Series Editor - Jim Bennett

Introduction by Jim Bennett

Hello.  Welcome to a new series of CITN.  We will be looking at the work of individual poets in each edition and I hope it will help our readers to discover some new and exciting writing.  This series is open to all to submit and I am now keen to read new work for this series.


CITN 52. This  edition features the poetry of JENNIFER LEMMING


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Against the hubris of the day

a piece of gift-wrapping at a party

floats lazily amid the chaos.  I glimpse

a piece of uneven bliss in a parallel universe

Mylar stars against a cerulean blue sky.


                 from;  String Theory by Jennifer Lemming





The Kindness of Queen Anne’s Lace

The Cubicle

String Theory

Park Dream

New Planet Indianapolis

The Green Man and Coyote

Chicory Summer

Brother Raven

Cymbal Tremor




I was born in the state of Pennsylvania but am a misplaced Easterner having lived most my life in Indiana USA. I have been writing creatively the last 10 years. I won 1st place in the The Dancing Poetry Contest 2004 in San Francisco for the poem "Lunatic", published in Tall Grass Anthologies, read at the Chicago Printer's Book Fair and am Co-Editor of the Indianapolis, Indiana literary magazine "Ichabod's Sketchbook".   A sentimentalist by nature, reflected creatively in my life, I continue to write, read, garden and hike in Indianapolis and in Indiana with my husband and dog while watching the moon, reaching for the stars and following the sun.






The Kindness of Queen Anne’s Lace


Pretty florets, a sea of white finery,

filling up the cracks and empty 

spaces, from the consideration

of a lady and a Queen. A flower,


Queen Anne’s Lace, a gift

from Europe sent to fill in 

the empty cracks and space.

But if invasions we suffer, must 


then what a pretty assault 

upon our senses,as I look for 

the trace of you, driving by


in the valleys between building 

canyon walls, the glimpse from 

the corner of my eye finding 


only a bouquet of pretty white

flowers When you pass by that 

vacant  lot, think only of the kindness 

of Queen Anne’s Lace.




The Cubicle


The cubicle is the cuticle

of the modern work day.


A thin membrane separating

the fleshy part of work from


the erosive atmosphere

of the day. When we smell 


the lunch of a coworker or 

when we hunch over


the phone with a creditor, 

and when a loving whisper of


goodbye by phone or email

doesn’t cover our hurt,


our cubicle splinters and cracks

from the daily pressure of rough


trade around us, and we are

surprised not to emerge


bloodied as a bruised 

finger-nail bed. 



String Theory


Against the hubris of the day

a piece of gift-wrapping at a party

floats lazily amid the chaos.  I glimpse

a piece of uneven bliss in a parallel universe

Mylar stars against a cerulean blue sky.


This is a world I would like to visit,

where I would be Mylar and cerulean blue,

I wouldn’t care if I were sill uneven

and just a piece of the larger picture. 


Park Dream


I am waiting in a trailer

and a cold winter rain is coming

I look out the window for you.

I see a horse and a bull fighting with


hooves and horns clashing, mane

and tails flicking against a backdrop 

of distant lightening.  I am waiting

for you as a cold winter rain comes



The solar lights dim, my eyelids heavy

as the golden book of dreams drops

from my hands, rain pattering against

the window like hummingbird wings.


My soul will remember the

mythology of tonight; I know it

because I am waiting for you. 



New Planet Indianapolis


“From July 25th to Sept 23rd 2001 red rain sporadically descended upon the southern Indiana state Kerala”


Today is just another day 

in Indy. The wind is calm

or balmy, humid or cold, just

another day.  Just another day

in Indy and I am driving 

down 38th Street and just like 

any day in Indy I am making

every frigging light or I am

zooming through traffic like I am

at the roller rink and

“The Pennsylvania Polka”

is playing.


Today is just another day in Indy

and instead of having

to sprint across 34th Street to the library

because there is no pedestrian light,

I stroll (which is not like just

any day in Indy), I stroll across 34th Street,

and I notice the shiny glint of a penny

embedded in the tar street patch,

whose says the street of Indy aren’t

lined with money?


Today is just another day

in Indy when everything

goes swell, or the whole day

is off kilter, kinda lopsided

and I have to struggle 

to walk upright like gravity

isn’t quite what it should be.


On those off kilter days

I half expect it to start raining

the red rain of extraterrestrial blood. 

or while I am driving down 

Meridian street it will start raining 

frogs and a Pentecostal grandmother 

will appear in the backseat of the car

praying  in tongues, and it’s not 

a boring planet anymore. 



The Green Man and Coyote


Lying on the bed after work

on this Spring Equinox, just after

the season of the Irish, I feel

Coyote the Trickster is afoot.

He is softly padding by

my bed in green fur, and 

he is not my dog.


It is Coyote, who with his 

bag of stimulus packages, is tossing

out commotion in my life so that

when I look out of the bedroom window

at the neighbors pine tree, I think

the branches are the backs of The Green Man,

replicated branch by branch,

linking arms and dancing

in Coyote’s breeze. 


Chicory Summer


Driving down 

the summer asphalt

heat rising with want,

a strip of desire fringed

in powder blue.   Driving

home I pass people on their way

to something about to happen.


My summer dissolves into

hot desire, trimmed in eyelet

blue lace that is rooted flavor

but I am still wanting that buzz,

still wanting, still wanting. 


Brother Raven


I met you at the Pow Wow, your hair not afro’d

but in long braids and your soft spoken words

telling me of your families coming together. 


Later that day I see four ravens in a tree,

waiting for a sunset, moonrise or a breeze.


I ask them “what are your signs?”

A mouse , a lizard, a worm, a pecan.


I watch them taking flight,

with the stars of the Milky Way

reflecting off their black.



Cymbal Tremor


Slow awakening

the stretch, the lazy


Sweet dreams,

soft whispers, shimmer

of a night remembered.


Slow moving, sunlight flickering

and tapping at my eyelids,

bed sheets coiled ‘round sweaty legs,

pillow squashed.


I reach for the bass percussion,

the steady beat of the night before.

Reaching out and in the empty space

I find only dissonance.



4 - Afterword

Email Poetry Kit - info@poetrykit.org    - if you would like to tell us what you think.  We are looking for other poets to feature in this series, and are open to submissions.  Please send one poem and a short bio to - info@poetrykit.org

Thank you for taking the time to read Caught in the Net.  Our other magazine s are Transparent Words ands Poetry Kit Magazine, which are webzines on the Poetry Kit site and this can be found at -