I have written poetry and short fiction all my life and published a lot of it. My day job is editor of a trade publication Illinois Racing News. I live on a small horse farm in northern Illinois with my husband and various animals. My latest book, "Ribcage," (from Glass Lyre Press) recently won the 2015 Kithara Book Prize. I also am an associate editor of FutureCycle Press and Kentucky Review.
Flying out of Olsen Airport
Over on Route 47, the stunt pilot practices
Above our back pasture. Revolving
In a furious cycle, then upside down
To right himself and vault sky high to stall
And whirl earthward like a maple seed,
Then with a snort like a horse, seize power
And zoom off waving at our upturned faces.
The air-show still weeks off, he entertains us
With his arabesques, his flights of fancy,
Breath-taking escapades, grazing the canopy
Of hardwoods, a lollapalooza of leaping
Hurdles of invisible clouds.
We’re ground-stuck in our muddy boots
Unable to stop watching. He’s got the whole of air
To play in and chooses our acres as if
We were beholden
To his good luck.
Secrets fill the mind’s wicker basket.
Lead bullets cast in a forge of deceit.
Transparency, it is said, is a virtue.
A glass house to let in the light
Of disclosure. How the little sins swarm
Like blackflies in May. How even whispers
Penetrate the ear’s nautilus.
Far to the south, the glass-winged butterfly
Sips from the lantana. How the lack
Of colored scales defines a heart
That wants everything manifest,
A Pandora of little mirrors
Carnival: Corn Boil
Homer Leinweber’s steam engine
Fires the boiler. Hundreds of ears
Plumping sugared kernels
Of sweet corn. Slathered with
Butter and salt, you know this is the
Corn belt. Bellies boiling over
Belts, these men who know
What’s good. Line up. Bite in.
He crumbles a fist of soil,
Wipes it on his tee shirt, says
See this black dirt. Best in the world
Here in the heartland.
High fructose corn syrup,
Rich enough to make your blood boil.
©2015 Joan Colby