English Language and Literature Commons^™

The Name, John Grey

Bryant Literary Review

There should be a name for people

who sit on a rock for hours

Passio #008, George Gott

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If we know

what we ought to know

we join hands with the mighty world

Contributors

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Title Page

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Table Of Contents

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The Poet, In One Last Desperate Attempt To Please His Public, Lays On The Blarney, Louis Phillips

Bryant Literary Review

The words in this poem are quite ordinary.

Morning Report With Other Disturbances, Stephen R. Roberts

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You might want to head to work a bit early this morning.

Papa, Scott Walmsley

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His crow's feet walked a thousand miles

His dark bags carried all his treasures.

Waiting For The Sun, Nina Bennett

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Venice Beach is smaller than I imagined,

not large enough to hold its history

Leonard Cohen Sings All Night, John Tustin

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Leonard Cohen sings all night

on my miserable wet black drive

Nights When Father Jived With Demon Rum, Madelyn Garner

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Dogs yelped. Mother spat blood. Which explains

the slamming of doors, clawing through back room windows,

Sowing The Seeds, Janet Proulx

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Grandfather would sit in a rocker by the window

smoking a pipe and gazing upon his bountiful garden

Bingo, Seth Benton

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Mosquitoes spatter the wall

beside us as the sweet rot

smell of marsh at low tide

Robots, Joseph Scott (J.S.) Kierland

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The Major drove north along 95 into the oncoming darkness. The sun hung low over the desert behind him,

Fly In The Air, Judy Klass

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...strafes the dinner party guests but does not land, cuts through the invisible gases jagged,

Why I Cannot Love Picasso, Devon Miller-Duggan

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Sure, he gets that everything is broken

And still charged with lusts.

Pulse, Nathan Alling Long

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Dad stopped the car on the hill above school and put it in park.

Posted: Don't Poach, Nathan Whiting

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You now read an uncollected poem.

If a poem collector, you should

John 3:10010000110, John Supinski

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Welcome to the kingdom of the Immortal

Where races are run barefoot

36., Sean Lause

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Thomas Null, machine 36, the hole-puncher,
was secretly apprenticed to despair

Pretty Ballerina, Kerry Jones

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It's just one of those things that sometimes happens to me: I'll find myself walking by a playground, or I'll be walking through the mall, and I'll see a little girl about eleven or so, and that's when my mind takes on a life of its own.

Children At The Wake, John Grey

Bryant Literary Review

I admit that, more than once,

I've pointed to the sky

Dedication, Charles Harper Webb

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Where did Blake Bumgardner find the washtub-sized
cojones to confess over the phone, then listen

Confidence, Laura Buermann

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I am a polysyllabic phenomenon,
a thesauric wunderkind

Tierra Blanca, Andrea Lewis

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I had what I wanted. I was alone with Charles.

Pages From The Textbook Of Alternate History: Plato, King Of Syracuse, Phong Nguyen

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When Dionysus II first offered to Plato the city of Syracuse, jewel of Sicily, for the philosopher to rule as his own, there was a moment of hesitation

Bee Lust In Manhattan, John F. Buckley, Martin Ott

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Thousands of bees swarmed outside a Manhattan
deli, trapping dozens of patrons, the meat scent

I Killed A Bug Last Night, Carol Hamilton

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He was walking along the edge
of the tasseled rug, no hurry,

Without Breath, Michelle Soucy

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I'm eight years old and my parents make me sleep in my sick younger brother's bed with him in case he stops breathing again

On The First Morning, Patsy Anne Bickerstaff

Bryant Literary Review

of spring
when I see a red shiny
balloon valentine shaped
descend