Tag Archives: poetry

DORIS IMAGINES A RELATIONSHIP IN THE GROCERY STORE

DORIS IMAGINES A RELATIONSHIP IN THE GROCERY STORE

R. Nikolas Macioci

 

It is in her head to meet someone new.

In the Kroger produce department people

pause to pull plastic bags from spools.

Brussels sprouts, cauliflower, kale drip

with perpetual water. A lean man

in khaki cargo shorts and a green golf

shirt strolls up beside her, reaches for a

head of lettuce, smiles, says hi, and walks

away. She hangs back then follows him,

stays at the top of the cereal aisle

while he grabs Wheaties from a shelf. He

turns, sees her and smiles again. This time

she wanders past him to the other end

of the aisle and disappears around the corner.

She’s embarrassed by brazen boldness, stands

still as if examining ingredients of a potato

chip bag and asks herself what best can come

out of this situation? Her chest hurts

from being desperate, from showing too much

vulnerability. Did she veil her face

with nonchalance? Was her need visible?

He’s two lanes down from where she’s checking out.

She can see only his head over impulse items.

DORIS AT THE HOLY BIRD BAR

DORIS AT THE HOLY BIRD BAR

R. Nikolas Macioci

She’s sipping a margarita when he

sits down at the next table with his back

to her. He’s wearing gray slacks, plain

twill tweed sport coat and shirt as white

as marshmallow. Her eyes keep going

to his neck as if to study its anatomy:

muscles, ligaments, tendons, but she is

staring at visible skin and hair touching

the collar. To change focus and distract

herself she looks around at Art Deco

glass, chrome, stainless steel, shiny fabrics,

streamlined geometric forms. Everywhere

she looks leads back to his neck. The

fascination defies ordinary explanation.

She wants to touch him, but it’s more,

it’s desire magnified, sensual need at

her fingertips the object of symbolic lust.

Again she attempts to look elsewhere

at the lacquered bar, inlaid wood, mirrors,

clean lines that bring her back again to his

neck. What if he turned around? Would

she feel the same? He finishes his drink

and leaves which breaks the spell. By

herself, she still imagines stroking his

hair, feeling her hand against his neck

like a hymn to passion.

the werewolf

the werewolf

Josephine Gawtry

it’s true that if we were in a storybook you’d be the werewolf. slouching around the kudzu on the perimeter of my yard at night, with the rabbits and groundhogs quivering in their viney coves, the deer still and wide-eyed across the old fence in the shady spruce knoll—illuminated only by distant headlights from the main road—i would look out my window and think i saw something moving out there. dismiss it as one of the mountain creatures, a fox, a black bear;

in the long farm grass we walk in springtime. ticks tickle our hairy girl legs. we find a stream with a sitting stump and a climbing tree and a bushel of wineberries. we stain our cut-up, nettle-stung hands purple and red, place the berries on each fingertip and suck them off, giggling. on our walk back we fiddle with sweetgrass and tuck eachother in our palms. i bring home wild onions and my dad puts them in the salad.

its winter and we wear jackets and go to the bakery. i choose an elephant ear and my dad asks why they are getting more expensive. looking outside at the freeway, i pant mist onto the window, spelling my name with the J backwards in fingersmudge. we go back to the house we can’t afford (the recession just happened) and my mom yells at me, in the harmless way that i am used to. i have my own room now and change my own clothes, still hesitantly. 

in summertime, i see the werewolf again. at the edge of the neighborhood, where the new houses are being built—among the concrete shells and loose nails, he stalks, blue eyes studying me. he is a mixture of tenderness, confusion, seduction. my dad calls from behind me, tossing a ball with my little brother, and i turn away, running back home. the sun will go down soon, and mom wants me back.

after my dad and i watch the fall thunderstorm on the equinox, i go to the new school with real snacks (not ice cubes) and a plastic playground painted all different colors. i am perpetually in trouble and when i am, my mom comes in sweating from the gym and grabs me by the wrist. i lie about being sick and read my chapter books so fast that i hate them for being so short. scholastic book fairs and swinging outside eat me alive, and my blood is so red and juicy i drink with them, gleefully smiling, my mouth full of baby teeth.

it’s true that if we were in a storybook you’d be the werewolf. i would walk out in the woods alone, sidestepping the boulders by the stream, my skinny child arms pushing mountain laurel branches aside and seeing you in the unfinished lot. i would run to you and feel your bristled mammal hair on my cheek. i’d bite off the honeysuckle tip and kiss your wolf mouth so you could taste the sweetness.

Card House

Card House

Josephine Gawtry

for 44 nights i stayed up until the sunrise: bird chorus weeping, in tito’s and tea with clover honey we hold sacred

and no amount of melatonin or cbd gummies would sedate me so: i stole Restoril from my sister’s drawer and fell blank on my bedspread. 

golden like every morning and evening. the maps started to lie, twisting the roads and Wal-marts together, got so stoned i started seeing your face behind the closet door, your wrists and ankles scarred by ropeburn

listen. the question you asked, among spring trees flowering: what made you?  i was raised in the card house, i am the forever queen of sagebrush and toothbrush. Flat white and chewed like gum.

MY TWO NOVEMBERS

 

 

 

MY TWO NOVEMBERS

 Abigail Warren

 

Not this freight train

barreling down from Canada

an unwanted guest

leaving mornings smoky

with a drunken sun

too tired to push

his belligerent fires

to that quivering hemlock,

standing erect as a boy

in 3rd grade who’s

pinched a girl

and is waiting outside the principal’s office

for punishment.

Not you, November.

The other one.

Where the pokeweed is still alive

with purple orbs hanging heavy,

trees still crimson

oaks, cinnamon.

No smell of fossil fuels,

but leaves gathered

in mounds where children

dive recklessly

in great leaps crackling

until some father gathers them,

and they blaze under a

November moon;

look close, the hydrangeas,

their fading heads droop 

like those sullen children, 

called in after evening’s play.

But let the children stay

let them gather leaves,

let them believe all this

will not end

SEVENTEEN

SEVENTEEN

Jocelyn Cooper

 

My perky ponytail bobs

As I strut with my friends

New Hampshire

The White mountains

A hot August night

The Maplewood Resort

Harry Belafonte performs inside

He sings his haunting melodies

I hear Scarlet Ribbons for the first time

Poor teenagers like me are at the windows

Looking in longingly

He acknowledges the outsiders in a song

We’re young!

We’re thrilled!

THE FORECAST

THE FORECAST

Madelyn E. Camrud 

 

Temperatures below zero,

windows frosted over; 

rabbits chew shrubs 

to the nub; the willow 

curled crooked over the coulee 

like before—as if we 

hadn’t passed that day; 

as if nothing has happened; 

it bends ever so slightly above water like before—

                                         does nothing in nature know? 

How many buds cut—lost count; 

the sweet smell of narcissus—

ominous fills my house.

The days lead to Christmas: 

my garden grows grief in the cold.

           

          :/who knows what evil takes over a mind?            

^^^^^^

The willow remains unchanged—

ice on the coulee

thickens—

my skin 

grows thin.

 

Is there no measure 

to this sadness? 

 

I strain to see 

past the glass; 

something is falling—

neither rain nor snow.

 

                         

What country is this?            

THE TRACTOR AND THE FARMER’S WIFE

John Grey

 

It’s one thing to be private.

It’s quite another to be so obsolete

that your tires are flat

your flywheel’s shot

your gas tank’s empty, rusty.

and you’re abandoned

hi the far end of the paddock,

mid-winter,

smothered in a foot of snow.

It’s one thing to think that the ideal

is to be done with work.

cooling off,

when that work is what’s sustained you.

and you’re not cooling off,

you’re freezing up.

And sure, it’s one thing

to materialize out of melting,

with spring upon you,

the unplowed field ahead of you,

when there’s a newer model in the showroom.

and the bank is making loans

to every farmer in the county.

And it’s one thing to be a tractor.

But such a misery to be you.

LETTERS FROM HOME

LETTERS FROM HOME

Anna Kapungu

 

In the deserted days

Where the sun is my champion

And the blood thirsts for water

I tell the rays what I miss the most

Hear my breathing

Sweat drip down my back

My hands cracked  from the labour

Labour  without  gains

Split the grounds to pass the hours

Read the roads of my palms 

Roads that lead me back home

Then I receive your letters

Your words are like rain in the summer

Comfort my blackened heart

Feel the elevation of my spirit

My people,the force of humanity

I cannot pray to surrender my heaviness

I cannot cry to release my sentence

TALL GLASSES

Tall glasses

DS Maolalai

pouring our gin

onto icecubes

and limes.

enjoying              

the crackle

and crunch.

and summer

is trapped

by the walls

of our balcony;

the ice in a tall

glass of gin.

we lean back in tandem,

stretching like poolside

recliners. below us

the traffic is steady; locked

like a lime

in our ice. we stir

our tall glasses

with takeaway

chopsticks,

shifting the garnish

around.

IKEA

IKEA

DS Maolalai

on the floor of the bedroom

searching the carpet for screws

while the mattress stands over me

like the approach           

of a two-storey

truck. I slug a beer

and put it down somewhere

out of the way

on the carpet, (I know

before I’m done

I’ll knock it over). pick up a strut.

I work steadily;

place wood against

wood and screws

in holes. forget

where I left

the allan wrench. the screwdriver.

dust spews up

like spores out of mushrooms

or a movie

about discovering old cities – digging in, I find

forgotten books, dirty plates,

t-shirts and condom wrappers. outside

a broken box-spring

sits in the garden

and soaks – it will be there

at least a year

once we get used to it. the carpet

under the bed

thirty years fresher. I work

in spilled beer

and old receipts, hoping

to get things done

before chrys comes in

and decides we should change that

too.

Photo credit: Iris Yue, Unsplash

THAT BEACH, AGAIN

That Beach, Again

Michael J. Shepley

 

      I thought 

  to put a piece

    of the sun in

a standard business 

    envelope and

  then stamp that

        for you

  loved the sand

    and seasighed

        song under gulling wing     

        as your skin

    drank salty day

to firm the borders

between bold bronze 

           and more shy

porpoise belly bare

  a little later there

with moonlight smile

  you know exactly 

      what I mean

     or once meant

         to you too

        and I wish

  I had and sent it

  if in mere meta4

          like this here poem

        but it’s been

   -what? now way more

               than 30 years

                             since I have

                  any new address for

           it

 

IT HAD THAT SWING

Ed Ahern

 

My mother spent evenings listening to records.

Years of evenings.

78’s and 33’s, and only big band swing.

All named after the band leader.

The bands are largely forgotten now,

but there were Jimmy and Tommy Dorsey,

Woody Herman and Harry James,

Benny Goodman and Glenn Miller.

My mother, widowed and jobless,

Played the music of her courtship,

Of a yet unburdened future,

At least twice a week.

I never liked the music,

But had nowhere else to go,

And absorbed it despite myself,

Melodies lingering decades later.

In cleaning out her house

I couldn’t throw away the records

And suitcased them back home.

Never played, almost forgotten.

They’re serious collectibles now,

Worthwhile selling off,

But I can’t discard the future

She almost had.

THE COSMOS

Madelyn E. Camrud

 

That summer of good rains, 

he scattered seed for her—the woman 

he loved; she his life, disease he wasn’t ready for; 

nor was she, young by standards today; 

brilliant; beautiful; loved before

she left; loved still and ever 

after because that’s how it is with flowers, 

tall and slender, growing below 

a mountain where breezes fall; where 

bears romped, rolled on seeds—

the hundreds of pounds he planted; 

stalks grown tall after good rains as if the love 

would not go away; as if all and every 

love is a story; yet never one so rare 

as The Cosmos; none so delicate, and true.

The Letters Keep Coming

The Letters Keep Coming

Holly Day

 

cringe. draw away from me out 

of me slough away

promises burn holes

in dreams I know 

you, silent in the darkened hall, white armor 

stripped and revealed to be paste. tell me why 

I need you. don’t leave me yet. run. pull 

yourself off of me out of me get

as far as you can from 

me, I exile you because 

I know. once a week 

she calls me to let me know you’re still 

sleeping with her, tells me about 

the life you have planned 

for the two of you. she wants forgiveness. 

she wants to know if I’m okay with all 

of this. 

I tell her I’m fine

Election, 2019

Election, 2019

James Croal Jackson

 

Another rainy voting day– this time,

I crossed Main Street without looking.

I know traffic patterns enough

to know around noon there’s no one

 

out here, and so I walked into

the alley by Tina’s, the anti-social

route past people’s fenced backyards.

I met a hanging skeleton and

 

a wooden turkey two houses apart,

and when I walked downhill to

get to Woolsair a man in a Tahoe

pointed to the school’s side door.

 

In other years, there are people

lurking who want to tell me how

to vote, but this time, no signs,

nothing– just an empty gym, three

 

old men and my neighbor, Nolan,

who I didn’t know volunteered

here, told me there have been

just a few today, and thus as I

 

tapped my choices saying no

to oligarchical, corporate forces

as best I could, I temporarily

felt the weight of my fingers

 

multiply, that my choices would

count as thousandths not

millionths on the grand tv ticker

tonight– no. I know enough

 

to know that if it’s only me,

my vote will never matter.

A FATHER SHAVING

A FATHER SHAVING

Juanita Rey

I stand outside the bathroom door.
peek around the corner
when I can work up the courage.
But he doesn’t even notice me.
His jaw is clenched, eyes focused.
No matter how many times he’s done this,
he still must let the blade know who’s el jefe.

His hands are hairy, his knuckles gigantic,
his grip shrinks the razor.
The whiskers are helpless before
this foam-bearded man.

From chin to lip,
he carves out a wide swathe,
but not once does he cut himself,
That blade obeys his every order.
It would not dare penetrate the skin.

He wipes his face dry
then braces it with aftershave.
The end comes with a step back
and an admiring glance in the mirror.
Then, as he leaves the room,
he pats me on the head.

If I was a boy,
he’d say something like,
“You’ll have to do this someday.”
But I am a girl.
I can only look forward to more watching.

Hannah

Hannah

Laura Sobbott Ross

 

I’d heard about you before you became

my daughter’s friend at the Christian school.

You were once the girl, buoyant and uncombed,

with just a can of soup at the lunch table

and no way to open it, a name on a list

of a family asking for Christmas presents,

a wicked chant honed to the jump rope’s beat.

I snickered at your clever nicknames for the pious,

the cartoon of our pastor blah-blah-blahing,

and yet, I’d wanted to complain to the same ones 

about your influence on my daughter. 

The two of you flipping your plaid bible skirts

at the adolescent boys playing soccer; a creed 

shivering down the spine of their spiral notebooks,

the corners of their pages licked damp with turning;

hearts and flowers sketched in the margins of yours.

The last time I saw you, you’d thrown yourself

fully clothed into a swimming pool amid 

indignant snowbirds in a hotel downtown

and were led away dripping, a raspy sea siren.

You’d had babies early, lost them in a ruling,

wandered cowlicked, inked, and dimpled

down the highway toward Daytona

where you died, a stripper living in a van.

The final photo you posted was of a manakin 

in white fishnets and a wolf mask, a macabre

piece of art meant to affront what terrified you. 

At least that was the last thing you wrote.

A red jellyfish scribbled where the heart would be,

skirted in a current of smarting veins. 

A third eye vortexed in onyx

across the flat plane of the plastic belly. 

I wish I could have told you that

sometimes, Hannah, if we are just a body, 

not somebody, just a body, maybe it doesn’t hurt 

so much. That giddy smile of yours studded

in hard spangles, the lobes of your ears opened

wide as the well of a spoon. I wish I could have

taken you in, Hannah, pushed you skyward

on the tire swing in our cul-de-sac, filled your 

pockets with all the things girls should have— 

birthstone charms and candy karmas and lullabies.

I wish I could have fanned that hard spark in you 

into something more than what would consume 

you. Your skin, a span of moonlight.

Stars lashing themselves against the metal room

of your van. Earth’s infinite spin, warm and 

quaking the palm fronds like a loose spirit.

 

photo credit: Harry Rajchgot, 04-2020

Fipple

OLYMPUS DIGITAL CAMERA

Fipple                            

by  Louise Carson

 

     ‘the sounding edge of a side opening’ – Webster’s

Sounds like a word old as creation:

Adam’s pain: his rib-mouth constricted, plugged.

Eve’s voice pops the cork: champagne for everyone.

On Iceland, where only the land is indigenous,

magna thrusting, they have a word for a horse’s lip:

flipi, related to fipple, as Iceland relates to England and Norway.

So this northland pony, little fjord horse,

opens his mouth to the side, blows air over that plug, his tongue,

plays his penny whistle, his fipple of unknown origin.

 

photo by:

Rebecca Rajchgot: Iceland Ponies, 2014

RECOVERY AGENT

RECOVERY AGENT

Juanita Rey

A month of me in bed
and you pull back the sheet
and it’s like finding
a baby bird
abandoned and shivering.

How can this creature
ever fledge,
you must be thinking,
when it can barely
flutter a feather.

Sure, whatever was wrong with me
may have worked its way
out of my system
but what’s available
for a replacement?

You think a soft kiss
on my cheek might do it.
But I’ve been sick
and am now in need
of my old self.
Not unloved
and requiring you.

I just want to know
that my wings will work
when I need them to.
Only then,
can you make me
want to fly.

photo: Harry Rajchgot

THE OFFICES LET OUT

THE OFFICES LET OUT

Juanita Rey

 

At last, the inexorable traffic

has run out of places to be.

The haunting, blinding, 

no longer need blaze a trail

through the inner-city warren

with those intense yellow eyes.

From the tenement window, 

I see the face of the night’s last driver,

then the back of his head,

then tail-light and a couple of letters

from a license plate. 

After that, nothing.

All is quiet on the street below.

And the only lights 

are scattered between the 

surrounding buildings. 

And these are not seekers,

not trail-blazers.

They merely illuminate 

whoever stays put,

who has no other place to go.

Immigrants, the poor,

the jobless, the itinerant –

we will sleep tonight 

in our version of America.

Come morning, the cars return.

Where they’ve been

remains a mystery. 

I FOUND HIM THERE

I FOUND HIM THERE

By Tammy Huffman

I found him there

Wave walking wild seas

Frantic to snare

Gurgling mysteries

 

Racing to rope

Far fluttering gleams

Of thrown off hopes

And cast away dreams

 

Laughing to land

A misshapen curse

Heart God, head man

Blubber universe

 

Losing his grasp

He shakes bloody fists

A useless cast

A trashed, muddy mess

 

Give up, I sighed

Why stir up dead men?

Come out! he cried

And cast nets again

Branches and Fences

Branches and Fences

Esme DeVault

 

looking out 

my bedroom window

I see                         you

throw branches

over the fence

into our yard.

“It’s their damn tree!”

you shout,

“Why should everybody else have to fucking pay for it?”

I quietly close 

the window

and turn 

away.

 

later,

I write               you a note.

Hello neighbor!

I was very sorry

to see you so upset

this morning.

Please come by

any time

so we can talk about it.

I mail the note to 

you

in a pretty pink card

afraid 

that if I knock 

on your door

you        will        spit

in my 

face.

 

I feel better now,

perhaps in part because I know

that                              you will never knock

on my door

as                                  you 

are far too afraid 

of my dog.

 

photo by Rebecca Rajchgot (2020).

 

Callery Pear


Callery Pear

Ilona Martonfi

At Ground Zero

buried in rubble

one branch still alive

last living thing to get out 

of the Towers 

gnarled stumps 

trunk blackened.

Now after ten years 

in a Bronx nursery 

finally returning home

this spring

third week of April

white blossoms

in Lower Manhattan.

ii.

She remembers,

burned and torn paper.

The voices.

People falling.

Blocking out the sun.

 

The video of the remarkable story of this survivor tree, barely survived the 9/11 attacks, can be found at on YouTube.

In the society of anxious mothers

In the society of anxious mothers

Brandy McKenzie

 

How easy it is to slip into old habits.

How easy it is to slip into old lies.

She tells me about her son, his prostitution.

I write nothing down.  I have nothing

to give her that’s full or empty, just

reassurance.  I hint and I hem and I haw.

I don’t even know how to haw.

Her boy, her beautiful boy, & she’d given him

all a boy could there’s love, and then

there’s this line.  I can’t help but think

of mine and mine. And me: I’m so

introverted that way.  Turned inside out

so all my pieces shine. No, glisten.

She’s as raw as I, but won’t say so.

I won’t speak a line.  These children, tied

as they are to our bodies, pricking apart

innards like scribes. No, scriveners. No:

prognosticate, procrastinate, read the guts and tea

to see the what’s mine?  I don’t know.

I have no words for her.  Not mine, 

not hers, not wry homunculi we birthed

and named into this world.  I’ve lied,

again and again.  She’s cried, but lies about it.

I Want to Say

I Want to Say

by

Jan Ball

They’re taking four-

    year-old Reuben

to the hospital 

for his last goodbye

        to his mother,

my young friend.

I know about replaced

knees, and a mined abdomen,

but not terminal cancer,

especially in a young woman.

I want to say…

I want to say…

the sun flings silver stars 

like lucky dice across 

the lake this morning and 

popcorn clouds puff high 

in the tomorrow sky. 

 

Photo: Harry Rajchgot

jesus was a dog like you

jesus was a dog like you

john sweet 

 

and in the frozen sunlight we

are burning gods and

their bastard prophets for warmth

but it still hurts growing old

 

it’s inevitable that every truth we

find will be lost again

 

that you’ll be crushed by the landslide and

i’ll be crucified by the zealots but

                                      right here

                        in this barren field

                    in this upstate desert

the air is bright blue and as

beautiful as any poison

 

the naked man falls asleep on the

railroad tracks and wakes up sacred and

we are hungry but not defeated

 

we are liars

but never alone

 

just an army of crows 

waiting patiently for the corpse of

                        the future to arrive

a painting, for beth

a painting, for beth

john sweet

 

or here where

shopping carts rust at the river’s edge

or here where empty parking lots

fill in the spaces between

abandoned factories

 

here where plastic bags flutter

like the flags of defeated nations

from the branches of february trees

 

spent all day in this forgotten

room searching for the sun

 

took the pills but still didn’t

feel much like eating

 

didn’t feel much like breathing

 

just kept waiting for the end of a

winter that never came

 

Kintsugi (金継ぎ,)

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Kintsugi (,)

Michael Smith

 

Time is a writer

of little diffidence – a sprite

who draws on everything:

the wrinkle next to the eye, 

the fading of the light,

into an artistry of go(l)d — 

wabi sabi, loving imperfections

we ponder.  

Oh, the strange splendor of despair, 

I’d despair, for as we age

we all age, and 

these marks, a kintsugi 

upon fragility, whose fragility is

persistence .

Such is the dialogue

Our faces hold, sans word

In the more golden years.

 

Painting: “Young”, 1975, by Vania Comoretti, as seen in the Municipal Museum, Salo, Lake Garda, Italy

Note from the poet:

This poem is part of a collection on lost (or dying) art forms.  They play the part of ode and lamentation at the same time.  Calligraphy speaks of its namesake, which has deep roots within both the Western and Eastern worlds.  In some cultures, calligraphy was (and is) seen as the epitome of art.  Dark Room is on print photography.  Printing photographs using traditional light sensitive photo paper is dying away in the digital age.  Even the materials for printing photos in a darkroom (film, developers, fixers, various chemicals, etc.) are becoming less available with fewer and fewer companies manufacturing them.  The day will probably soon come when only niche boutique companies catering to artists will make these materials.  Kintsugi (金継ぎ,) is an art form in which broken pottery is visibly repaired using lacquer and gold dust.  Underpin fragility and make virtue of not concealing it.  The objects are made stronger and more valuable by repair. The poem above uses this as a metaphor for the body. 

last night

     

 

last night

             by milt montague

 

last night

sleep eluded me

my mind kept churning

scenes of long ago

in the flush of memory

a small white light

penetrated the shadows

growing brighter

a beacon

shining on a gravestone

         Morris Kaplan

         loving grandfather, 

         father, son

         survived the horror of

         World War II

         1924-2018

          rest in peace

rest well old buddy

our years together

were few but memorable

I fell into a deep and tranquil sleep

when I awoke

there on my night table

next to the alarm clock

sat a small white stone