The Reel

 

On midnight shadows he floats with the loons,
pitching and casting his baited hook overboard,
a bobber twitching as catfish nibble his mind,
fiddle strung under his chin, a fishtailing grin
in the ripples, he warbles maniacally. The sky
drips moonshine into the pools in his eyes as
he casts, spinning, flying on the spool, twisting
as he loses grip and flutters away on currents,
jigging in the depths while I weigh anchor.
I smile as we laugh and reel down the river
and he winks until only a grin remains in the stars.

 

— Alex Pickens

 

Alex Pickens has lived over 20 years in southern Appalachia, where he spends much of his time hiking, reading the Classics, and fingerpicking the blues. His work has recently been accepted by The Inkwell Journal, Maudlin House, Mad Scientist Journal (4 times), Gone Lawn, Pretty Owl Poetry, Brilliant Flash Fiction, Eastern Iowa Review, Jersey Devil Press, Crack the Spine, and Moonpark Review, while his flash fiction has been nominated for a Best Microfiction, 2018 anthology. He is a direct descendent of a Revolutionary War general nicknamed “The Wizard Owl.”

 

Editor’s Note: The silhouette of a man with his son in a boat fishing (pngtree) on the lake/moonlit waters (flyclip art).

Spring 2019 Poetry

Introduction to Silver Blade Poetry, Issue 42 (May 2019)

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The slate of poets in this issue maintain the level of excellence you have come to expect and enjoy.

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Rapunzel Decides

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At marriage knell, my hair thickens and I no more scissor at the mirror, my barber grandfather

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Awake at dawn, Medusa feeds her hair With mice she raises specially beneath The kitchen sink, her landlord unaware.

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Mendacity with Colored Sprinkles

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Five sex changes. You could call me indecisive. I keep all the old parts in big hand-blown glass jars in the bay window of the breakfast nook

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Troubled Times are Turning

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We follow footprints disappearing Into the wet alien sand That shimmers beneath three moons’ sheen

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*

*

At the end this sand coming by covers you with soft flowers that long ago dried as footsteps

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the NHK guy

the NHK guy

the NHK guy comes through the electric security fence that hovers around my door

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They brought us the cure for H-loss

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I was born with a thick head of black hair: my father’s.

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When the Last Religion

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When the last religion confesses its atrocities through the ages and shuts down shop for good,

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Martian Snow

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