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Poetry by Harry Calhoun


for Trina


by Harry Calhoun



I don’t mind airplanes. I probably wouldn’t mind outer space.

But real heights, above ground here on earth, scare

my knuckles white. Walking or driving over bridges. Even stepladders.

My palms sweat looking off the third floor or higher of any building.


I don’t mind God. I probably might end up in heaven or hell.

But the in between, here on earth, is spent driving, looking

hopeful up to God or fearful down from bridges when it’s better

to keep focused on the road. Heights above or below are so distractful.


I don’t fear love. Well, yes I do. There’s no higher place to be.

But with you, there is no other place to be. I look down from what

we’ve built and sometimes I fear, but I look up in your eyes and I know

I wouldn’t mind outer space. This is where I find heaven.




by Harry Calhoun


Crescent, the milky icicle breaking

the top of the glass, my hands shaking

a little as I toast you and what once was us.


Consent, in a royal jar placed high

on a sacred plate on the unreachable shelf

that overlooks what I thought to be you.


Meniscus, surface tension; someone moves

suddenly or simply waits for evaporation

and it spills over or disappears. But it’s never


an illusion. Worse, the cream of liquid  wing soaring

atop the full goblet of our dreams, clipped

by a sudden movement, slow erosion or



the horrible god of indifference.

The Microcosm of Coffee Grounds

by Harry Calhoun



The sound of brewing as sparkling as God waking

his children with bright bubbles. Dark brown magic

pouring into the pot, into the cup, into the soul,

lifting a world of kitchen, bedroom and office.


Hours later, the grounds are sludge slung

over eggshells into the garbage can, washed

like a dirty memory or spoor of shame spiraling

down the kitchen drain. A dirty job that somebody’s got to do.




I woke each day to sunshine, at least that’s what

a boy remembers, and the bright sunny collie tan and white

waiting out in the yard, and the aroma of my parents’ coffee,

and eggs on the table and running out to meet my collie.


Years pass. My daddy didn’t know any better, or worse yet

he did. He let my mama die. She was old and crazy. She fought

with the men who came to take her to the hospital. He called me

from far away as if there was something I could do. There wasn’t.




I’m on the beach in Key West with the minister and the woman

I’m marrying. We’re going to be happy for a long time. It’s a love

full of laughter and pet names and our first house together and friends

and another dog. I am so happy but the dog is aggressive and I got depressed.


She left, my fault, her fault, and booze I thought was the only friend

that would understand me, and when we met it slapped me down hard,

so hard I couldn’t walk, and I crawled out of the hospital and she let me

back in and damned if I didn’t do it again. Time to wake up.



Wake up and smell the coffee. First I clean the grounds from the filter,

measure the coffee and the cool clear water. Nothing we can do

with the past but learn from it, remember the good and work

with the bad we can change. Get rid of the grounds, so to speak,


and work with new coffee. I think of my mom and dad, both passed

now, before the happy percolating breaks my thoughts. My wife smiles

as I carry our full-bodied chocolate brew into the bedroom, into another chance

to realize the enduring chill of what passes, the bright sweet caffeine jolt,


the absolute holiness of crafting each day with love

from the dregs of yesterday.

Of the Creeks, the Baying Dogs


by Harry Calhoun


I remember flyfishing with my father on foggy mornings

on Pennsylvania creeks. And today my black Labs

with much hound mixed in strut undomesticated

from my wooded backlot to claim the back deck


with wildness, yowling that if I would understand

I might become werewolf, and I wish in some part

I could. As I wish I could stake some misty claim

beyond my father’s death and angle again those foggy banks,


to become the wild and the dead and the deathless,

the ineffable and feral beloved eternal and mortal.

My lover my wife beside me wished eternal and hoped forever

the father my parent wished eternal and gone forever


communication, dog, human, lycanthrope, struggle,

this I howl and the moon rises, I do not know which

comes first, as I have only this my fierce love and this

strange and wild poetry that rises in my breast.



Harry Calhoun has had work published in hundreds of poetry journals and more than a dozen books and chapbooks over the past three decades. His career has included Pushcart nominations, two Sundress Best of the Net nominations and publications in AbbeyOrange Room Review, Flutter Poetry Journal, Faircloth Review, Thunder Sandwich, Lily and others. Book publications have included I knew Bukowski like you knew a rare leaf and The Black Dog and the Road. In 2011, Flutter Press published his chapbook The Insomnia Poems. 2012 was an exceedingly good year, with the publication of the limited-edition chapbook Maintenance and Deaththe chapbook of love poems,How Love Conquers the Worldand the collection of poems from the ‘80s and ’90s called Retro, Maintenance and Death has now gone to a second edition. The chapbook Failure is Unimportant came out on Flutter in 2013 and a full-length poetry book, Alarmed in Space and other poems, has been accepted by Unbound Content for release in early 2015. Harry lives in Raleigh, North Carolina with his wife Trina and his dogs Hamlet and Harriet.

“Vincent Van Gogh” and “Wheatfield with Crows” by Christina Murphy

Below, read two new poems by up-and-coming poet Christina Murphy.

Christina Murphy lives and writes in a 100 year-old Arts and Crafts style house along the Ohio River in the USA. Her poetry appears in a range of journals and anthologies, including, most recently, PANK, La Fovea, StepAway Magazine, Pear Noir! and Humanimalz Literary Journal. Her work has twice been nominated for a Pushcart Prize and for the 2012 Best of the Net Anthology.

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