h o m e........
p a s t   i s s u e s....
s u b m i s s i o n s....
l i n k s




Modern Sonnet of Augury


It must be that my sleeping is sleeping, stealing dreams.  In a Time-Before-Fathom was cockle-shell, wind chime.  In Nodding was feather—walnuts, halves sewn shut—one simple stone.  Neither storm-wrecked nor melancholy was and dreaming did not know mauve as blush.  Ignominy grew no tendrils `round an urgency free of its clock.  In star-shine, loath to give up its secrets, was no pride.  Until invention, all was at rest.  Invention, with its needles and promise:  revenge.  Sleeping shifted.  Ladder-like, sea-grass climbed sea-grass, broke every surface.  Rain tasted the sour of itself.  Stopped:  song of two parrots.  Lure of causeways: stopped.  Ditto the shovel and cross leaving only two questions:  love and love…

                                                                                                           …or, there’s a lake, and in the middle of (this isn’t a dream) the lake, there is something pretending (as you and I are pretending) to be a boat with glass riggings.  In the mainsail, riff of blues becoming.  The boat has (or hasn’t had) passengers save one (me? you?) who holds the paddle and the paddle is level with the water (walk on) and the water is still (deep running) and the water gives in to its temperature although nothing is Fahrenheit only (sooner or later it all comes down to faith) on a lake, in the middle of...


Metronome, lately adagio


From amen to amen,
there is no grace.     

Deadlines are illusory
as contrails of snow geese.

Yet, there could be might be

but for the muddied air
dressed in its persona:  dread.

Under clay, our faltering resolve.
In the wind, a gash of white noise—


The problems I have are few
at this time:

            an absurd arithmetic
            of desire—
            a certain political

These storms present
without solution: 
all the lipstick in the world—
all the choirs and buttressing
of angels atop cathedrals—oh,
how easily women are fooled.

All I have is a drawer                                               
of fetching charms.
Does anyone know
why I keep them:
satinwood, nails,
one camisole and its metal,
phylactery, this mousetrap?



Bio: Lynne Thompson is the author of Beg No Pardon, which won the Perugia Press Book Award as well as the Great Lakes Colleges Association’s New Writers Award.  Her latest manuscript, Start With a Small Guitar, will be published by What Books Press in the fall of 2013. Recent work has appeared in numerous journals including Ploughshares, Solo Novo, Sou’Wester, and Spillway where she is Reviews & Essays Editor.  


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