Brand new work by Mary Anna Kruch
CHRYSANTHEMUM / FIVE WILLOWS LITERARY REVIEW is an Online literary review of the Chrysanthemum Literary Society for selected works that fit the spirit of Mr. Five Willows. Send your work via email to email@example.com both in the body of the email and as an attached Word file. Response time is immediate to 2 weeks. Thank you. All donations are tax-deductible.
Tuesday, September 7, 2021
Friday, August 13, 2021
The editor is taking a hiatus trying to learn logic. Please check back later. https://scontent-sea1-1.xx.fbcdn.net/v/t1.6435-9/233414522_10159314495969920_4659910229964571291_n.jpg?_nc_cat=104&ccb=1-5&_nc_sid=8bfeb9&_nc_ohc=nSza12huRj8AX-vCtL3&_nc_oc=AQnpFCSQKGE2OprpnQUH7v4uWm43VdKO8zSa28CobuR70Lb45te3ZSzbmbw7NZo5B3Y&tn=qeR2eExDsmyxugoE&_nc_ht=scontent-sea1-1.xx&oh=f0dcf5c17d680dae7027f3db817e0671&oe=613CD1C9
Thursday, July 15, 2021
Three poems by George Held
Dust under the Rug
How Mom loved that tale
of “Dust under the Rug,”
with all its didactic
clamor and finger-shaking
to instill fear in her
dopey kids, that is, me
and my little sister.
Sis was a sucker
for such dire threats and took
them to heart, while I shook
them off with precocious
cynicism. My mind
translated “dust” into
gunk, crud, dirt, crap, trash,
or roach carcasses, mouse
turds, squashed peas, and, older,
into lines of metered prose
memoir poems, neo-
Beat bombast – other stuff
I then stuffed under the rug.
are the Big and Little Dippers
or Ursa Major and Minor,
seen by the Greeks as bears.
Would we love them more as
Momma Bear and Baby Bear,
Teddy’s that inspire insipid
cartoons and commercials,
Or do we embrace them
because they seem close enough
to dip water from a barrel and pour
it into a glass or because
they are so terribly far away?
The ticket taker says, “Thanks, Boss,”
The laundry man says, “No starch, Boss,”
The cleaning lady says, “Next time, Boss,”
And you grate at being called “Boss,”
Because you used to be a soda jerk,
gas-pump jockey, delivery boy –
The Reporter-Dispatch, special-
delivery mail, pharmacy prescriptions –
and got chased by the snarling Doberman
in the yard (“Don’t worry—he’s quite friendly!”)
and called “You Fock” by your rotten boss,
so you smile and squash the urge to say, “Don’t
call me ‘Boss,’” and squelch the itch to
reply, “You’re welcome, Mother Fucker.”
Sunday, June 6, 2021
Poem by Keith Holyoak
Out of Kilter
All day the world felt just a bit off
balance. And yet, nothing was really wrong—
the late summer sun shone at least as bright
as yesterday (though not for quite so long).
Barbecue weather—kind of day to loaf
outside, tracking a hummingbird in flight.
The sun blazed crimson, dimmed, and then was gone.
Tonight, lying beside my wife, I caught
a knife-edged moon peering at us. I held her
tight to my chest, as though we both might float
away without seeing another dawn.
Hard to sleep when the world’s gone out of kilter….
Been meaning to catch up—figured to give
you a call soon. Your voice inside my head
retells a story. Smiling, I’m amused to
hear it again—till I recall instead
how this day was the first I’ve been alive
when you are not. Takes some getting used to.
in memory of Edward E. Smith, 1940-2012
Unsung heroes of Goldfish Press
Heather Sager ______________________ poem
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Click on Poetry above to view Thomas Hubbard's two poems
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