Category Archives: CPR Volume 17, Issue 2

Cider Press Review, Volume 17, Issue 2, April, 2015

by Katherine L. Holmes

The all-around view was brambles
in a weaving of tree-twigs
some like beaks
when infant-feeble spring
is late in April’s cradle

under a vast membrane,
the bird breast of sky.
I waited with
the suspense of a dreamer
in a house gone from splinters

to thorns when something
gave me the sustenance
to face
the mildewed not exactly
beautiful nest of nature

and strain insatiably for
what ferries a cloud down
the strength to wing it
after the teasing warmth.


Published in Cider Press Review, Volume 17, Issue 2.

Katherine HolmesKatherine L. Holmes’s poetry and short stories have appeared in more than 50 journals. In 2012, her short story collection, Curiosity Killed the Sphinx and Other Stories, was released by Press Americana. More information is at her web site:

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by Hillary Kobernick

boll (n.): the rounded pod or capsule of a plant that contains the seeds; a fibrous, nutritionless womb.

the seed, that will one day scream and dance in the hallway or climb on the roof and refuse to come down; that will grow angry when you catch it with beer bottles pull its roots into the 40 below windchill and drive your minivan drunk across Nebraska because he didn’t like your tone; that will stop speaking to you for years when he moves to Portland (Maine or Oregon) and a flatline silence envelopes the house like half a breath that lasts three Christmases and when he announces he is coming, says nothing about breathing or the minivan (that has not accompanied him home); that is now here, seed, wrapped in your boll, suckling your nipple with his tiny body, feet small and fragile as spring cotton leaves.


Published in Cider Press Review, Volume 17, Issue 2.

Hillary KobernickHillary Kobernick is a three-time member of the Art Amok! Slam Team. She holds a Master’s of Divinity degree from Emory University, meaning that she has, in fact, mastered the Divine. She currently pastors at a church in suburban Chicago. Her work has appeared in literary magazines in the U.S. and Canada, and can always be found at

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by M. Ross Henry

I don’t know how to do things halfway.

Others drone on like 45s

set to 33 revolutions per minute.

I put the needle to my throat every day.

You can’t see the red that flows,

the endless flowing.

My life is anemic without the farm.
What do I make of this city,

its smog and blare?

I want the taste of dirt in my mouth,
the sound of bare ground cracking open.

My children run toward me

like predators rushing their prey.

My hands are too smooth, my nails too long.

Lawns muffle passing cars.

At play, boys fall and rise, fall and rise.


Published in Cider Press Review, Volume 17, Issue 2.

placesaver2M Ross Henry lives and writes in the lower Missouri River Basin. The motto of the state where M lives is ad astra per aspera, meaning “to the stars through difficulties,” which captures not only the essence of the human condition but also the attempt to capture that condition in and through poetry.

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