I never fathomed
how dark, deep and black
was the well that smelt
of roses mixed with tar.

I never fathomed
how wax melts to ink
and chokes the blue fire
of cinders gone cold.

I never fathomed
how far the pine road goes
where the raven taunts and calls
clawing at green eyes.

I never fathomed
how mountains warp in clouds
shrouded incessant with torrents
of hot rain, sweltering in fog.

I never fathomed
how nights grown old
fold and fade in starlight
with a yawning moon gone dark.

I never fathomed
how thorns fend off thorns
while petals hold the dew
granting reflection to the sky.

I never fathomed
how vast the blue veil lay
cursed with gales and monsters
fed by celestial bodies and sweat.

I never fathomed
how clay clothes the bones
of everything gone to sleep,
and a timber door masks it all.

Molly Marr is a world traveler with a BA in English from Southern New Hampshire University and a MS in Psychology from Grand Canyon University. She has written for the Brooklyn Brush, Blessed Is She, and Grand Canyon University’s StartleBloom Literary Review Vol. 5 & Vol. 6. Her other works are found on her personal blog: mvlastavica.wordpress.com 

This pigeon hole they put me in
is suffocating me,
too crowded to extend my wings
I’m dying to be free.
They measured it too quickly
and then they walked away,
assuming it would fit me
they tried to make me stay.

The strange thing about pigeon holes
is that they have no restraint-
no door, no lock to hold you in,
just a pseudo-kind of safe.
They offer a false comfort,
tempting you to nest,
they shrink your view, and atrophy
the muscles that work best.

But once you see the opening
you plot out your escape,
and it feels terrifying at first
you have to be so brave.
And then you start to fly-
your whole perspective changes,
you can’t unlearn what you now know
as you soar to higher ranges.

The pigeon hole becomes a dot
from way up in the clouds,
and they don’t even know I left
but that doesn’t matter now.

Sara Christiansen lives in Connecticut with her husband and two children. She writes poems, music, and prose and is an avid collector of hope. Her favorite writing themes are healing, wholeness, and self-worth.

I’d never golfed with Sal, but felt that I had. His highly detailed playlist of golf experiences was unending and as he began to relate them, I learned that I’d better sit back and relax, as I was in for a long ride in his memory-driven golf cart.

A colorful chap, Sal was right out of Central Casting for “Senior Golfer.” He was deeply tanned, even within each of the wrinkles around his eyes when he smiled. Getting the sun into those crevices isn’t easy. You just need to be out and under it a lot.

His arms were well tanned, and he did have the dead giveaway that he was a golfer. His left hand, the one that wore a glove, was several shades less tanned than his right hand. Never engage a guy like this in a golf bet because, despite his claims to have only been out twice this year, his hand says otherwise.

Sal even wore golfer duds around the office and always looked like he was searching for a lost ball. He showed up in a striped, collared short sleeve shirt, lightweight Arnold Palmer pants with a secret tee pocket and colorful socks with greens flags and putters.

But the magic began when Sal began to relate a golf story. Somehow, whatever was awaiting immediate attention on your computer was relegated to second place as Sal began his story:

“I was on the 13th hole. You know, the one with your back to the ocean and the green a long stick out there. I’m thinkin’ it’s 335 yards. No, wait a minute. That’s the 4th hole on the first 9. This one’s 375. It’s gonna’ take an even bigger poke.”

“I’m standing there over my ball. You know, I’m playing the new Excalibur XX. Man, what a ball that is.”

“I can feel the wind rustling my pants. I can see it moving those palm fronds over on the left side of the groomed fairway. I do my setup. Then my address. I waggle. Do my checklist, then begin my downswing. Man, did I crush it.”

“You do know I’m using the new Ball Peen Driver, don’t you? It’s a 4.5 deflection, but get one set up for you. Just get one of these bad boys. It just spanks that ball. It’s taken 3 strokes off my game and lowered my handicap by 2.”

When I asked for a closing thought on this numbingly long golf shot, like where the ball landed, Sal paused, then said, “Oh, it went into the pond. But really way, way out in the pond. No one told me that pond was even there.”

It was at that moment that I made a decision. My golfing days were officially over and I moved to a simpler game with far fewer stories. It’s pickleball.

No ocean breezes, no costly clubs, no designer balls, no ponds, no breezy pants with secret tee pockets.

One ball. One paddle. Game on.

A former ad agency creative director, Jim now writes just for fun. Looking back, he realizes how few semicolons he ever used in writing ad copy. He promises to do better.

Dappled falcons claim the crosses of the power line poles,
their patience for a twitch in the fields
inarguably certain.

Snow on the wheat stubble is barely enough
of an attempt at the expression of snow,
snow forming the idea of itself in the stinging air,

Later, it might fall later,

but close enough to press the button on the dashboard for heat
a few more times,
hear the thin buzzing of the blower engage,

then compose yourself.

You pass three falcons in a mile or so,
though you forgot to count the markers diligently,

then catch a fourth,

circling up to tuck wings

for an eager descent.

Matthew Bullen is a recent graduate of Lancaster University’s Creative Writing Masters program. A web developer by trade, he lives in Los Angeles.