Keepsake By Gale Acuff I'm ten years old and I'm going to die one day so I'd better get ready now because it could happen at any time, even if I don't die by accident --run over catching the school bus or shot by a burglar or pushed out a window or choked by a hamburger pickle or struck by lightning or brained by a baseball. You never know. And then gone, I'll come to, and look back on my life and what happened in it to end it, and shake my head if I still have one, one that's blood and meat and bone, and think what a shame I lost it, my life. I'll be a ghost or an angel, maybe, done with doom for keeps. And then I'll pick myself up and dust myself off and get on with it, my life of being dead forever. Which is what forever is. Author bio: Gale writes: “I have had poetry published in Ascent, Ohio Journal, Descant, Poem, Adirondack Review, Coe Review, Worcester Review, Maryland Poetry Review, Arkansas Review, Florida Review, South Carolina Review, Carolina Quarterly, South Dakota Review, Sequential Art Narrative in Education, and many other journals. I have authored three books of poetry: Buffalo Nickel (BrickHouse Press, 2004), The Weight of the World (BrickHouse, 2006), and The Story of My Lives (BrickHouse, 2008). I have taught university English in the US, China, and the Palestinian West Bank. ! ! !
Time was By Richard Weaver there was a time when hour glasses drank pure sunlight like ouzo before there was a happy hour, and grandfather clocks could remember how to tie their shoes using both hands, (grandmother, being shorter, had no need to bend as low, and preferred house shoes anyway), when pocket watches absorbed the body’s radiant heat and kept pace as if waltzing with or without Matilda. And water-based escarpments emptied or filled the seconds each day, each tick one drop, each tock one drip. Together a drop drip. Now days a strontium lattice clock surpasses the cesium standard by 50%, give or take a %, a blue laser accurate for give or take the next 15 billion years (14 billion years after the sun dances its last fandango) and the earth, a preadolescent planet, a mere 5.5 ± 0.05 billion years young, dies. So does it matter, Father Time, that this new timepiece can detect the dead Einstein in action and Stephen Hawkings’s next sneeze? Reality in action has no relevance in such time. Blue lasers. Reds lasers. Ultramarine. Set our waves free. Author bio: Richard Weaver resides in Baltimore’s Inner Harbor where he volunteers with the Maryland Book Bank, acts as the Archivist-at-large for a Jesuit college, and is a seasonal snowflake counter (unofficially). Recent poems have appeared in OxMag, Red Eft Review, Crack the Spine, Juxtaprose, Misfit, and Conjunctions. Forthcoming work will appear in Clade Song, Dead Mule, & Magnolia Review.