Art & Poetry
I Look Up
Floating on water’s skin while tumbling in the underneath
amid undulating shadows and all of time’s weary repetitions,
I look up and call out sky, sky trying to reawaken its immensity
into awe once owned while our impossible world stutters across
a length of blue I long to cradle between my hands.
What I Was Wearing
I was wearing my mask,
thinking it gave me a party look.
It had a pasted smile and innocent
eyes. Even after the ball
dropped, shaking the land for years,
I flirted with those eyes, believing
they were mine & open.
What I took in during that time
has poured back out in stitches
binding my years into booklets
I look back into and read.
There I see the telltale signs
of what is in my face now.
The Distance From
The distance from just now
is a beaker filled with vapor
the color of once. There are no
turns. Or any straight lines.
What waits is both older and younger
than a forest of bristlecone pines.
After navigating around bent trees,
you come upon a clearing. A picnic
is laid out on your plaid baby blanket.
You want to stay, but find yourself
uninvited. Your exit is swift yet lingers
like the peal of chimes fading.
Catch the swift,
the leap, the all-out glamorous
to and fro to propel
(you) forward, to jettison (you)
ahead of your usual
pace. Catch it coming from
an all out, all the rage,
is stocked with ready-to-eat,
your house just cleaned
there’s nothing to interfere—
you can/you will
in the same time
it would usually take
to do nothing.
Karen Neuberg’s poems and collages appear in numerous journals including 805, Canary, Epigraph Magazine, and Verse Daily. Her latest chapbook is “the elephants are asking” (Glass Lyre Press, 2018). She lives in Brooklyn, New York.