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The Arava Review
/// Contemporary Art & Poetry Review ///
Joshua Korenblat
Joshua Korenblat is an artist, writer, and educator. He has a Masters degree in creative writing from Johns Hopkins University, which he earned at night while working in the Art Department at National Geographic Magazine. He has also worked as a high school English teacher, writer, and art director for an array of educational institutions, integrating his varied experiences into a lifelong creative practice of pictures and words, a lyrical narrative that celebrates our common humanity.
the year I decided to take a drink for the last time
I look out at the Pacific in January,
the year I decide to take a drink
for the last time.
The waves do their little dance-
sit pretty, then bow down low
like an obedient daughter;
they roll onto their backs
and then roll over
as my faithful friend
calling me to
take one more
step out into the blue. But
the water is cold as ice cubes –
gives me chicken skin,
freezes me
till I can never feel warmth
or give it ever.
Ever.
The Moon is here- low, sighing
like a woman fed up,
or an adolescent girl.
It’s her job to control the sea,
But, who can control this
thing?
I look out at the vastness and wonder
how many have gone under
in this firewater.
And for the fourth time
in five days
I tip my glass,
pour the Wild Turkey
onto the crushed sand castles,
see if I can save the ice cubes.
Adrienne Christian
Verses Written Before Breakfast Longing for Your Warmth Rather than Food Johnson, VT
The mustard-glow bulbs of the local bank’s marquee flash twenty-six degrees—
It is slightly warmer in California, where my new bride is still asleep.
At this hour the western skies are still washed over in darkness.
In the middle of the night she awakens to light in her eyes.
She rises on impulse. What she thinks is dawn
is only the table lamp left on.
John O. Espinoza
Amused by the Trick Physics of Light and Reflection- Johnson, VT
sunlit is the crispy
brush and the unearthed
roots of leafless trees scored
along the Gihon
River bank. the sunlight
illuminates the shallow
water—from this distance—
peering out the window—
the stones underneath
the quivering surface
are fish swimming in place.
John O. Espinoza
Post-Autumn Postcard: The Lonely Morning Streets Of Johnson, Vermont
A sun-absent Monday
unveils a patch of sky
as blue as a gumball.
Pearl-gray clouds patch it up.
October pumpkins set
on the porch have caved in
with rot. A gray film forms
on the glass throughout town.
I’m a California
boy asking for some light,
some warmth, something not frost
blanketing yards like ash.
My desire is sunshine:
Gliding over Main Street
bridge is a procession
of yellow school buses.
John O. Espinoza
karma
The world falls down
unbelievably quick
as the hands of the clock
are bones hammered in your heart
time is not enough for anybody
and yet we waste it with all that crap,
television, small talks, absurdity
and some of them believe what they see
on the TV
and some them talk they lives away
easily
and some of them think that time is
precious
as I remain silent and wind
the clock.
Peycho Kanev
how to leave New Hampshire
Because I’m dreaming
I think you can hear me mutter
about how poems keep me up
after I read Frost’s New Hampshire
poems about rain
about trains and plain and moon
glow on the tennis court
the moths beating at the light
the moths beating at the light
Annie Jacobs