Issue #33.3 Joshua C. Pipkins, Jason Ryberg, Lee Potts

A Poem by Joshua C. Pipkins

Yet Though I Must Lose My Life

The nightingale sings thought Gawain. He made himself still listened to its distant elegy.

All is white o’er the fields. All is angels’ feathers eager to embrace for heavenly price.

Steady my feet oh Great Lord Gawain prayed. If he were to move now he would flee.

Mountainous stood The Chapel forever untouched by snow. Green vines swallowed its walls and ground themselves like hungry teeth.

Steady my heart oh Great Lord. Let me go bravely to this Spring.

He unfastened the girdle once given to him as a shield against Death and went humbly into that Chapel with the nightingale’s song upon his lips.   ________________________________________________________________________________________

Joshua C. Pipkins is a pushcart nominated poet based in Memphis, Tennessee.

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Two Poems by Jason Ryberg

Hunting for Marlon Brando

June in Missouri is like a primeval jungle      where someone, somewhere      is playing Caruso on      an old timey gramophone       while hunting for Marlon Brando.

Sliding Down the Straight Razor of Heaven

The summer air is      boiling over and roiling  with the black shadows       of buzzards and crows, and the  early evening       sky is a bright, neon lip- stick smear of orange       and red (with a thin stripe of   coagulated       blood that has pooled on the frayed  and tattered tree line       (the sun, already, having  slid all the way down       the straight razor of Heaven  (much like the fabled      philosopher’s stone plunging to the bottom of      a well), as it does at the end of each day, in      order to be baptized in      the black river of the void).

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Jason Ryberg is the author of twenty-five books of poetry, six screenplays, a few short stories, a box full of folders, notebooks and scraps of paper that could one day be (loosely) construed as a novel, and countless love letters (never sent). He is currently an artist-in-residence at both The Prospero Institute of Disquieted P/o/e/t/i/c/s and the Osage Arts Community, and is an editor and designer at Spartan Books. His work has appeared in As it Ought to Be, Up the Staircase Quarterly, Thimble Literary Magazine, I-70 Review, Main Street Rag, The Arkansas Review and various other journals and anthologies. His latest collection of poems is “And When There Was No Crawfish, We Ate Sand (co-authored with Abraham Smith, Justin Hamm and John Dorsey (OAC Press, 2025)). He lives part-time in Kansas City, MO with a rooster named Little Red and a Billy-goat named Giuseppe, and part-time somewhere in the Ozarks, near the Gasconade River, where there are also many strange and wonderful woodland critters. 

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A Poem by Lee Potts

The king of the birds goes to bed

He stretches to smooth out the wild air around him, recites a psalm, goes over what was lost, what was found, the soft, brown apples rotting in the grass, mutters What needs to go, needs to go.

The ghost of his great-great-grandfather comes back again to share new verses from the ancient ballad about the way he tricked rain into falling and stopped the great fire from taking his kingdom. They are the same new verses every time he visits.

This morning, he saw a yellowjacket climb into a soda can and, after a while, stop humming. It’s terrible for him to dream all night of dying enclosed with wings suddenly sticky and useless

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Lee Potts is founder and editor-in-chief of Stone Circle Review. His work has appeared in Glass: A Journal of Poetry, The Shore, The Night Heron Barks, Rust + Moth, UCity Review, Moist Poetry Journal, and elsewhere. He is the author of two chapbooks. The most recent, We’ll Miss the Stars in the Morning (Bottlecap Press), was published in 2024. He lives just outside of Philadelphia with his wife and daughter.

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