t know that either.” “This is new to me: why does Chekov interest you?” “The unanswered questions. Writers before him didn’t do that. Not as much.” “Loose ends. We all live with loose ends. But isn’t he somewhat, well, tedious.” “Not at all. Chekov’s characters are people living lives of quiet futility, who are captured in moments beyond their comprehension.” “Like everyone here.” “Are you saying that to get a reaction?” “Would you be willing to go to the Chekov reading with me?” “One question first.” - Craig Marshall Smith, 2018 Highlands Ranch, CO |
American Stitches #5 by Dong Kyu Kim (Fort Lee, NJ)
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Pick up every stitch,
the hem must hold fast today. Storms may tear at the seams, leave no huddled masses in the fray. The fabric is democracies noble intent, stitches sewn by hands the world’s lent. So pick up every single stitcher, the fate we make binds us all together. The seams must hold fast, to last through the trials we weather. - Will Redwood, 2018 Springfield, IL |
Processed, 2018 by Clive Knights (Portland, OR)
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Untitled (after Knights’ Processed)
Picking his way across town he appeared not out of place but not at home. New York was in the pang of its dog days and even close to 3 a.m. it was a sticky 82. He'd left his sport coat in the room but still quite smart in a striped cotton t-shirt, lightweight green denim trousers and white leather trainers. What always managed to suggest his discomfort was his utter lack in crossing streets, especially those large controlled intersections with several lanes, each one arrived as a small separate mission and on approach he would duck his head slightly before attack. If another crosser appeared he looked to them for his cue but his own pace was inevitably broken in retreat or an abrupt hastening and on occasion he'd pull in his longish backside, exaggerated to affect a cartoon lady skirting the backsplash from a passing car. She'd told him where she'd be, he was free to "come find her" and having meted out time in blocks for himself and his gallery and plausible banal passages he justified this pleasure. He'd built around the space he could now fill tangled with her. They'd met in art school, but she had moved to New York for grad school and waited tables to offset adjunct lecturing. He wasn't keeping her, she'duv only just finished closing and gone to an after-hours with co-workers but she'd be easy to loose from them. She was at the bar and his eyes went demonstratively to her legs and she smiled before casting her eyes away. In the Spring they met she sat behind a large makeshift booth that doubled as the school's box-office on Tuesdays and Thursdays. He taught on the third floor and rather than the lift, he would take the stairs so that he could see her, quite beautifully, fixed inside her booth on the second. It wasn't until the Fall, that he saw her, rather miraculously, standing at an easel, whole. Still warm outside she had worn white denim cut-offs revealing shapely and immaculately tanned legs. The blue fairy had surely gifted him, and later, it was not for almost a year that he first saw her place, he told her and it became a shared private joke. He splurged on a cab, gently steering her into the backseat. Rather efficiently in spare light they passed the hours. The room was small but cool and she took the only chair in readiness to slip on her espadrilles. Dawn had begun to break and in it he sought the silhouette of her still bare feet and calves. She left him, still in bed, without hesitation and a soft smile. Her weariness was from the heat and lack of sleep, he was certain. She was content, why weren't they, them. Thems that insist on keeping time and score and outlining a cage that was otherwise not there. - A. Coffey, 2018 Astoria, NY |
Sheeted mannequin. Not paranormal, 2017 by Jade Lowder (Bozeman, MT)
98 Failed Attempts at Trying to make a statement with numbers, 2018 by Jade Lowder (Bozeman, MT)
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My Body Stands as Heavy as the Night
My body stands as heavy as the night Between skewed walls all fading into black; My spirit floats untethered in the light. Though gaping windows beckon me to flight, Too much of earth confines and holds me back. My body stands as heavy as the night. Shadows dissolve before the mind’s clear sight, Doors swing wide and brittle mirrors crack. My spirit floats untethered in the light, Blown in the wind from depths up to the height, Touching no one, no one touching back. My body stands as heavy as the night, For nature makes its claim, asserts its right. Still the world holds me fettered to the rack. My spirit floats untethered in the light But cannot drink and taste the world’s delight, Red perfume, purple heat to fill my lack. My body stands as heavy as the night, My spirit floats untethered in the light. - Elizabeth Huck, 2018 Springfield, IL Inspired by "Sheeted Mannequin" |
Visitor, 2018 by Forrest Matsuzawa Jove (Chicago, IL)
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Posted January 16, 2015 9:18 p.m., ThingsInTheDark Forum
I used to think it was a nightmare, or maybe just some weird stress induced hallucination. These days I wish it were that easy, that simple…that safe. It started maybe two weeks ago. I was on my way home when I noticed a figure in the trees not far from my house, two blocks I’d say. They were just…standing there, not doing anything but staring out to the road. That night I did my best not to look, it was just creepy, you know? Standing there in the dark, almost obscured with the trees and shadows since the street light didn’t reach in past the brush at the edge. From what I did see, they were tall, gangly, and stood at a sort of, I’m not sure how to describe it, a sway or tilt I guess. I’ve seen that same figure every night since. Always edging closer to my house. Sometimes I’ll catch them out of the corner of my eye, hiding by someone’s trashcans or in the alleys between the houses. Once, it was leaning on a porch, looking into the house. I hurried past before it could look at me instead. That didn’t keep it from taking the same turn I had the next night. Now it was on my street. Seeing this thing was awful already with the dark skin and still form, but its eyes were what freaked me out the most. There was a reason I didn’t look directly at it. They were bright, like really bright. My guess was that they were catching light off the porch lamps or street lights but now, peeking out my bedroom window to the sidewalk in front of my house, I know I was wrong. Because the street light outside my window has been dead for days and I can still pick out those empty eyes sitting in the street. I’m not sure what to do about this thing. I’m writing this so maybe I’ll be able to find some advice, see if anyone knows what to do. I tried the police already, they said no one had noticed anything strange around town and never found anyone on their nightly patrols that matched what I described. So, unless it shows up on video, they can’t really do much but patrol more often. Wait. I just heard a knock at my door. That thing isn’t in front of my house now, but I didn’t see it move. I’m afraid to see who’s at my door. - Samantha Helm, 2018 Taylorville, IL |
Pear on the Verge of Something Big !!, 2018 by Christine Miller (Whitewater, WI)
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set it and forget it, that bag of fresh fruit on the kitchen counter top
big plans for breakfast but sleep is just too sweet and time is fleeting a week flies by they're alive, crawling around blissfully on the rind precious pear is busy flirting just beyond the grasp of a conscious mind equally pleased to thrive on in the squirming filth at the bottom of the sink - Megan Craddock, 2018 Springfield, IL |
Ripple Effect, 2014 by Barbara Murak (Getzville, NY)
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Ripples Across Time
It is so easy to create ripples—throw a stone into a pond and watch the impact repeat in ever widening circles. Throw a word at a person and watch the impact of that word. Choose your word carefully. Will it be a label, belittling, a word of hate? Nigger. Honkie. Spic. Spaz. Stupid. Queer. Or will it be a word of support, acceptance, a word of love? Friend. Wonderful! Congratulations. Good. Smart! The impact of your choice will spread in ever widening circles. Ripples across time. Throw an action at a person and watch the impact of that action. Choose your action carefully. Will it be harsh, unforgiving, violent? Frown. Push. Shove. Slap! Punch. Bang! Or will it be an action of support, acceptance, of love? Smile. Share. Give. Help. Embrace. The impact of your choice will spread in ever widening circles. Ripples across time. Most actions are reactions. Where did that ripple begin? How many years has it traveled? What actions has it created? What outcome has been achieved? Ripples across time. - Katherine Pippin Pauley, 2018 Springfield, IL |
Tower of Babel, 2018 by Katherine Pippin Pauley, (Springfield, IL)
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The pinnacle of human hubris seeks
To storm Saint Peter’s gate by force of arms. That then on God’s own throne atop our peaks We take our seats to spread our cruelty’s harms, In service of our ego-beast—the one Perpetual idol with its host of charms. The inner Moloch leaks its sludge to run, To seek out lowest levels through great ages And through its flood of filth supplant the sun. Its slaves span tales in Hebrew-lettered pages, oil canvases by Breughel, cinema by Lang; no less in history it rages. Ape-self, deformed by spurning offered reason, Scales ever higher after might and mammon. And yet this climb looks upward bound but by Distortion plaguing our perception’s grasp, Reversing all directions in a lie. The more the ego climbs it falls, at last Then falling next to nil; the more that you Are then the less you are. Your ego cast Your Being down until you break in two, And two again, and so on and so forth, until your selfishness robs self from you. Hence It is better to instead recall The Sufi dictum that in bowing to The ground one looks downward from God’s Throne-Hall. The less you are the more you are—not you But God in you and you in turn in The True. -James Bockmier, 2018 Springfield, IL |
Forgive Her She Lost her Head, 2017 by Marc Schimsky (Yardley, PA)
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She’s Lost Her Head
“She’s lost her head,” they whisper. Why are they saying that? Because I hope for more than marriage with my life? Because I want to go to medical school? Because I believe that women should be able to vote? Because I’m not a man? I feel as though my head and my thoughts are in a cage, trapped, unable to be shared, yearning for freedom, longing for support. “She’s lost her head,” they whisper. The narrowness of society’s view of a woman’s place robs me of my dreams. How can I be happy if the purpose of my life is frivolous? Are the latest fashions so important that they should consume my time? Are the social visits full of gossip and innuendoes a better use of my days than saving lives? Are the acceptable pastimes of embroidery and sketching more fulfilling than working to achieve voting rights for women? I feel as though the very fabric of my being has been sewn up in a small cloth bag with no opening. “She’s lost her head,” they whisper. It would be so easy to go along with what is expected. No more arguments. No more pushing against the will of my family. No more people constantly watching me for any aberrations. And no more hopes, no more challenges, no more goals. “She’s lost her head,” they whisper. Should I lose it? On which path will I truly lose my head? - Katherine Pippin Pauley, 2018 Springfield, IL |
Coordinated Bonds V, 2017 by Todd Shanafelt (Mankato, MN)
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The stillness seems, it’s up in flux,
life’s on and on, we make this up. Here, what it is, from what is gone, pick up the time, now, put it on. How does that feel? It’s just right, slip in the current, the shifting light. All the while, this has taken shape, we’ve been right here, it’s not too late. The chances come, to hold a light, to find a way, let right make might. - Will Redwood, 2018 Springfield, IL |
Carp, 2017 by Earle Smith (Cayce, SC)
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Cyprinus Carpio
"The Carp is the queen of rivers; a stately, a good, and a very subtle fish....” Izaak Walton, in The Compleat Angler, 1653 You may be Izaak Walton's Queen of Rivers, stately denizen of clear, fresh waters, but also the North American Epicures' Pariah: only the lowly Buffalo may be more disdained, You grace our tavern tables and our food truck menus nonetheless. Anglers vie to land you, and, rough fish, sweet and sour or in miso, we find you very good. Every child's pet goldfish and the ornamental koi, swimming in ponds amid falling flowers, that impart good luck are also your kin. Your queenly reign extends to China, where you are among the “four domesticated fish” and where your young yulong may leap the Yellow River cataracts at Henan in the month of March, and transform into dragons. Who could not desire that uplifting of status? Your aggressive silver Asian cousins, some a hundred pounds, can leap 8 feet or more into the arms, and nets, and medical emergencies of Redneck fishermen in nearby Bath. We say you must not leap into the Great Lakes, but you might decide the plankton there is greener, and defy the anglers – and succeed. You work your magic glycogen to lactic acid into ethanol and carbon dioxide to survive in waters without oxygen. How great a miracle is that? So much I can say about you – and I know you hear me; you have unique anatomy for that. You are indeed a stately and a subtle fish. - Thea Chesley, 2018 Springfield, IL |
Communication?, 2016 by Jacomijn Steen (Buitenpost, Netherlands)
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Unfettered Access
Are you listening to me? because your response completely ignores the facts I’ve just presented you seem to maintain some line of thought that remains unassailable through verifiable truths contradicting established law contradicting established history unmoored to the reality at the bank of your river of folksy wisdom your unfettered access to a wealth of information may free your thoughts yet you continue to be enslaved predisposed to a position such that the only facts you seek (and, therefore, the only facts you find) support that position so you continue to talk around any fact-connected discourse looking to your device for diversion or some semi-relevant meme yet the world continues to evolve as you talk around me as I speak directly to your position but to no avail. - Mark Russillo, 2018 Springfield, IL |
21st Century Nude 3 by Rodger Walkup (Baltimore, MD)
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Knock knock knock
Dot dot dot What could they possibly, want from me While I'm in the buff Question mark Dot dot dot Knock knock knock Ohhh I hear them on the other side of this Armor Concepts reinforced 1 3/8 inch security door and my brand new door jamb, just installed it Exclamation mark Knock knock knock I hear their indistinguishable verbal plea out in the hallway Knock knock knock At THIS very snapshot in time/space I am imagining what argument they could possibly make Knock knock knock Using statement calculus and truth trees to get me to cover myself? So, What do they have on me? Hair in a towel? What gives them the...THEY gonna crush their own mitt before they break that door down. Do they hope the pounding will spook me? They want Exposed... to My hopes..... My fears..... My choice of what I want to feature OR not feature... AND my inhibitions POOF it's ... My plan.... My data plan, Driving broken fingernail tips straight through this phone as I tell my whole corner of the world in a post that THEY think I DON'T pay attention wool over my eyes .... nothing to hide Knock knock knock Lock onto my thoughts Knock knock knock Commence typing in all upper case .... Do they think by knocking faster Or louder Or in a more aggressive fashion.... Knock.............. fools are going to break me down ... Question mark ..............knock knock Who invited them in to... Rearrange mind Rearrange reality Change items My remnants my realm disorientation as I look for the things that I know are mine It's because I'm unrobed Question mark It's because I'm un-bathed Question mark BANG BANG BANG KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK Why.... do they think that is going to make me open - Ohhhhh ... my god ..... this is not my apartment. - Jeff C Williams, 2018 Springfield, I |
It Is, 2018 by Bernie White Hatcher (Springfield, IL)
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IT IS
It is the window frost: the feathers, fronds, the snowflake patterns. It is the pristine fields of sparkling snow. It is the rice, the cream, the sugar. It is the salt. It is the bread. It is the baking powder biscuits. It is the flour and the milk – with butter, roux, then Béchamel. Fresh white cheese and it becomes Mornay. It is crème fraiche, it is Greek yogurt -- with a few black currants and a pinch of herb-of-grace. It is the shirt he wore, the fine Egyptian cotton, with embroidery, white on white. It is the tie and tails, the platinum and diamond cuff links. It is the racial composition of the gala – except the servers, who are black. It is the sheets, the curtains, clouds, the ocean breeze. It is the criss-crossed scars upon my forearms, whiter against my so-called white skin, eternal emblems of a darker kind of rue. - Thea Chesley, 2018 Springfield, IL |