Spinozablue: An Eclectic Journal of the Arts

Posted on: May 1, 2012

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Green

green is cir­cuitous and cer­tainly cubic, and you need ask
only Magritte, Beckett, or Monet for the cer­ti­tude
that green has noth­ing to say of flat­ness, whether
hor­i­zon­tal or ver­ti­cal or even in planes  —  noth­ing at all
as silent as the game of spring hid­ing behind blue winter

green  —  play­ing the com­ple­ment of magenta and sel­dom
hid­ing from sight in trees and sprouts and stems
green  —  shin­ing as an impulse in the new and yet to become
green  —  as the élan vital or the end of joy as jeal­ousy
when the green-​​​​eyed mon­ster claims its bounty in envy

green invites, cajoles, makes us believe in youth and rebirth
lingers in emer­ald seas and rivers of regen­er­a­tion as the god
Osiris bids us to believe; but noth­ing gold can stay, as Frost
knows and eter­nity echoes  —  and noth­ing green can stay
before the end­less fad­ing to gold and eventual decay

in the twi­light, in the fall of evening, green is a kiss, a dance
spun by the faeries, who know that, within each sham­rock,
is a beat­ing heart of the mys­ti­cal, the celes­tial, that blesses
the poet, the bard, with voice and song; green as the holy,
green as every­thing com­plex and lovely and noth­ing sorrowful

– by Christina Murphy

Copyright© 2012, by Christina Murphy.…

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Posted on: May 1, 2012

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  Baby Jesus    

I drop in late nights and sink into a place that set­tles round me in a hush and the sight of bent backs lined up at the counter soothes me some. The wait­resses own a tough­ness that remind me of shoe leather and sweep past at a swift clip with plates piled in the crook of arms.

I sit in a booth look­ing out on a town where street lamps throw a foggy glow and passersby exchange a pock­et­ful of words. In the wide expanse of glass my hair hangs limp and a ghostly face stares back. I’m no stranger to myself in glass, where I exist nei­ther here nor there. Snowflakes float down and melt like salty kisses and the red neon DINER sign blinks on and off.…

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Posted on: May 1, 2012

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Heron Wings

For Justin Heron

heron wings float­ing
caress­ing clouds softly, they
glide through hot air drafts
.
shoul­ders extended
paint­ing shad­ows, blan­ket­ing
rip­ples and swim­mers
.
pat­terns on water
criss-​​​​cross slits of black and blue,
cobalt tipped feath­ers
.
soar­ing up into
the palace of the sun, bills
of light sun­shine straw
.
cradling new­born and
ancient in the crest of its
eyes. spir­i­tual friend.
.
wing-​​​​tips touch­ing souls
of those past and gone, send­ing
onwards and beyond

– by Emily Ramser

Copyright © 2012, by Emily Ramser. All Rights Reserved.

Emily Ramser is a high school author liv­ing part time between North Carolina and California. She has been pub­lished in a small school anthol­ogy as well as in the online lit mag­a­zine, The Crocodile Journal.…

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