Epiphany Magazine - epiphmag.com                                                   Issue 14 Where Art, Poetry and Prose come together
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Cynthia Eddy      Susan Martin       Danny Barbare       Tina Mckeon       George Freek

David Chorlton       J. Tarwood       Richard Hartwell       David Robbins       Richard Fein      

John Miller       Erren Kelly




              SUSAN MARTIN


        Gifts

        Once as a gift to my artist husband,
        I gave a block of African wonder stone,
        dark and dense.
        I asked him what he would make of it.
        I will carve, he replied,
        and it will become a work of art.
        The stone will tell me what to do.
        Stone has its own life.
        It makes its own statement.



        Once as a gift my husband gave me
        a Websters New International Dictionary
        replete with all the words
        of the English language
        and all their nuances.
        He asked me why I wanted
        so ponderous a lexicon.
        I will write, I said.
        The words will tell me what to say,
        and a poem will come into being.
        Words have their own life.
        they make their own statement.




BIO:Susan Martin is a retired English and creative writing teacher. She has had poetry and short fiction published in the following anthologies, literary magazines, on-line sites, and e-zines: Dogwood Tales, The Poet Speaks Out, Poets-on-Line, In Other Words, Exit 13, The Idiom, Chapter and Verse, Shadows and Light Magazine, Poetica Magazine, Global Poets on Facebook, Aquarille Magazine, Creative Wrting Now, Weirdyear, Improv 2011, and Writer's Ink anthologies, Poetic Reflections of Monmouth County, Voices Rising From the Grove, and Spindrift. She was a prize winner in The Age Begins 2009 Women's Inspirational Contest.





        RICHARD D. HARTWELL



       
       Surf Lines of Evil Beat at My Head



       
        Surf lines of evil beat at my head;
        Crescendos of breakers incessantly pounding;
        Froth and foam, a tenuous hold on reality,
        Spills before an onslaught of maturity.

        I am inundated with mundane responsibilities,
        I am caught in the maelstrom of regrets,
        I am pounded by the demands of position,
        I am drowned with the burden of passivity.

        The flow and ebb of daily cares caress and lull,
        Soothing and cradling me unmercilessly,
        Breaking in two my intentional desires,
        Requiring that I submit to continued existence.

        I am sated by self-sufficiency,
        I am ransacked by passions unfulfilled,
        I am doomed to recycle myself,
        I am drifted on the waves of others.



BIO:Rick Hartwell is a retired middle school English teacher living in Southern California with his wife of thirty-five years (poor soul; her, not him), their disabled daughter, one of their sons and his ex-wife and their two children, and eleven cats. Yes, eleven! He has previously been published in: The Cortland Review, Midwest Literary Review, Birmingham Arts Journal, The Stray Branch, A Golden Place, Flashquake, PigeonBike, Steam Ticket, Burnt Bridge, Indigo Rising, Lowestoft Chronicle, Thoughtsmith, The Rainbow Rose, Red Poppy Review, Catapult to Mars, The Camel Saloon, The Bactrian Room; Books on Blog; The Shine Journal, Joyful!, Candidum, and others, both print and e-zine. When not writing he wishes he were still pushing plywood in Coquille, Oregon.






         GEORGE FREEK



       
        What Is Nature



       
        Nature is pure disorder.
        I watch the sky stagnate,
        and the roses blacken.
        I can think of no safe haven.
       
        Leaves descend cheerfully,
        circling each other fraternally,
        as if falling into a comfortable bed.
        But they're already dead.
       
        As the stars count their toes,
        and the moon plays the whore,
        I look deeply. And I learn
        exactly what I knew before.



George Freek is a poet/playwright living in Belvidere, IL. His poems have recently appeared in 'The Stone Hobo'; 'Red Fez'; 'Symmetry Pebbles'; 'The Whistling Fire'; 'Talon Magazine'; and 'Toucan Magazine'.His short play HERE COMES GODOT was recently published in 'Freight Train Magazine'. Other plays have lately been produced by The Laurel Mill Playhouse (MD); The Auburn (NY) Community Players; Theatre Unleashed (LA); Somerset College (KY); and The Fells Point Corner Theatre (MD).






         RICHARD FEIN



       
        Luna Moth



       
        Hunger dogs the earthbound creature
        crawling on its ever bloating caterpillar belly
        that swells to grotesque form
        till gnawing hunger finally yields to fullness,
        and mandibles lose their yen to chew,
        while a silky shroud dresses the body.
        The timeworn skin is shed exposing the coffinlike chrysalis,
        as the body's essence reshuffles.
        Disassembled tissue dissolves then congeals into a new psyche
        while all past hungers fade and new ones arise.
        Comes resurrection and the coffin bursts,
        cramped wings unfold, dry, flutter, as gluttonous gnome
        cinderellas into a green-winged angel hungry for a mate.










         DANNY P. BARBARE



       
        Emptying Trash



       
        With my sleeves rolled up ripping the plastic bags
        Zipping up my wind breaker
        On such a cool day;
        Flagging them in the breeze
        Like the sound of thrashing leaves
        Wrinkles of sunlight becoming moonlight
        Lining the horizon of the barrel
        With night, tying a knot in the day
        And toting it
        Away leaking coffee and Kool-Aid across the sky.



BIO: Danny P. Barbare's poetry can be googled under his name on the internet.





              DAVID A. ROBBINS



        Tepid


        I want you to make my blood
        glow in the dark and
        then tell me you cant see
        where it is you put me.

        I want you to iron my clothes
        and then put wrinkles in my chest
        so that you can chastise me
        for leaving the house
        with uncreased sleeves.

        And I want to sit in the bathtub
        while you throw breadcrumbs
        to the ducks so that
        I can dry myself off
        and complain that I'm hungry.

        So when all said and done
        and all systems are go
        it all comes down
        to being loud enough
        to hear your own voice.
       




        The Abstract


        I long for what
        I thought
        I saw
        when I thought
        that we had
        this down.

        When we spoke
        in verse
        and laughed
        in rhyme
        and asked about things
        that didn't really matter.

        Who was your favorite,
        and what did you want?
        What made your eyes
        light up
        as a child?

        I know that it wasn't
        unique to me or you
        or even really unique
        at all, but the abstract
        is a hard thing to miss
        so even though I know
        that I am not really
        missing you, it is
        your smile that I picture
        when I miss the abstract.




BIO: David A. Robbins served as an editor of three publications and wrote as a contributor for various others since 2001. Following a dramatic career change in 2009, when he was offered a position with an asset management firm, he set himself apart as a writer by combining the topics of love, family, and friendship with the legalistic and technical tempo of the investment world in both his poetry and fiction. Robbins spends the majority of his free time working on freelance assignments for creative publications and newspapers, as well as finalizing the manuscript of his first novel. He holds a Bachelor of Arts from The University of Arizona in both Creative Writing and Journalism.









         ERREN GERAUD KELLY



       
               L Train ( Body and Soul )



       
               she walks away
               in her high heels
               and jeans
               her hips playing
               a melody better
               than trane
               could
               taking my breath
                away





BIO: I am a poet based in New York City, by way of Louisiana, by way of Maine, by way of California and so on. I have been writing for 21 years and have over three dozen publications in print and online in such publications as Hiram Poetry Review, Mudfish, Poetry Magazine(online) and other publications. My most recent publication was in " In Our Own Words," a Generation X poetry anthology; I was also published in other anthologies such as " Fertile Ground," Beyond The Frontier " and other anthologies.

I recieved my B.A. in English-Creative Writing from Louisiana State University in Baton Rouge. I also love to read and I love to travel, having visited 45 states and Canada andEurope. The themes in my writings vary, but i have always had a soft spot for subjects and people who are not in the mainstream. But i never limit myself to anything, i always try to keep an open mind.






    

                                     "Ripple"

                               Artwork by Dan Williams





                                                   Top of Page





                TINA McKEON




        Hypnotized


        In a daze
        Confusion's haze
        Abandoned heart
        Soul torn apart
        Liar's tongue
        Puppet strung
        Body scorned
        Pitiful life mourned
        Finally I realized
        I was hypnotized





       
        What Lies Beneath


        I look inside myself
        Am the opposite of my outward shell
        A roller coaster, a chemical imbalance
        Raging inferno, burning like hell
       
       
        Inside, my heart thudders wildly
        Adrenaline pumps into my veins
        From Doctor Jekyll to Mr. Hyde
        I explode without restrains
       
       
       



       
        Let it Rain


        If wishes were raindrops,
       
        I would embrace the saturation
        Dance gleefully amid the wetness,
        until my burdens were abolished

        If wishes were raindrops

        I would welcome a monsoon
        Allow it to penetrate my pores,
        until my soul's requests were answered




BIO: Tina's other works are published through Quill Books, Bear Creek Press, Brave Heart Press, The Truth Magazine, Home Remedies for the Soul, The Erotic Woman. "In 2006, I released my first book titled Scattered Images: A Woman's Poetic Tales through PublishAmerica. In 2009, I created an online store featuring my words on various products. You can view it at zazzle.com




                      CYNTHIA EDDY


         Bloodletting


        You are the needle
        Through my finger tip
        bloodletting silent but for the quiet yelp
        Finger to the mouth
        Then the salt.

        You won't be put down
        Stitch after stitch
        Color after color
        Finger prick after finger prick

        You threaten my skin.




      

        Iron in Her Bones



        The iron in her bones
        That bloody marrow
        The core of her.

        The unspoken between them.
        Rusty powder
        eats into her flesh
        hardens her heart.

        Dusty and unforgiving
        Covers her with silt.



BIO:Cynthia Eddy lives and writes on the eastern shore of Virginia. She holds a degree from Framingham University in Art History and an attended the University of Baltimore Graduate School.



     art by Dan Williams

                                               "Bender"


                                       Art by Dan Williams








                                               Top of Page




                     J. TARWOOD


            Metamorphosis


            Words are dying off.
            Nothing new if old books are true.
            Begin as gold, end as lead.
            Anything else is noise.
           
            Aging, so comforting confusing
            my decay for the world's:
            eyes give up
            just because there's less to see.
            Hard to keep my rotting
            to myself.
           
            We're most god-like when we change.
            Shouldn't that suffice
            our great Lord Yet?
            In my pack, I carry Howl
            like a lucky tooth.





           Visitor
           
            A life I missed.
            In books, in aches,
            it shined like the moon
            in a wishing well.
           
            What I wanted
            I never knew, to be
            in the light
           
            or to be among you.
           
            I stand on sea steps,
            street lamp greening water,
            waves clacking stones & shells,
            shadow afloat, a fine figure
           
            beckoning like a word
            on the tip of my tongue.





BIO:"This is my track record: poems in Free Lunch, American Poetry Review, American Poetry Monthly, BAD, Big Muddy, Buckle &, Bryant Literary Review, Rockhurst Review), Pike's Creek, Blue Mesa, Eratica, Calliope, Coe Review, Front Range Revie, Natural Bridge, Willow Review, Yet Another Small Magazine, Rio, Rhino, Paris/Atlantic, Phantasmagoria, California Quarterly, Liberty Hill Poetry Review, Lilies & Cannonballs, Colere, Poetry Ireland, Wind, Grassroots, Poetry Motel, Midwest Quarterly, Main Street Rag, White Pelican Review, Quantum Tao, Red River Review, Rapid River, Spiky Palm, Runes, Terra Incognita, Visions, and Plainsong. In 1997, I won a Plainsong poetry award, and I was a featured poet in Visions in 2001. One of my poems was nominated for a Pushcart Prize in 2003 I also have two books published, The Cats in Zanzibar, and Grand Detour."

J. Tarwood






              JOHN N. MILLER



       Einstein's Remains




        Who should possess his brain,
        that serpent's nest of coils, intestinal
        and slightly bloated with solution?
       
        His body had been burned, its ashes strewn
        in a nearby river.
        Little could be said about the brain
       
        except its weight, precisely ascertained
        as two point six four pounds,
        normal for a man of his slight build -
       
        gray matter for his problem-solving skills,
        for genius or choicely mated genes?
        In seven years, the microscopes
       
        and enzymes gave no evidence. Its lobes
        still drift, presumably, in liquid,
        minus bits sliced off as gifts for med-school
       
        friends of the doctor who split Einstein's skull.
        Meanwhile, his ashes have in good time too
        drifted, downward into Lethe,
       
        River of Forgetfulness, beneath
        all medical concern.
        So much for his disposable remains,
       
        but what about that enigmatic brain
        and those gifted few with slices of it?
        Can they claim as their own properties
       
        whatever it was their MD friend
        scooped from its shell, part of what Einstein left
        as legacy - his serpentine effects?





BIO: Though born in Ohio (1933), John N. Miller grew up in Hawai'i (1937-1951), received a Ph.D. in English and American Literature from Stanford University, retired from college teaching (British and American literature, creative writing) in 1997, and now lives with his German-born wife Ilse in a retirement community in Lexington, Virginia.

He and his wife are inveterate travelers, especially to Europe and Hawai'i, and spent the academic year 1990-91 in Duesseldorf, Federal Republic of Germany, where he was a Fulbright Scholar at the Heinrich Heine University.

Over the past half-century his poems have appeared in a wide variety of literary journals, and recently two small presses have published modest volumes of his work: Second War in Hawai'i S (March Street Press: Greensboro, North Carolina, 2005) and SIn and Out of Their ElementsS (Fine Tooth Press: Waterbury, Connecticut, 2006). His latest publications of any consequence are Between Home and Abroad, a chapbook brought out by Main Street Rag Publishing Company (Charlotte, NC, 2009) and another chapbook, The Craft of Fiction, just published by Main Street Rag.





            DAVID CHORLTON




      The View from Space



        Another dictator is dead. Does the planet
        now shine more brightly

        as it spins through an infinity
        of cosmic mirrors

        where time is measured in light?
        Are there echoes

        from the gunshot that killed him
        among the meteors? Is it possible

        to see, with the most powerful
        of telescopes, the fine print

        on the messages
        our spies sent to his spies

        when everybody worked
        on the dark side of the Moon?








BIO: David Chorlton was born in Austria, grew up in England, and spent several years in Vienna before moving to Phoenix in1978. Among his books reflecting a concern for the natural world are Waiting for the Quetzal, from March Street Press, and The Porous Desert, from Future Cycle Press. He recently had a poem included in the anthology, BIRDS, from the British Museum, won the Ronald Wardall Poetry Prize for his chapbook The Lost River, from Rain Mountain Press, and the Slipstream Chapbook Contest with From the Age of Miracles. His newest book is fiction: The Taste of Fog, from Rain Mountain Press, set in 1960s Vienna.









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Contributors this Issue:

   Nancy Scott   Katharine Scambler   Colby Cuppernull    Kathleen Glassburn    Nathan Watson

Bob Putnam   Dietrich Kalteis    Lori Van Pelt   Ray Carns    Janet Yung    Gillian Lynn Katz    Raud Kennedy  

Susan Pace   BZ Niditch   Jonathon Josten   Richard D. Hartwell   Michael Fierro   David Chorlton   David Robbins  

J. Tarwood   Danny Barbare   Cynthia Eddy   Erren Kelly   Richard Fein   Richard Hartwell   George Freek  

Tina McKeon   Susan Martin   John N. Miller   Erika Hoffman   Carolyn Plath   Dan Williams   Katharine Scambler Art  


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