For your summer reading pleasure, we bring you selections from The Fountain Pen, Fountain House's quarterly literary magazine. Enjoy!
Embers Chilled by Eugene B.
There's just a hint of summer to you
Rose petals, white and ripe cerise
So open and inviting, I think
So like a summer smile, saying,
"Stay a while, we'll eat, we'll drink
And dance until we freeze."
Because there's winter there as well
A feast forgotten in the snow
And hidden uder drifts, I see
A face beyond an iron gate, saying,
"This surfeit unravels me
So you had better go."
But it's like a siren song to me
A tune composed of embers chilled
In holes with ruined borders, I hear
Your quiet music playing, saying,
"Fraying edges drew you near
But some holes can't be filled."
Burdened by Maisoun H.
How often did I go to that house
and come back
How often did I cross the same road
How often did I see the same things happening again
Everything is simple, spontaneous
How come the shop keepers are still there
They did not change
The same song is being repeated every day
and if there is no one to hear it
it does not die.
why was I destined to take all burdens
Metaphoric Mood by Judy M.
Like a pendulum
or a metronome,
my moods swing -
backwards and forwards,
left to right,
right to left -
Or is it more
like an elevator
that goes up and down
the high rise building,
from top to bottom
at specified stops.
I press all the buttons
on this new-fangled elevator
so that I can stop -
the popping in my ears,
Over and Under by Annie G.
you made me
until I saw you naked
and how you bent
and like a divided chain
you made the slaves happy
how dare you take in vain
what makes our hair nappy
so happy it's the division of stars
nebulas we call them when we live in Mars
it's a secret equation
the simple fight of erupted volcanoes
multiple divided manes
take back your fathership
bring on the datin'
Learn to Believe by Hector R.
Yes I learn to believe
In you. You love me
Your compassion is delightful
A treasure of gold to see
That is real to me
Believe in you
Three-Part Invention by Greg S.
You flutter down for a worm's-eye view.
I am eating my pencil,
so you corral a mite of clay
into your beak, and I say please,
you know that that is not edible
Your breast turn red, then you
pirouette and flee outside
the margin of the page.
A robin glosses to himself,
"Ours is a more earthy hue,
a clay-court orange," and bounds across
the damp typeface.