poetryrepairs 15,02:015

JOHN HORVATH Jr : Moon over Liberty County

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Moon over Liberty County

It's a simple Southern moon, white minstrel face laughing, accurately phasing over tides, kudzu hugged stands of live oak and loblolly where young twos twine unplanned parenthoods. It's a sane slow Southern moon that dapple with shadows a rough, red, rusted, dented, old pick-up loaded with hound and liquor for warmth whilst endless chasing after coon. Already, the boys joshing on the last feller treed. Sportsman's Southern moon follows low in loblolly tops over some unripe girls unwed who won't realize, don't suspect, that moon and others like it wait their turn, wait their turn. Couple of 'em building-up courage swigging on bottles of moon. Look at that moon, Southern moon, overhead smiling like a minstrel.

published in Avalon
poetryrepairs #209 15,02:015


Tourmaline is believed to strengthen the body and spirit, especially the nervous system, blood and nymphs. It is also thought to inspire creativity and was used extensively as a talisman by artists and writers.
She can only imagine that she has been understood. She wants to restart her life, to “reboot,” find new reasons and new alliances. She believes that the past loved her once. She is not certain it has maintained that warmth. She is underwater much of the time now, surfaces only on the High Holy Days— or on the low holy days, holds her breath for longer with each intake. She is used to waiting but is not a patient woman. She watches her loved ones from across verdant straits, watches the slow wings of their hearts open and close to her. The tangled overgrowth of her dreams makes her restless, undone. This can be seen in her pace, her exhausted shoulders, the absence of make-up and a trendy hairstyle. She can only imagine her own voice, rain-like, intermittent. She blinks, sighs. All prisons do not, have bars she says, and I am an innocent woman.

poetryrepairs #209 15,02:015

Canto Jondo

You know your saints because they keep dying. Catching the balls the juggler keeps dropping, Jesus, you must be just as good as the Juggler. Garcia Lorca is the blue guitar Playing the Deep Song at blood weddings. My guts are purple roses- My guts are bloody pearls defeated Moors, exiled Jews Singing the songs of Gypsies stealing when at last the matador drops the bull to his knees with one thrust. In the stony country there is heard the sound of cattle lowing. Lorca is dead. I am a block of ice crushing a pebble- I am a black stone on a white stone You know your saints because they keep dying. Christ, catching the balls the juggler keeps dropping, You must be just as good as the juggler. Cesar Vallejo is the reef of reed-pipes playing the Deep Song in mountain citadels. Singing the songs of conquered Incas Singing the songs of runaway slaves Singing the songs of soldiers deserting The Ebro crossed and Madrid falling, in Peruvian passes then is heard the sound of flutes whistling Cesar Vallejo is dead. And this is the Deep Song.

poetryrepairs #209 15,02:015

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Ms. NEWBERRY is winner of i.e. magazine’s Editor’s Choice Poetry Chapbook Prize for 1998: AN APPARENT, APPROACHABLE LIGHT. She is also the author of LIMA BEANS AND CITY CHICKEN: MEMORIES OF THE OPEN HEARTH—a memoir of her father, (one of the first men ever to be hired at Kaiser Steel in Fontana, CA in 1943)—published by E.P. Dutton and Co. in 1989. Newberry has been included in Ascent Aspirations first two hard-copy Anthologies, also in the anthologies In The Company Of Women, The Panty Drawer and Blessed Are These Hands. She has been widely published in literary magazines in the U.S. and abroad.

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