STAFF
Dale Wisely
Laura M. Kaminski
F. John Sharp
José Angel Araguz
F. J. Bergmann
about the editors
this is a
right hand pointing
digital chapbook
copyright 2017 by Tony Press
cover image & icon by Dale Wisely
Acknowledgments
reckoning (34th Parallel)
Day Laborer at Midnight (The Lake)
On the Late Bus (Right Hand Pointing)
Equinox and Solstice
Past
waking up once more
the painful task of dropping
yesterday’s myth
Present
it is how you are looking
that determines what you see
pay attention
Future
look not for the time
it is only imagined
be the moment
Solstice
this is where we are
the middle between extremes
arise and embrace
The old ways
When I was a kid my father
would take me to town with him
when he had any business to do.
Tractor parts, pharmacy, bank, any of ‘em,
and the first thing they’d do, they’d close the door.
Close it tight,
and in the bottom drawer of the desk was a bottle of whiskey.
They’d pull it out and both have a drink.
Icarus in October
My mother
who did not sew,
sewed me into Peter Pan,
everything except the shadow.
And I soared on paternal shoulders
gathering apples and chocolates and taffy.
as quick as that
P.E. classes
lasted forty minutes
and once,
a kid named Richard
hit four grounders to me.
I threw him out each time.
Four times as quick as that.
That was my shortstop year.
He became a doctor
and died way too soon.
My leather glove, ancient and hardened,
lives on my bookcase
a softball inside it.
I can see the first bounce.
Summer of Shadows
you can’t train for this
the fear that begins at dawn
when you wake alone
they say dawn is good
a sign of hope after the dark
give me back the night
it could raise the dead
this fear that chills the morning
delivers the pain
beginning again
another dreary attempt
suit shoes briefcase wait
alarm running down
my train leaves in ten minutes
for no good reason
only last August
house-training pups and children
I knew so little
El Nogalito
dogs run free in this town
as children did before
we all stop at the river
three paths climb the canyon
each finds the waterfall
dogs run free in this town
morning sun calls the time
days blend like chocolate
we all stop at the river
roosters strut and holler
fruit vendors do the same
dogs run free in this town
soft sand beach forgotten
not a place for locals
we all stop at the river
there’s nowhere else to go
and nothing left to do
dogs run free in this town
we all stop at the river
reckoning
rattlesnakes live here
it is something we forget
like the dry cleaning
or the name of that movie
or that we will die
Vista
If you could see anything, anything at all, through this window,
if there weren’t just that brick wall outside,
what would you want it to be?
The Bridge of Sighs, she said,
on the Grand Canal.
They say if you stand on that bridge
and kiss, you will be together forever.
Look, I said, there it is. Let’s go.
Oaxaca, 2008
dulce recuerdo
alumnas caminando
dos de la mano
sweet memory
schoolgirls walking
hand in hand
**
toque de queda
la noche está cerrado
estrellas sollazan
curfew Oaxaca
the night is closed
stars sob
**
puedo recordar
la brisa antes
su ultima salida
I can remember
the breeze before
your final departure
Day Laborer at Midnight
Six months become six years.
I only wanted things a little better.
My precious baby is seven. Impossible.
How do you kiss un foto de una chica.
A chica I don’t even know.
She’s in Sonsonate. I am here.
And my wife. I guess she’s still my wife.
But there’s Aracely now, here
Here in Oakland with me. What do I call her?
Worse, mi hijo, Santiago.
He waited for me, then he followed my path.
Or tried to, but they found his body in Mexico.
Never even made it El Norte.
This can’t be the American Dream.
What is that word por una pesadilla?
Nightmare. Eso es. Nightmare.
on the corner
sombra brillante
el perro esqueleto
la ultima vez
brilliant shadow
skeleton dog
the last time
Star of Leo
I walked that night,
nothing else to do,
along the Gila River
The first stars appeared
and I found a new one.
Brilliant and beautiful and bold.
Today, that sweet child
in his tiny open casket.
Who builds such things?
Leo, his name was, would have been.
Was.
A new lion among the heavens,
smiling down. A bit of comfort.
Time passed, as it does.
I later returned to the path,
on a blue-sky sunny day. No stars.
Someone once told me:
“Don’t worry, the stars are always there.”
She is gone, too.
Sweet and bitter, bitter and sweet.
Barrio la Mezquita, Córdoba, Spain
Each step north
is both from and toward.
I stroll past the grand cathedral,
this site, depending upon the century,
holy for Moslems, sacred for Catholics, back and forth,
before I ascend to the Cordoba Station.
This November night I will discard my sandals.
Tomorrow is Madrid, next week London.
On the Late Bus
ahead of me
on the late bus to Bristol
the woman leaned her head
upon the rain-smeared window
and surrendered herself to sleep
I was reading,
no, fighting through
a novel an ex had given me
when grace feathered my hands
wisps of a ponytail,
the ends of ten golden inches,
kissed my book-cradling fingers
I held pose
as if meditating
until her awakening
Above Loch Voil
on a day like today
perfect blues, greens, yellows
the poet died
life is change, but
death endures
endures
affection remains
as does gratitude
but the poet is still dead
the return
twelve narrow flights to your unlatched door
rainfall drifting from Hampstead Heath
crosstown traffic from Kings Cross
Glasgow Queen Street express
your postcard in hand
you forgive me
come back
now
Tony Press tries to pay attention and sometimes he does. He enjoys reading and writing, whether poetry or fiction, and has had both published in many fine places. He’d be thrilled if you purchased his 2016 story collection, Crossing the Lines (Big Table). It’s available via independent bookstores, directly from him, or even from that Amazon place. He lives near the San Francisco Bay and has two Pushcart nominations, yet not one website.
