Dust and Stone
By shout and scrape of shovel
the blue was moved from slumber
Its’ well-knit cap of soil and root
undone and set asunder
And now the “live” stone bare
to men’s grasping reach and eyes
A turn began to circle ‘round
the takers of this prize
The Boss, he works his “property”
The Red Shirt—plug ‘n wedge
And each thinks it’s the other
who plays the role that’s less
The Boss will say:
“This is my due—I made this enterprise!”
The Quarryman says “hardly, friend,
it was my arms and pride”
But ‘twas stone that drove the days
all eyes, and lives, were bent its way
And every lick of cut and dress
the stone’s own story tells
Now, those who mine for dollars
in the veins of sheet and ledger
Calculate from pit to dock
their profit’s proper measure
The grade 1 slabs by Rondout
as earthen coin’s arrayed
But drawn as much from flesh ‘n blood
as from the quarry face
‘Cause how many limbs bent breakin’
from the wagon’s sudden slip?
How many eyes put out
by the wedge’s errant sliver?
The Red Shirts shunned by settled folks
consigned to shebeen hollow
Unbowed by injury and slight
the blue runs in their marrow
But ‘twas stone that drove the days
all eyes, and lives, were bent its way
And every lick of cut and dress
the stone’s own story tells
One hears a groaning stone boat
brings “jus six and seventy cent”
As bitter bargains must be struck
for cartage, toll and rent
And as Boss and Red Shirt breathe their last
that dusty rattle cough
One still gasps “too much, too much”
the other cries “no, not enough!”
So soon Boss and Quarryman
are laid for root and soil
Countless ages pass and witness
the earth’s infernal toil
Bones make dust and grain for stone
and the vein lifts close to sun
Soon, there’s scraping on the cap
a circle round’s begun
‘Cause ‘twas stone that drove the days
all eyes, and lives, were bent its way
And every lick of cut and dress
the stone’s own story tells
From fine grained rock to low born men
to Vanderbilt’s own glory
Fate, you see, is certain dust
and in the stone it dwells
—Mark Foley
Open Mic
I have a slouch, + a square jaw
my adams apple collects shaving cuts
+ I stand there w/ a slouch + shaving cuts + a skirt.
My voice feels ridiculous.
It was food poisoning or a late dose or something
but it felt 10 degrees colder.
I stood in the back w/ a jacket
+ hugged people for way too long.
+ all the backs + the backs of necks
faced down the patio @ the discarded mic stand.
In front of the street
where bikes blasted dance music
+ dogs held debates
the backs of necks watched faces playing banjos + guitars
slouching across tables + chairs or standing + I was in the back
, standing
, slouching.
The sky was still blue through the trees but getting darker
+ one guy was sitting next to the stage watching me
not watching the show just watching me
it took me 3 or 4 sets to notice
+ I sipped some more beer + cleared the sidewalk for pedestrians.
He got up mid set, clay w/ marble eyes
+ walked slowly away from the stage
staring @ my face like I was the door
+ I stared through him @ the stage like it was a stage
sipping more beer + stretching in my bad posture
+ he stared @ the back of my neck + was gone
+ by then it was almost dark.
The beer w/ tip cost over $11.
—Taffer
The Tulip
I love how the tulip dies
splayed
reaching
vibrant
its last act:
expansion
the tulip doesn’t
wither
or shrink at life’s violence
Fascism wants us small
and scared and isolated
When the world presses down
Be the tulip
—Alexandra Poole
Preparing for the Future
When I was small
In the rowboat a little
Bolt lay near a feather
And I picked them
Both, tucked them in
My pocket.
I thought
This boat may need
Repair
Some future bird may
Need a thicker coat
—Harry Schiller
Fool’s Gold
A brilliant display:
anything is everything
and nothing
all at once.
—Megan Konikowski
Watching You Watching Birds
We own a book about New York birds—
A reference guide you bought me for my birthday,
I leafed through in our one-bedroom apartment,
Admiring the feathers, shades of gray and tawny brown,
Folding down corners, intentions to read more.
We live in a house now—between houses,
You start cataloguing during morning coffee,
A gray catbird, a goldfinch, a robin.
I watch you from the window,
You stand still in the grass.
Eyes open to the sky,
Sitting on a chaise after dinner. Simply staring.
The night is cool—late summer,
And I watch you watch humbly,
Cataloging your findings in silence.
You’ll return to the book, I’m sure,
Tell me plainly over dinner what new birds you can tally,
You’ll leave the pages un-earmarked,
The checklist empty. You’ll barely break the spine.
“After all,” you’ll plainly state,
“The book’s your birthday gift.”
—Carolyn Keogh
Pigeon Head
It doesn’t happen a lot but every so often I think of you
When I’m staring at the starless night sky
When I’m under any rain kissed umbrella
When I’m gazing at our plaster pigeon head
When I eat my bowl of fruit in the morning
When I see ladybugs dancing in the grass
When laughter escapes my very breath
And there’s so little I know about you
And there’s so much I want to do with you
And there’s everything I want to be with you
You’re on my mind all the time
—Steven Surprenant
We Drove
through snowstorms thick as television static
headlights swallowed whole
dead deer opening their ribs to heaven
along the shoulders of the highway
every blind curve felt chosen
every passing truck
a possible extinction
we lived because something allowed it
luck perhaps
or distracted angels smoking in the dark
—George Cassidy Payne
Sunset Homage to John Latham
Saffron
Horizon sphere
Afire, west facing haze.
Iconic chroma color set
Full Stop.
—Tina Dybvik
River Rock from Big Bend
I love this rock,
the way it fits in my hand.
It’s granite, pretty sure,
easily turning in my fingers.
Smoothing my skin against my bones.
A tooth of the earth from jaws of dirt.
One side round and the other two straight,
making a soft point like a New York slice.
Thick like a cookie after eons in the Rio.
A dark gray ocean of dark blue ripples.
It feels like I could mold it.
That’s only human thinking.
—Kyle Kopp
Rotary Park on the Hudson
gusty north wind
the ebbing tide
flattens the waves
the white sailing boat
comes about
along the far shore
empty pavilion
song sparrows
mating on the charcoal grill
—Nancy Beard
Love the Dust
Love the ground
on which you stand.
Find what glitters
amid the dust.
But most of all
Love the dust.
—Amanda Nicole Gulla
Haiku Variations #11: A Short Story
On the edge of a
robin’s song, I danced my way
to school this morning.
The roads were still wet from last
night’s rain and the worms slithered
roughshod—basking in
the dampness of a new week.
They say May flowers
bring pilgrims. Today they brought
me peace, and quiet, and to you.
—J. D. Louis
It’s
It’s the persistent cry of
the hungry cat on your bed at 5am.
It’s the first day of spring
after a long brutal winter.
It’s the bright full moon
on a still, cold winter’s night.
It’s the brightest stars ever,
on a night without any moon at all.
It’s the first shared act of love,
in a lonely young person’s life.
It’s becoming who you are,
and being comfortable with it all.
It’s hearing an old song,
bright and new for the first time.
It’s having a dream so vivid,
that reality pales in contrast.
It’s walking through the woods
with an excited young dog.
It’s hand feeding fish,
while sitting calmly in the water.
It’s realizing something’s true
that always was and always will be.
It’s the fresh green grass
of a newly mowed lawn.
It’s the ever-changing clouds
in a deep blue windy sky.
It’s like being surprised by a festival
of millions of fireflies in your own backyard.
It’s the ever-blessed recurring rain
especially after a long dry spell.
It’s the bright taste of a fresh orange
in the early morning awakening.
It’s finding someone you can live with
all the time without even talking.
It’s vividly meeting an old friend
you haven’t seen forever.
It’s like reading someone else’s poem
that you could have also written.
It’s always the next breath coming,
until finally it’s the last one.
It’s just like everything else, really.
—Bob Grawi
This article appears in July 2026.
