Lady On The Beach

Tiny wisps of hair

Stirred by the breeze  off the water

Whispered against her forehead…


Her eyes

searched the gray horizon;

sea and sky  as one….


Oblivious to the breeze

and the sounds

of the surf pounding

Against the shore…


The wind-whipped surface

Frothed and foamed;

White caps rising

And falling rapidly…


She waited and hoped;

Her rosary beads tight

in her grip,

Fingers white

And bloodless…


The red and white

Coast Guard boat

Bobbed up and down;

A speck against the mist…


Oh my God

She prayed

Deliver them please…


She dropped to her knees

Paying no heed

To the wet sand as it

Soaked into her clothes…


She’d lost one shoe

Somewhere on the beach,

Her foot cold and wrinkled

And bleached white…

Days end was nearing.

The rain beginning to


slapping against her

Face and body…


She was soaked through

And through,

Her clothes clung like

A plastic shroud…

by Bud Stupi

The Wreck of the Toni Marie

You, my flesh, my son,

alone on the deck,

when the wind shifted.

A squall from the west, a cold dark cloud

between you and the shore.

A rookie mistake,

the jib, the head sail,

you approached the wind

too sharply.

This I taught you over and over

when we sailed together

in fiercer winds:

Reef the sail, pull leeward,

downward, slowly, uncoil, unfurl,

head slightly into the wind,

slacken the jib.

You in the storm,

my son, alone on the deck,

when the winds rose.

You lost our boat,

I lost my son.

by George Miller

Still Life

In the writing apartment

Charles Coghlan, P. Hobbs, Grasso, Yasir, others

Art vibrating mute witness

To accidents of life

Broken brakes and drunken longing

The Island of Dreams always day and night

An impressionist Manhattan skyline

Voyeured lovers entwined

Ancient mountains over Pennsylvania farmland

Billy Holiday’s arching throat at the Downdraft, NY circa.1947

A realism that looks like an ex-girlfriend,

She’s nude wearing big sunglass and a shawl of eels

A stoned wanton redhead in stockings black as her smeared mascara

Cover art of N.R. DeMexico 1950’s pulp fiction entitled Marijuana Girl

Trading her body for drugs and kicks…

My brother went to art school

Now he no longer paints

He has a brain tumor

And just living is his art

by JP Cashla

July 27, 1890

The shot must have scared the crows

out of the field and into the sky. They

likely had never known such a shock,

the way sound like this ruffles the air,

the sudden recognition of the sunlight

blackening everything. Returning to

the wheat field the crows must have seen

where the stalks had been stomped down,

disturbed and twisted; they must

have noticed how the space where he

had been standing felt unusually empty,

except for the abandoned easel, a fallen 

brush, a snake of gold and black paint

across the spikes of still standing wheat.

by V.P. Loggins

First published in The Cape Rock (2013)

The Dance

   Galleries at Maryland Hall

Bent as an old stair rail

he creeps into the gallery

crouches on the bench beneath 

“White Pitcher with Bowl of Cherries”

opens his sketchbook and waits

for sweet inspiration. 

Across the room a terracotta figure

emerges from the light’s glare

her glance full of secret shapes.

He unfolds his skeletal self

reaches for her hand and leads her

to dance.

Their feet clatter over the old pine boards

as they swirl past marble topped pedestals

past blue canvas spray of waves, a stand of cypress

in morning’s mist, nude bathers framed

in the bay’s gray-green-gray-blue


The sinews of his thin arms wrap

her sculpted shoulders. Her long skirts

crack against his ankles. She smells of garden dirt.

Wheezing, he sits again and she stands rapt again.

He will drink strong cold coffee from the white pitcher

eat two of the dark cherries.

by Louise White

Olga’s Eyes

Olga reclines, lids lowered, secrets hidden

light caressing the fine bones of her face

Olga dances out to the brick walk

“I have to hug you, I love strong women.”

Olga stumbles to the morning table, no make up

“I don’t know what I’m doing, it was a long night…”

Olga stands in the doorway in dusk of evening

in a world of her own, you cannot reach her

Olga flickers on and off like fireflies in summer

rising ever higher, disappearing when you try to catch her

Olga’s life story is in her leg muscles, her spine

the way her hands hold a dish, her perfect stillness

Olga’s eyes are an animal’s eyes caught

by a camera in the dark of the woods

Take Olga to the bay, she will swim the white paint

to the further shore and bask naked in the green

For a bed give her a bedframe under the open sky

and for heat find her a stove you can lean against a fence

Put Olga on a pedestal and she will leap to the next

Try to do her portrait, she will fight against your gaze

If you feathered Olga, she would fly. If you encased

her in clay she would break free.  On a wall she is small

In a room the size of a gallery amongst the people and

pedestrians, she is all that you can see

If I go to Paris, it is Olga I want along with me

And if I were kissing women, I’d ask Olga to kiss me

by Minnie Warburton