Issue 32 Poetry

Introduction to Silver Blade Issue 32 Poetry

Introduction to Silver Blade Issue 32 Poetry

Many poems have stellar allusions, whether the stars are in the edge of creation, in a bowl, in a pocket, in a well or in the eye of a cat.

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How It All Started

How It All Started

Once there was a potent, erratic particle that contained everything. And because it contained everything, it was entirely, acutely self-aware.

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Well, Water, Stars

Well, Water, Stars

Every day I try to speak. I used to know How to move lips and gums and teeth, tongue striking hard To shape a sentence—or a smile.

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I carry the light of a dead star in my pocket

I carry the light of a dead star in my pocket

an ancient sun one of the first to will itself out of dust and darkness

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Arson With a Smile

Arson With a Smile

I keep a little sun in my pocket, a little ball of warmth, a little light for days stuck inside staring out the window

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Ithildin

Ithildin

Noldor women, elven men now silent, now singing in the slow, sonorous music of stone

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George Tecumseh Sherman’s Ghosts

George Tecumseh Sherman’s Ghosts

Most nights, you mention him, the ghosts rise from the cypress come back to wail and moan.

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Dave’s Strip Club

Dave’s Strip Club

I know it is only a synthetic shell: False skin grown in a sterile plasma farm, sold By the yard, shipped cold, pathogen-free, and Uniform

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Issue 32 Stories

The Desolation

The Desolation

Across the cracked and broken wastes, two figures came walking. They were a man and a woman, under a darkened, starlit sky.

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Captain Jack

Captain Jack

Lights from the windows of Brennan’s Fishing Lodge seeped through the ground fog ahead—a welcoming beacon for lost souls.

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The Persistence of RAM

The Persistence of RAM

The five-story building looked like a hospital. Sliding doors whooshed open and too much air conditioning blasted me in the face. I turned right, following the signs for the Advanced Robotics Laboratory.

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The Executioner’s Correspondent

The Executioner’s Correspondent

And letters, Dornan knew, were something quite different from what he was receiving. They were longer, for one. Two, you knew where they were coming from. Three, letters came by post, not in your private journal.

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Eisin, an Eastwise Folktale

Eisin, an Eastwise Folktale

One sings the tale of Eisin, in her grave before her time A grave made not of ash and earth, but hoarfrost and hard rime.

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