eMerge Magazine

The Studio by Peggy Kjelgaard
(A love story written in 1983) The studio, just a gleam in our eyes when plans slipped out of our hands, scattered sending us frolicking. We staked out intentions changing blueprints as lust dissolved, and windows opened to our souls. Foundation – poured. For months, the sound of your voice, my muse. Our creation unfolded like magic barely tolerated by reality. The dungeon door, my idea, embraced our mystery. The loft, your idea, lifted us high on each other. The touch

Winter 2018Issue 2: Winter 2018

Sarah Lawrence by Bill McCloud
Getting ready to lift off from Dong Tam he made sure the Army nurse was buckled in hooked up He said You doin’ okay? She said: I wanted to go to Sarah Lawrence He said hang on just hang on She said: I wanted to go to Sarah Lawrence He said I heard you did all that you could That no one could have done more She said: I wanted to go to Sarah Lawrence I should’ve gone to Sarah Lawrence ‘Sarah Lawrence’ can be found in Bill’s poetry book, The Smell of Light, taken from letters

Bees by Wendy Taylor Carlisle
When Larry’s garden began the work of burgeoning, it had no more memory of last fall’s turned earth than smoke has of fire. It began to push and stretch with the smallest stem and no blossom. The bees worked the catnip in Larry’s garden, their work, the work of plant making, the work of hum, relational, unconditional. I imagine the harvest in Larry’s garden the way a river might imagine its future canyon. I imagine the catnip—a huge bush that when it’s flowered, will be pulled for the lions

Just Dessert by Mark Lewandowski
In the winter of 1993 I backpacked around Italy. I was in the Peace Corps in Poland at the time, and was only able to afford the trip because I had some money left from a guaranteed student loan. In order to save money on food I would frequent department store cafeterias and dive restaurants catering to the poorest students. If those places proved too pricey, I could squat between the pan handlers and street musicians working a city fountain and scarf down take away pizza, flicking crumbs to the

The Studio by Peggy Kjelgaard
(A love story written in 1983) The studio, just a gleam in our eyes when plans slipped out of our hands, scattered sending us frolicking. We staked out intentions changing blueprints as lust dissolved, and windows opened to our souls. Foundation – poured. For months, the sound of your voice, my muse. Our creation unfolded like magic barely tolerated by reality. The dungeon door, my idea, embraced our mystery. The loft, your idea, lifted us high on each other. The touch

Sarah Lawrence by Bill McCloud
Getting ready to lift off from Dong Tam he made sure the Army nurse was buckled in hooked up He said You doin’ okay? She said: I wanted to go to Sarah Lawrence He said hang on just hang on She said: I wanted to go to Sarah Lawrence He said I heard you did all that you could That no one could have done more She said: I wanted to go to Sarah Lawrence I should’ve gone to Sarah Lawrence ‘Sarah Lawrence’ can be found in Bill’s poetry book, The Smell of Light, taken from letters

Bees by Wendy Taylor Carlisle
When Larry’s garden began the work of burgeoning, it had no more memory of last fall’s turned earth than smoke has of fire. It began to push and stretch with the smallest stem and no blossom. The bees worked the catnip in Larry’s garden, their work, the work of plant making, the work of hum, relational, unconditional. I imagine the harvest in Larry’s garden the way a river might imagine its future canyon. I imagine the catnip—a huge bush that when it’s flowered, will be pulled for the lions

Just Dessert by Mark Lewandowski
In the winter of 1993 I backpacked around Italy. I was in the Peace Corps in Poland at the time, and was only able to afford the trip because I had some money left from a guaranteed student loan. In order to save money on food I would frequent department store cafeterias and dive restaurants catering to the poorest students. If those places proved too pricey, I could squat between the pan handlers and street musicians working a city fountain and scarf down take away pizza, flicking crumbs to the

The Studio by Peggy Kjelgaard
(A love story written in 1983) The studio, just a gleam in our eyes when plans slipped out of our hands, scattered sending us frolicking. We staked out intentions changing blueprints as lust dissolved, and windows opened to our souls. Foundation – poured. For months, the sound of your voice, my muse. Our creation unfolded like magic barely tolerated by reality. The dungeon door, my idea, embraced our mystery. The loft, your idea, lifted us high on each other. The touch

The One Who Dances at the Wind

The Golden Mouse of Tourism

For Melody

Hope Springs Eternal

New Bride-to-be In Hiding

Just Dessert

Still Preparing

The Awakening

A Hundred Miles To Nowhere: An Unlikely Love Story

The Proclamations

Bouquet

The Studio

Moved

Buddy

Moana Despeara

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