Synchronized Chaos: "Nexus," "The Shore of Imagination," and "Looking Through the Big End of the Telescope"

I’m grateful to the editors of Synchronized Chaos for publishing my poems "Nexus," "The Shore of Imagination," and "Looking Through the Big End of the Telescope" in their February, 2019 edition. They write, “John Middlebrook probes how the mind comprehends our existence with pieces on various liminal, in between spaces, including dreamtime and evening. He lends the theme to this issue with his piece about seeing the world from the ‘big end of the telescope,’ where the past becomes clear, small and far away enough to organize in one’s mind.”

You can read the poems here.

Synchronized Chaos Journal: "Struggling with Words," "Walking the Figure Eight," and "A Prophesy of Black Holes"

I’m glad to share that Synchronized Chaos published my poems “Struggling with Words,” “Walking the Figure Eight,” and “A Prophesy of Black Holes” in its June 2014 issue.

“Struggling with Words” is particularly close to my heart and I’m excited that it found a home in Synchronized Chaos, an interdisciplinary webzine for art, literary, science, cultural, and travel writing. Its editors write, “John Middlebrook looks at the experience, aural, aesthetic and visceral, of words and paintings, and then imagines a comforting, embryonic realm of silence inside a black hole.”

Grasslimb Journal and Third Wednesday Magazine: "Still Life"

Originally published in Grasslimb (v.11, n.2, print-only) and Third Wednesday (Spring 2013, print-only)

Still Life

Surrounded by indigo fields,
I turn off the yard light and sit
on this summer night listening
to the sounds between the sounds
of crickets wafting their chants
on the lazy breeze, unmoved
by the discontent of hounds
in the distance baying
at the plaintive whistles of trains,
the rustle of gravel under passing cars.

The clock nods and blinks
on evenings like this, then retires.
The industry of spring has passed:
and the branches of fruit trees—
that snagged rags of clouds
and made them blossom—
now sag with orbs of quiet fire.

Meanwhile, the paint cans of autumn rest
undisturbed in storage, and the wind
that will turn—sure as a hawk,
when winter bears down—
sleeps in the forest.