Lee Review welcomes submissions during the fall semesters from Lee University students and faculty. Decisions about submissions are made in the early to mid spring. We are interested in poetry, fiction, creative non-fiction, plays, essays, short graphic-stories, photography, original music compositions and art of other mediums.
Submissions can be sent to leereview@gmail.com. Please send submissions as an attached Word document (.doc or .docx). Include contact information, including email address and secondary address, with each submission.
Tuesday, November 10, 2009
Monday, November 9, 2009
Fata Morgana
by Jon Tully
For all I know you are a reality
A mass of flesh and bone like me
Tangible upon a bed of dreams not
A wraith or phantom from beyond
Maybe my senses betray me
Or my heart sees with blinded eyes
Replicas of the truth, mirages
Gone and since returned
Anew in protean form
Never would I trust that you were just
An illusion.
Published in the 2009 issue of the Lee Review.
For all I know you are a reality
A mass of flesh and bone like me
Tangible upon a bed of dreams not
A wraith or phantom from beyond
Maybe my senses betray me
Or my heart sees with blinded eyes
Replicas of the truth, mirages
Gone and since returned
Anew in protean form
Never would I trust that you were just
An illusion.
Published in the 2009 issue of the Lee Review.
The Untold Story of a Silhouetted Old Man on a Starbucks Coffee Cup
by Joshua Renzi
Snagged by thickets and brambles entwined,
vines and roots tangle and twist coupled
with the hollow thump of an old man hunched
limping on his stiff leg, his walking stick held
fast to his side, wiping sweat from his brow.
With thorn tattered clothes and a determined face,
crunching leaves and twigs he trudged up the hill.
The autumn air breathes death on the forest life,
he knew when he set out only water would do,
for he knew this journey was to be his last.
Light began to spill through the gaps in the brush,
the smell of the salted air brought him to his knees.
He scrambled up the knoll and through the clearing,
his crinkled eyes began to water as they were filled
with the sight of a derelict cottage made of stone
overlooking the sea where waves crashed against
the jagged cliff, his walking stick abandoned.
He used to live here, long ago with his beautiful wife,
full of color and spontaneity. Tears stream into the lines
of his cheeks as his memory floods his aching heart.
She died some time ago, in his arms, by an untold illness.
With feeble hands clutching the grass, he simply wept.
Upon dusk, he crawled onto the porch and into an old wooden
rocking chair. He died that night, the wind still sweeping his hair.
Published in the 2009 issue of the Lee Review.
Snagged by thickets and brambles entwined,
vines and roots tangle and twist coupled
with the hollow thump of an old man hunched
limping on his stiff leg, his walking stick held
fast to his side, wiping sweat from his brow.
With thorn tattered clothes and a determined face,
crunching leaves and twigs he trudged up the hill.
The autumn air breathes death on the forest life,
he knew when he set out only water would do,
for he knew this journey was to be his last.
Light began to spill through the gaps in the brush,
the smell of the salted air brought him to his knees.
He scrambled up the knoll and through the clearing,
his crinkled eyes began to water as they were filled
with the sight of a derelict cottage made of stone
overlooking the sea where waves crashed against
the jagged cliff, his walking stick abandoned.
He used to live here, long ago with his beautiful wife,
full of color and spontaneity. Tears stream into the lines
of his cheeks as his memory floods his aching heart.
She died some time ago, in his arms, by an untold illness.
With feeble hands clutching the grass, he simply wept.
Upon dusk, he crawled onto the porch and into an old wooden
rocking chair. He died that night, the wind still sweeping his hair.
Published in the 2009 issue of the Lee Review.
Butterfly House
by Amanda Panos
We reached out
our hands to pick
avocadoes hanging hidden,
pregnant, green under waxy leaves.
We rescued ripened
oranges nearly bursting,
juices boiling inside their skin
on our ninety degree August day.
We went to see the cheetahs,
danced in the butterfly house,
kissed in the cool darkness
of the reptile cave. We held
hands watching gorillas groom,
fed nectar to the lorikeets. You told me
about your dead cousin, Myell,
her name the call of a peacock.
Windows down, cigarette in your hand,
we stopped and ate sushi,
popped edamame between our teeth
and you licked green tea
ice cream off my lips.
Sunset colors of deep plum, pink
as the color of your tongue,
layered the sky as you
drove me home,
opened the door of cathedral glass,
and let my hand go.
Published in the 2009 issue of the Lee Review.
We reached out
our hands to pick
avocadoes hanging hidden,
pregnant, green under waxy leaves.
We rescued ripened
oranges nearly bursting,
juices boiling inside their skin
on our ninety degree August day.
We went to see the cheetahs,
danced in the butterfly house,
kissed in the cool darkness
of the reptile cave. We held
hands watching gorillas groom,
fed nectar to the lorikeets. You told me
about your dead cousin, Myell,
her name the call of a peacock.
Windows down, cigarette in your hand,
we stopped and ate sushi,
popped edamame between our teeth
and you licked green tea
ice cream off my lips.
Sunset colors of deep plum, pink
as the color of your tongue,
layered the sky as you
drove me home,
opened the door of cathedral glass,
and let my hand go.
Published in the 2009 issue of the Lee Review.
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