Five Fishes Journal

Our second bucket is finally here — and we couldn’t be more excited about it. These writers have netted some great words to make their poems. We hope you enjoy reading them as much as we did.

If you’re interested in submitting your own stuff for our next bucket, please visit our submission guidelines page.

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Sip

by Lydia Ondrusek

When the rain doesn’t fall,
it’s only all right for a little while.
The planted stuff bargains with the ground.

Drawings made with brown crayons
on crumpled grocery sacks.
A constant phantom smell of burning.

When the rain doesn’t fall, and doesn’t fall,
you begin to wonder
if the wet green world you remember was a dream.

And then the rain falls.

Because the world
is forever made of water,
and doesn’t forget what it is.

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For Granted

by Aristotle Sinclair

A black gardening hat
hangs onto the index finger
of a nail’s angled point.
Earlier
on my fiancée’s head
hovered as does a halo
among the good deed of
landscaping the front yard’s
overgrown language.  Her
face, guarded from sun’s
unruly hands and
the fright of unprotection
will not paint her face
an embarrassed tone of red’s
allegorical burn.
The black hat now
hangs alone.  Its purpose
of protection no longer needed
until earth’s migratory routine
builds thickened ground
needing a trim of systematic
undoing.

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Accosted Saints

by Jason Michalek

Every stair is looped in silver silken starry skies
The mound and heaven lap it up with heavy hands and eyes
And treetops smell so brown among the splattered children’s clothes
As skin and body peal so pleasant letting go their bones
From stride to stride a stiff man’s march ascends into the black
With not a tear for parting for they’re never coming back
I stand among the hedges watching with my saddened gaze
The smoke pours out in fountains spitting embers from the blaze
The specters leave in chariots donned with laurels on their brows
Victorious chants embellish them as they have made it out
A hellish screaming rancor beckons bystanders to bed
The leather cracks like lightning as it strikes a barren head
The stakes are high and night is nigh; it’s hell or heaven, soon
Escape is all but risky outlined in the crimson moon
But shots from sentries prod me on towards Zion’s honey streams
The strength I lack from muscles comes from burning up my dreams
On rungs of rust I reach the bust atop the razor’s edge
My body lofts to ground so soft as I renew my pledge
With hasty scuttle into sprint I bound across the ground
My eyes are locked on glory with no thought of looking down
I catch a root so bluntly letting out unwilling squeal
As bullet scorches brain no longer pain does life conceal
And climbing skyward in a cadence kept by holy drum
In death I gain my freedom; in the battle I have won

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Paradise

by Brad Nelson

A mid-August evening in Sierra Vista,
The Huachuca Mountains keep watch over all.
An eight-by-twelve square of patio is my sanctuary.
In pajama pants and T-shirt I sit on a plastic chair,
My bare feet propped on another—
Fifteen dollars’ worth of the most
Uncomfortable furniture available at Wal-Mart.
Weeds blowing in the wind wave hello to the sky—
The back yard needs mowing.
It can wait; it was a hundred and two today.

Memory-scented smoke curls from my pipe,
And almost-too-warm briarwood comforts my left hand.
I settle in with a book of poetry by Billy Collins.
When half a page into a poem about nothing and everything,
I hear the squeak of tiny hands on glass,
And the 2009 model of a 1983-me asks,
What ARE you DO-ding, dad-DEE?
Homework, I reply.
Why?
Professor Horton told me to.
Oh, Horton hears a Who, daddy.
Yes, he most certainly does;
I shall have to ask him about that.

As I turn back to my poem about nothing and everything,
My son informs me, I want to see you toes,
Daddy, I want to see you toes.
Oh, I see you toes,
Says my son, performing a thorough inspection.
Laughing, I try to focus on what Collins has to say
About Italy, Cigarettes, Pianos, Canada…

What is that, daddy?
Daddy’s pipe tool, I say.
Oh, you smoke you pipe? You read you book?
You not net yun, daddy? You not yet done?
Not yet, son.
Fire hot, he exclaims.
Yes, it most certainly is, I say.
I can’t do this, daddy.
I turn to see my son’s tiny left foot
In a flip-flop meant for his right.
Collins forgotten and pipe gone out,
I take time to teach an important lesson:
Like this, I say, making everything right.

Time for a bath, calls my wife from inside.
My son hesitates like a sprinter before the gun.
I recognize the instinct to flee cloud his blue eyes.
Not without protests, I carry him inside as
The sun begins to set and
Pink cotton candy clouds blanket the mountains.

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The Story of Hank Keysley

by C.J. Opperthauser

Now, watch that bench leg there, boy. No, that other one. Yup, that bugger’s been givin’ me problems fer years, now, but what’s an old Kentucky man to do, eh? I’d rather sit on my porch than work on it.

Now, while the old lady is makin’ us some supper, how about I tell you a story of an old buddy of mine, Hank Keysley. Son, I don’t mean to put the guy down, but he wasn’t the brightest thing I ever met. No, sir, that poor neighbor of mine lived in a dilapidated ol’ shack down there on Crawford road, just past Bates’ Driving Range. Darn expensive, Bates’, but the only one in town. Used to be where we could shoot as hard as we pleased right out of our own yard, but all them broken windows brought up another damned ordinance from the good ol’ town of Monty. They got a city ordinance for everything, these days. Watch it boy — pretty soon, you can’t walk too fast down the sidewalk.

Anyways, Hank Keysley used to live right near Bates’, and after he’d gone and retired, he found himself a little low on money. Worse than he figured, I guess. Hank didn’t believe in the banking system so much, and he told me once that he kept all his greens and coins in a little jar on top of his kitchen refrigerator. So ol’ Keysley had a talk with Tim Williams from that fancy shmancy golf club down the highway, and the two of them decided Hank could sell Mr. Williams golf balls in bulk for real cheap. Now, o’ course, Williams didn’t have no idea that Hank was pluckin’ them balls right out of Bates’ Driving Range, but when you get a good deal, you don’t ask questions. You’ll learn that, boy; you got your years ahead of you.

Hank had it pretty good, I’d say; stealin’ golf balls and makin’ some good hard cash. Only problem was, Hank never took into consideration the risks of the job. Health risks, that is. Sure, he tried to collect all them golf balls when hours were over, but Bates had his son pickin’ them balls up right after closing time, so Hank would sometimes be out there scavenging for little round balls of white gold right in the midst of the shootin’!

Well, one day, Hank didn’t have it so good. There he was with his little gray sack over his shoulder and leather boots on his feet, squashin’ and stompin’ around the marshy driving range, when suddenly, POP. Damn golf ball caught him right in the temple. Titlist, I believe it was, but couldn’t say fer certain. So there was ol’ Hank Keysley, lyin’ unconscious in the middle of a driving range. The water began to creep up and devour his dry clothes like termites on wood, and when the cold mud reached his nose, he finally came to.

Now, like I told you, boy, Hank wasn’t no genius. He was a simple, good man who stole golf balls. Nothin’ less, nothin’ more. When Hank eventually stood up and looked around that day, he hadn’t the foggiest idea who the hell he was! Somethin’ in his brain just went out like an old light bulb, and he just dropped his sack and started wandering down the street.

After a few hours, I guess, he started recollectin’ some things, like his name and his home and whatnot. But — and this is a real big but, boy — he somehow came to figure that he was some hyped up financial man from nowhere else but big ol’ New York! Now, I know at this point you must think I’m just rattlin’ your chains, but I ain’t lyin’ one bit. Ol’ Hank gathered up what little cash he had in that little jar on top of his refrigerator an’ bought himself a plane ticket to the Big Apple.

So Hank pulls into the city in his nicest suit, which, by the way, was much worse than anything in any New Yorker’s attic wardrobe. But there he went, just stridin’ down Wall Street like it was his own backyard, and he waltzed right into that stock place up there a ways. Low and behold, somehow — and I mean somehow — the man starts buyin’ and tradin’ like he’s been doing it his whole life. Ol’ Hank became one of the most respected men up there in New York in no time flat, and got himself a real nice, rich life to enjoy. I mean a new apartment, fancy suits, air conditioning; the works.

Now, I know that sounds like a bunch of baloney, son, but it’s all true. Old Hank’s still up there somewhere, rakin’ in more dollars than he did golf balls down here in Monty. But I tell you, boy. That man’s real lucky I was usin’ the old lady’s clubs that day, or I would’ve hit that ball straight as a doornail.

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The Crafters

Lydia Ondrusek is a long-married mother of two, busy writing her way out of a paper bag. Her fiction is available or upcoming at GUD, Flash Fiction Online, and Sniplits, among other places. She releases her inner feline at www.thelittlefluffycat.com.

Aristotle Sinclair is a poet of neoteric contemplation.  He reads Duane Locke and Constance Stadler to ascertain excellent poetry.  His poems have appeared or are forthcoming at Writer’s Bloc, The Catalonian Review, Writing Raw, The Legendary, and several other kind places.  He has a mini-chapbook published “Within the Open Eyes” (Gold Wake Press, 2009).  In the rarity of spare time, he reads various texts and quotations from philosophers, and thinks Thelonious Monk is the epitome of a jazz genius.  He records occurrences at http://aristotlesinclair.blogspot.com/.

Brad Nelson is a former backyard samurai and blue jeans Zen master who spends most of his time now on the back porch with his pipe and a cup of coffee.  He retired his sword and took up the pen after serving five years as an interrogator in the U.S. Army.  Brad is also a creative writing M.F.A. candidate at National University and Chief Editor of Eclectic Flash, a new online literary journal dedicated to publishing flash fiction, creative nonfiction, poetry, and anything else you can think of fewer than 1,000 words.  You can find Eclectic Flash at www.eclecticflash.com.  Brad’s literary endeavors are forthcoming through a number of online and print publications—just as soon as he can decide where to send each piece.