"Dick’s Creek"
By Aaron Mangerson
Today was the day his last chance at success.
He doubted his chances he had to confess.
He went to a place he previously knew.
He hoped on his journey that he could access.
He finally arrived not a soul could get through.
Back up the trail other places were few.
Back up the trail he found a new clearing.
Back up the trail the place with a view.
He trekked up the edge as if pioneering.
Looking ahead with the sun disappearing.
Down at his feet something made him stand still.
Up on the hill there was something worth fearing.
As he sat in the dirt on top of the hill.
He peered over his shoulder with a shaky will.
The tracks in the dirt we're stuck in his mind.
He was on the verge of having his fill.
The tracks in the dirt were of the wrong kind.
They weren't the ones he wanted to find.
A menacing creature much larger in size.
He wished at that moment that he had gone blind.
Thunder and lightning were not a surprise.
Grey clouds just arrived from far-off skies.
The squirrels began to uneasily chatter.
The man realized he had lost his disguise.
Attempting to avoid making a clatter.
Starting to walk his head spun like a caster.
Rain started falling and his steps got misplaced.
He picked himself up and moved a lot faster.
The man had finally slowed his pace.
He slid his black gun in its sleek black case.
Then out with a sigh of deserved relief.
His body relaxed in a comfortable place.
As he climbed in the seat in disbelief.
Looking ahead was a queer motif.
He pondered a moment while all was still.
The lightning flashed revealing a thief.
The fox on the hill was a recent kill.
The suspect never eating his fill.
He stared at the kill ahead of his truck
Killing for fun was his iron will.
The man sat and pondered his luck.
Then something started to move in his truck.
This was the moment it finally struck
Then his blood flowed fast out into the muck.
* * * * * * * *
Untitled
By Gary Zarda
"Many people speak of the 'runner’s high' as an elusive, mysterious force. One of its forms, for me, is a heightened capacity for thought brought on by the brain being awash in oxygen. I think of many things as I run. One of these is running, itself.
Running is a form of play, what I once heard described as 'physical fiction.' I am consciously choosing to put myself through a series of conflicts as I adventure about on a given route. I once even found myself in the underbelly of Las Vegas while running, trapped in a blind alley off The Strip and having to talk, walk, and run my way out of it. Still, other conflicts are internal and more akin to non-fiction. While my distress is self-chosen, I am confronting realities about myself while dealing with the challenge.
My poem is a reflection of that latter notion. Form meets function as my enlivened mind could muster but a few words during an especially difficult run. Yet, I try to honor an activity I love, even with the poem’s brevity."
