Grass

From Doggerland

By Dicko King

 

Those warriors,

their wars shelved,

 

their skills dormant

after death’s near miss,

 

their wounds closed

without a men,

 

would burn the wet

gray grass, pull its roots,

beat the ground with

sharp sticks,

 

drum over the mortal

thump of a fear-filled

heart’s beat outside

its fallow room.

 

It was enough

to make farmers of them,

their pounding hearts

pulsing in their heads,

thrumming the neck’s

strings, such

music, such

 

humdrum

— they wouldn’t hear

any call to arms, or think

a cutting word, barely

 

could they cut the bloom

off earth’s fresh face,

 

digging shallow graves

in narrow rows, planting

seeds like

bodies.

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Off the Grid Press is pleased to announce the publication of our 2014 Prize winner

Doggerland: Ancestral Poems by Dicko King

Doggerland can be purchased online here or by sending a check for $18 (includes $3 shipping charge) to OTG Press, 24 Quincy Street, Somerville, MA 02143.  


 

The winner of our 2015 manuscript contest is

Finestra's Window by Patricia Corbus.

 

The Blue Flash 

By Patricia Corbus

 

 

The world, created when I was born, 

                                                    spewed out, clotting into stars

                                                              and valleys.  All things appeared

 

                                         in the afterbirth of that event –

                                                    the Air Force, X-files, missing links

                                                              waiting to be found, ash-colored

 

                                         aliens, moustachioed seducers,

                                                    urban blight, evolution, the need

                                                              to step to a higher level, sex 

 

                                         of course, the expanding spirit,

                                                    the first birth, the joy to be found

                                                              in hindrance, the jostlings of travel.

 

                                         Even now, typing this on a May night,

                                                    deeps of air erupt into rivulets

                                                              rippling outward, groping, growing

 

                                         into cobalt breakers headed for Tierra

                                                    del Fuego, Tasmania, and on to

                                                              Paradise.  It's a matter of becoming

 

                                         simple enough to see not just

                                                    the green flash, but the rarer 

                                                              blue flash behind it, straining out  

 

                                         the yellow to see the Blue Man hunched

                                                     inside the Green Man, sky-diapered,

                                                              sucking his golden thumb, our sun.