Prairie Poetry plans a May of 2004 edition to honor the bicentennial of the departure of the Lewis and Clark expedition, the "Corps of Discovery", from their winter camp at the mouth of the Missouri River. The May 2004 edition will feature poems that reflect on that time, the Missouri river, the expedition itself, and/or the men and women who participated in it. Elegible submissions may have been previously published offline but may not appear elsewhere on the internet. Regular Prairie Poetry submission criteria apply. See: http://www.prairiepoetry.org/Publish _Poetry.html Your submission(s) should include subject line 'Lewis and Clark edition'. Deadline for submissions is January 20, 2004.
JANET I. BUCKSea Changecopyright JANET I. BUCK"Dear Dad: We are still at sea. The remainder of our port visits have all been cancelled. We have spent every day since the attacks going back and forth within imaginary boxes drawn in the ocean, standing high-security watches, trying to make the best of it ... Love, S" The Lutjen and the USS Winston Churchill side-by-side, deck to deck. The sign just reads: We Stand By You. Suddenly the buckled knees. Is this that that that Germany who roughly fifty years ago ground swastikas in human hides, marched children into rooms of gas? I still taste salt upon my lips. Hate's stranger has a different face, a softer chin. Maybe, just maybe, my history books lied. I'm flipping through photos of crushed towers and busy cranes, writing to my New York friends to see if e-mail bounces back with "no such address from the grave." Weak as a lisp from dry stream, questioning all river beds. Every plane that passes in the mangy fog leaves boot prints on a quaking floor. I wonder, Do cobwebs come down if we reach? They flew our flag, its colors former foreigners, saluted in the crusty waves. Second finger to the brow. Suddenly the virile thorn grows fruit and drops its summer on a hungry lawn. Rows and rows of all dress blues applied as if a sky exists. Not a dry eye on the rocky bridge. Mucus of the past dissolved, not wiped away, but broken some like pebbles under trucks of grief.
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