Crescent Moon Journal - Spring 2003 - The literary magazine of the Desert Moon Review



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A Message From The Editor

Table of Contents

First, congratulations to caine, who mastered the most efficient poetry contest on Desert Moon Review yet. The quality of the poems, most of them submitted by friends from other sites, is very classy. Desert Moon scored a third place with Mustansir Dalvi's work.

Caine will also serve as Editor of Crescent Moon Journal's Poetry Month Contest Edition, 2003. Chris George will perform the final proofing and I'm sort of an advisor/spectator. I'm privileged to submit a poem along with the Monitors and perhaps other regulars.

Our dreams about Desert Moon Review for the future will hopefully begin to unfold in 2003. Most of them depend upon participation, fidelity and energy, because it has been obvious to me for some time that we have the talent to go to the stars.

Shalom,
Jim Corner
Editor , Desert Moon Review

Foreward
   Christopher T. George
The Winners
   Laurie Byro
      Affectionaletly, Sigmund
   Melanie McConnell
      The Gift
  Mustansir Dalvi
      sunken ship
The Judges
   Christopher T. George
      Douglas
   caine
      Spin
   K.R. Copeland
      Ring Rang Rung
Additional Selections
   Charles Cornner
      Twenty Rows of Two
   Leslie M. Wolf
      Pearl of the Serpent
   Sirrus Poe
      I Wait to Dissolve Within the Quiver of Lips
   Seshadri
      The Economics of Guilt
   James D. Corner
      After Midnight with Shakespeare

	Foreward
	Christopher T. George

	It is a pleasure to introduce the poems for The Crescent Moon Journal - Spring 2003 issue, which contains the winning poems in our poetry contest for Poetry Month this year. The contest judges, which comprised myself, caine, and K. R. Copeland, were privileged to be able to judge a strong pool of quality poems submitted by poets who frequent a number of the top internet poetry workshops. I believe the works that we have chosen as winners speak for themselves in terms of the level of excellence of the verse. The breadth of emotions and vivid, thought- provoking ideas covered in the winning poems are a testament to the skill and talent of the writers. We hope readers of this issue of Crescent Moon will enjoy the contents, which include works not only by the winning poets in our contest but poems by the editors and monitors of our site. A special thanks to caine, as Guest Editor of this issue of Crescent Moon Journal and as coordinator of our Poetry Month contest. Best Regards, Chris George

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	The Winners
	First Place Laurie Byro	Affectionately, Sigmund One more time, I’ll go on record and declare my love for this strange, powerful thing. Who wouldn’t want one? Rising like the sun each morning, hopeful and golden — dawn plays to its advantage, while my own dark mystery sleeps among mushrooms, never taking a rest from its musty retreat. No risk, it ’s been recorded carefully, “ a- HA ”—he ’ll chortle with his Viennese accent while I dream fields of them, waving like stalks of asparagus, segregated by skin. A cornucopia of harvest-- butter dripping down my envious woman ’s hands.
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	Laurie Byro (1st Place) Laurie Byro ’s short stories and poetry have appeared in a dozen or so small presses. Additionally, her work has been published in The Literary Review, The Rift, Critical Mass, Single Parent, Silk City Review, Aim, Chaminade Review, Grasslimb, Real Journal, A Summer's Reading, The New Jersey Journal of Poets, The Red Rock Review, and others. She is in two on-line zines: Miller's Pond and The Writer's Hood. Her children's poem "A Captain's Cat" has appeared in Cricket Magazine and a textbook "Measuring up to the Illinois Learning Standards." She lives in New Jersey.
	The Gift She likes to trace the boy's neck sinews with lace gloved fingertips, press gently against his precise Adam's apple for choking his vitality, wrap both black clad hands around his vulnerable neck, grimly throttle it. When she finishes he wears her gift; a purple necklace. How she spoils him.	Second Place Melanie McConnell
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	Melanie McConnell (2nd Place) Melanie McConnell lives in a small, Florida, beachside town with her beloved, senior cat. Together they celebrate life. She earned a Bachelor of Arts degree from Florida International University in Political Science. Melanie has poetry in the current issue of Tryst and Verse Libre Quarterly, and a book review in the Alsop Review.
	Third Place Mustansir Dalvi	sunken ship She straddles me, eyelashes stroke my chin. Against my chest, her breath sussurates, each exhale falls, late in the night, almost to be day, so long to put her severals to rest. She sinks into me, I feel her weight and am pressed deeper into the chair. I meld into my safe and limited place, her legs wrapped around me, palms bunched into little fists. Tonight, I am a womb. I allow fluid senses to swirl full fathom five, so she can travel deep where there is no poetry, only the sunken ship.
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	Mustansir Dalvi (Third Place) Mustansir Dalvi is an architect and a teacher from New Bombay, India. He is currently Poetry Monitor at the Desert Moon Review. His poem "Peabody" was awarded 1st Place in the December 2002 InterBoard Poetry Competition (IBPC).

	The Judges
	Douglas I deadhead the petunias and geraniums as you taught me. Two summers have passed since you planted the pink and maroon impatiens, white and orange begonias, alternating colors for greater effect. I photographed you placing them, pink tongue thrust out in concentration. Now from Dorset comes word you are at last deteriorating, your mind lost to time. A doctor visits but you report you saw three. But you never did think clearly. Remember when you wore two ties to a wedding? The black shoe plus the brown? " Think clearly, Douglas" was the family joke from that self- help book you bought, then forgot where you left it. I remember you leaving for your morning "constitution" — snow beginning to lay in Baltimore as you passed the brick gateposts of our apartment building, brolly raised in brave salute, headed for the nursery to buy the spring plants.	Christopher T. George
		Christopher T. George, born in Liverpool, England in 1948, immigrated to the United States in 1968. A resident of Baltimore, Maryland, as well as being a poet is also a historian and freelance writer. Chris's poems have been published in Poet Lore, Maryland Poetry Review, Pudding, Smoke and Bogg and on- line at Desert Moon Review and Melic Review. He is also a lyricist with a musical of Jack the Ripper - Jack, the Musical written with French composer Erik Sitbon.
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	Spin The character actor came home from work, killed his wife and toured the daytime talk circuit, cooking stir- fry chicken for the hosts. In his defense, Robert revealed he was meant to be a woman. The torture of living as a man left him unfit for trial. With the charges dropped he ran for President, answering all questions with numbers. Down in the polls, he began dressing like his mom and handing out brownies to neighbors. With most voters preferring apple pie Robert accepted a role as a drag queen and moved to France. Performing cabaret on the Seine, contracted herpes during her act, starting a craze against cold sores and making millions promoting women ’s health.	caine
		Caine is a poet performance artist from the mid- burbs of Boston. He is a Poetry Board Monitor on the Desert Moon Review, chair of this Poetry Contest, and a member of the avant-rock band The Valoure Project. Has been published in eyeshot.net, unlikelystories.org, Side Reality, The Poet Tree and upcoming in wordriot.com.
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	Ring Rang Rung Your lover left you for another looker, lustful in snug-fitting low-rise jeans. He'd seen her at the tattoo parlor, permanent ink on her B cup things. A heart and a dagger, a dragon, a sword, a word that was blurred by the bleeding. The way that she winced when the needle went in convinced him her love was worth needing. They're now wearing his and hers nipple rings, the piercing he gave you, sub-navel, still stings.	K.R. Copeland
		K. R. Copeland is a prolific poet residing in Chicago, Illinois. Her work, which ranges from formal to experimental, heady to absurd, has been featured in such publications as, Artvilla, Atomicpetals, Can We Have Our Ball Back?, Comfusion, Glass Tesseract, Locust, Miller's Pond, Mipo, Niederngasse, Pig Iron Malt, Snakeskin, Snow Monkey, The Absinthe Review, The American Muse, and, Unlikely Stories. K. R. is also one of the judges for the Beginnings Magazine poetry competitions 2003.
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	Additional Selections
	Twenty Rows of Two by Charles Cornner The bed was a mess to Mom and Dad. It was their job to say so. But I divined waves of polyester carrying teeming flannel to crash on a beach of team logos, or sometimes an abashed hill where the pillows retreated during nightmares, or a Serengeti promontory where my tabby presided; a diminutive sphinx. Company is coming for your birthday. Throw off the cat and make the bed. So I made the crooked straight and the rough places plain. I tucked the excess under the pillow. Sixty pounds of eight- year old had already formed a shallow depression in the center, banking the edges of the bed into the concrete ribbon of a superspeedway. Two shoebox garages held the competitors Qualifying was held. One lap around.	The stopwatch dictated their starting order. Matchboxes and Hot Wheels arrayed in twenty rows of two to run the Twin Bed250. The cars shook with vocal vibration at the green flag. There were no rails surrounding the straightaways, so the odd one slipped the surly bonds of bed and flew hundreds of scale feet to the semi shag below, gold and orange hellfire licking the die cast fallen. Even the fastest colored Corvettes might be taken into the pillows in the final turn, allowing the bee- striped Renault Le Car (turbo) a rare win, called by me in the high- pitched Surprise! of parents, grandparents and other well- meaning adults, calling me to their version of my birthday, full of gifts but lacking danger.
	Charles Benjamin Cornner's poems have been published in the eZines Pierian Springs, Miller's Pond, and Crescent Moon Journal. He lives in Cave Creek, with his wife, Hope. To keep from starving, he works full time as a church musician. Surprisingly to him, this has kept him from starving.
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	Pearl of the Serpent by Leslie M.Wolf Listen to the land breezes and think on the sea breezes and remember, Kaushik Mahajan. I was your age when the bamboo flowered. Rats came for the seeds, famine struck. My father did not survive. We are much the same. Why do you weep as if beaten? I have told you that you have your sister's soul. You know the legends; how you floated at the claw of an angry kite who shook you out of a culm; how the gold- giving serpent disappeared because a father let greed rule grief at the sudden death of a daughter who betrayed the serpent with a cudgel.	Like you, I only wish to understand. I will not belittle your grief although we are Christian and believe in Heaven. We are kiki and have lost the clan songs. Listen and put words to music, Kaushik, when the bamboo knock together, hollow and the rats crawl, sniffing the air. All over the world, the bamboo flower and die. Sing at my wake and deliver me to the hidden rooms where servants scatter, after a beating. This is where our ancestors have gathered. Bury me here, among the hills of Mizoram. Go to the silos for food. Once the bamboo seeds are gone, the hungry rats will eat our rice.
	L. M. Wolf is a poet and Desert Moon Review board monitor, living in peace with his family.
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	I Wait to Dissolve Within the Quiver of Lips by Sirrus Poe I penetrate your room, watch as your chest rises then falls, watch the quiver of lips taste stale air of tar and nicotine extinguished hours before my arrival. I approach and you fail to wake while I tie wrists and ankles to bedposts. You are lost in a swim within intoxicated blood dreams of how your past could have been different. Without me joy would have prevailed so this is my reason to come here and correct what might have been history, to divorce our connection and be reborn. The tear of white tee-shirt and panties damp from cycle of time cause you to flutter, then question what is about to happen. More than eyes open up once my picture is taken, burned to the frontal lobe. “ I have come to erase your pain and give another chance for happi- ness .” Gagged, a hoarse damnation chokes before contact against ears that know the story all to well for it to have to be told one more time. Your hair is mangled, an almost metal wire of flavor covers my tongue. I lap up chromosomes and minute cells that helped to build me, an unwanted bud of spring. I don ’t look up to you.	because I ’ve seen the face of purgatory ’s keeper before and you do not want to see me. You would have called before now if that were the case, but the file bearing your first son ’s name has been stored in plastic-wrap and cardboard box to protect it against moisture of feelings. I eat away at the opening I create for us. Bite and tear the flesh that brought you and I together, but now binds us apart. “ Baby, don ’t make my brown eyes blue,” an octave lower, slower than when you sing. it to the empty air while I listen behind a hollow door swallowing bits of molded cheese. Two siblings catch snowflakes then pull them together into balls for tossing while I watch behind a jack- frosted window. A paint- by-number Pink Panther dances around the bed after being released from its Christmas paper cage. A Puma knife given by a fourth husband to a stepchild he only met once carves a road for me to travel deeper into that cavity that must, that will, cause you to forget how I hurt you, will give that newborn freshness to tomorrow. The blade stops when the handle bumps your chin. I spread you open, crawl in, lay down and become fetal as the last stitch I sew closes out the soft light of a crescent moon and I wait to dissolve.
	Sirrus Poe's poems, short stories, essays and photography have appeared in numerous print and online journals such as: Again, Carillon, Snow Monkey, Ancient Paths, Can we Have our Ball Back?, Side Reality and Gin Bender. His new book, Releasing the Demons : A Collection of Short Stories, Novellas and Poems, will be released July 2003 and be available at your local bookstore or online.
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	The Economics of Guilt by Seshadri Mortar falls at will like leaves in early October. The faltering edges stand out, weakened by years of rain and heat; rough like the callused hands that set them fifty years ago. Around the courtyard old men gossip, their raspy voices punctuated by wheezing pulls on the hookah. An extended aahh later, Mishraji gets up - his legs display the map of the world in radiating lines. The mist hasn't fully lifted; green fields look like a picture shot through dry ice. Village women make a line for the well; more gossip follows in whispers and gestures.	A community of only a hundred - how could there be so many secrets? And I don't belong here. A trip to Bihar's impoverished interior only to take pictures: I should be ashamed of myself. Romanticizing poverty with a Minolta won't help. 'Mishraji! ' I call out to my contact. He stares. 'I'll pay for the water pump if you want', I say. Sunlight breaks out on his face. 'A few pictures, please? '
	Seshadri is a software engineer, located in Houston and works on storage management programs. He enjoys poetry, photography, semiotics, automobiles, graphology, and has a great interest in the cause and propagation of the animal rights movement, not to mention driving around town in his Black Beauty (Mercedes).
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	After Midnight with Shakespeare by Jim Corner Morning comes much too early, when the muse nudges just after midnight. I open the back drape to catch the hare's romp on the green, or listen to coyote pups howling just beyond the wall, Puck would have celebrated the mellow gauze thrown over the neighborhood; such a pity that we snooze away the magic. I know a way we'll never forget each other, let's run blind and barefoot over the course to hole one, where the water trap sees itself mirrored in the half light and grownup children regale the locusts' song.
	Jim Corner has B.A and M.A. degrees from University of Tulsa with work at Phillips University. He also earned the Certified Financial Planner degree from the College of Financial Planners in Denver, Colorado. He was ordained to the ministry in 1967. He has served churches in Oklahoma and northern California.Jim has written poetry since his days at Tulsa University, his thesis is Affirmation in Four Contemporary British Poets, but began composing full- time shortly after he retired in 1996. He is currently published monthly in Disciples Today, e-zine of the Christian Church (DOC)in America. His poems also have been published by Arizona Republic, Phoenix's premier newspaper, The Disciple (hardcopy), Bethany Guide and Crescent Moon Journal. Jim resides with Kathy, his loving wife, and Trudy, the dobie-mix.
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