Issue Nineteen – Winter 2012

Day Floor-Fault

By Jill McCabe Johnson

Where sea grounds bow skyward,
waters boil. Dome of heat and stretch,
as rifts and junctions
budge the wombly crust
like wrinkles in turtle’s neck.

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Day Cyclone

By Jill McCabe Johnson

Sky eddies swirl like the spinning dolphin
mad for his lover who watches in awe.
The tempest froths my surface skins,
and sprays torrents for Wind to scatter
into the puckered day.

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Last Night the Moon

By John R. Cornwall

Last night the moon
Seemed awkward
In a semi-summer sky,
Yet bright still, like
A remarkable thought.

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The Steady Simplicity of the Leaky Faucet

By Vincent Renstrom

The decision seemed that much bolder
for the well of silence it sprang from
that late winter day, as I stood at the sink
and stared across the driveway,
the furnace having just shut off,

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Heron

By Linda Back McKay

Morning
water color
mist muddled pond
whip-grasses
dark as pounded

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Among the Things She Does Not Deserve

By Linda Back McKay

All-knowing certainty in any realm
Bellyaching and its namby-pamby rationale
Commentaries on creativity when bodies are being pulled from rubble
Deep despair any time especially now
Electricity or the expectancy of electricity when you clap your hands

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Here and There

By Julie Stuckey

Because I am here
it is often said that I cannot be
somewhere else.
And yet, in the heart of today’s city
I have walked through younger woods –

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More, One More

By Elizabeth Austen

I claim I’ll go
full of curiosity.
But darling we both know
I always want one more
kiss, another drag

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Not Yet

By Elizabeth Austen

How many summer afternoons found us
at this lakeshore, unable to account

for our fate? Dear whirligig,
you want what is only possible

with stillness. We have yet to learn the names

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Bulawayo Afternoon

By Clive Gill

In the intense, deadening, stagnant afternoon heat, Bulawayo city house dwellers willingly allowed their droopy eyelids to fall, while sitting in soft armchairs or lying on satin bed covers.

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Contents Under Pressure

By Tom Molanphy

Duane cracks the top from the hairspray can with a rock in the parking lot. This is somewhat dangerous- CONTENTS UNDER PRESSURE -so Morris and David sit a safe distance away. But Duane has done this many times,

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Their Room

By Hilary Schaper

If you had peered through the front window on a recent summer evening, you’d have seen the day’s last light filtering onto the living room rug, and a lamp burning on a table in the near corner. Beside it, an elderly man, still

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Roll

By Gretchen Wing

The gun in Isaiah’s hand looks fake. He smiles, ranged dramatically across the floor in front of the whiteboard, weight on his forward leg like Tybalt in the swordfight scene. His naked weapon is out. We all think

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On the Road

By William McCarter

“I woke up to the sound of pouring rain…” Not exactly, but that’s what was blasting out of John’s speakers as I slowly opened my eyes and struggled to recall just exactly what my position in the world was. My internal GPS

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Dreams

By Liz Shine

I sleep through my alarm. Sometimes, I let the hell-clock buzz for more than an hour. Sometimes, in the throes of a delicious sleep fantasy, I convince myself that I must have made a mistake in setting it the night before.

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Such Things Hardly Matter

By Erika Brumett

Not that gin-sweat dizzies her. Not that wool chafes her cheek when he dances them through the house, stumbling to spin her white nightie, her body still soft with sleep. No, this is not to suggest that her uncle has a

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Why Read a Literary Journal?

By The Editors

We’re literary geeks and love the chance to read almost anything crafted with care. So, in late night sessions, we greedily consume submissions which had voyaged through East Coast sloughs, paddled Pacific bays, and trickled down backwoods Alabama creeks and which came via internet from all over the U.S. and a few other countries

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Mad Girl’s Love Story

By Jean Copeland

I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead. The first line of Olivia’s favorite poem by Sylvia Plath drifts into her head as she staggers down the black hall, waiting for the little peach pill to work its magic.

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