Sunday, March 22, 2015


You used to believe in me. 

There were moments 
When nothing mattered 
Except for the goodness you saw 
And in my potential 

You thought 
That your vision 
(the good things in me) 
Would hum under the weight 
Of heavy sands 
Of coarse papers 

You stripped away 
Parts of me. 
Cleaned off the broken fragments 
Of leaded, toxic paint 
Old and shredded greens 

An essence I hadn’t been forced to face 
Since I was made by the hand 
Of my creator 

It was too much 
For either of us to see 

So you put me away 
In the dark side of storage 
And forgot about me. 

Here and there 
Glimmers of what might 
Have been 
Would tumble through your waking dreams 
(…solid brass screws over a humming and honed pecan stain) 

But those too 
Were gone. 
And on 
You moved to the next thing. 

There were no more excuses 
No more places to hide 
Or reasons why 
It couldn’t be 

Dusted me off 
Placed in a sea 
Of light 
And mightily 
Worked again to smooth out the rough lumps 
The inconsistencies 
You once saw as “character” 

You made me hum 
Like the object you had envisioned 
When you first picked me up 
And bought me for less than I was asked for 

But it wasn’t enough 
And your work 
While visible 
Has left me as nothing more 
Than an object 
Sitting beneath the table 
Of imaginary maps 

Waiting to be used 
And to have my value seen 
Like you did before 

© Fergus W. Clare, 2014

    All Rights Reserved

Tutankhamun's Chair, Ancient Egypt, 13th C. BC
Photo by Jon Bodsworth
Wikimedia Commons from the Egypt Archive website
Cairo Museum

Tuesday, March 10, 2015

Monday Snow

Monday snow drawn from high to low in waves 
Looking to find a place to moor and grow 
In banks and drifts in the early moments of the day.

I see it land now softly with a lightly blown spray
In the crooked of branches of Dogwood elbow
Monday snow drawn from high to low in waves. 

Then cradled as a baby held against all sway
Innocence in a path it does not know
In banks and drifts in the early of the day. 

Like some ancient pilgrim seeking the way
Finding the sky holy holding earth its bones
Monday snow drawn from high to low in waves. 

What was then for what is now know I may 
A snow laced dream resting here alone
In banks and drifts in the early of the day.  

Snow rests in sun and changes by its rays 
As a wayward one who moors then he goes.
Monday snow drawn from high to low in waves
In banks and drifts in the early of the day.  

© Dennis Wright, 2015

Trail at Ivy Creek
Photo by Tony Russell

Monday, March 2, 2015

Naot Farm in Negev Israel

I like to take out that golden March 
morning and hold it warm in both 
hands -- I have my daughters to myself,
they have no father, they have all of me. 
We drive through the desert,
arrive with the stars, find our cabin,
our beds, and drop into deep sleep.
Peace is jangled at daybreak by 
three hundred goats, a chorus of 
baritones warming up with the sun. 
Lines of does cry out to give up their 
milk for thick yoghurt, white butter and 
cheese.  A boy lifts four newborns up from the 
herd; the three who are bleating, kid coats still 
wet, he lowers into a nursery of heat lights. 
The one who is still and stiff with death 
he gently puts into a bag, ties with a string,
and lays high on a rock, safe and silent. 
We roam past pens of goats, their cacophony 
louder than the milk machines’ purr or the 
bark of the dogs or the footsteps of workers who 
tend to the flock. Sun well up, the three of us 
sit together to sip goat milk and coffee, 
feast on chèvre and warm bread.   

© Martha E. Snell, 2014

Three-day-old kid
Photo by 4028mdk09
from Wikimedia Commons

Monday, January 26, 2015


I am not alone here.
Fragments of unwritten poems
drift before me,
ghosts begging for language
to give them form.

Some try on tattered clichés,
parade by me like orphans
in worn out hand-me-downs,
hoping for pity.

This task seems
harder than clothing smoke,
tethering clouds to trees
or giving the evening breeze a face.

I should refuse,
tell them to haunt someone else,
these waifs who taunt me
like hungry cats.
Too late. I am caught in their familiar trap.

They believe I can conjure breath from stone,
can weave gold thread from milkweed fluff,
see the moon in my left eye,
the sun in my right,
hold fire in my bare hands
if the stars allow.
They compel me to dress them
in words spun from imagination and luck.

Finally, I have to let go,
trust that I have given enough.
They are, after all, wild spirits
who, century after century,
find poets who will weave words
into any form they desire.

© Jean Sampson

Milkweed fluff
Photo by Tony Russell

Tuesday, January 20, 2015

So Old

I lie beside her on the sand,
Watching her breathe--- 
In ... and ... out. In ... and ... out.
And I try to match her rhythm,
To be in sync with her. 
We are alike in many ways.
Our bodies catch the light
And glisten in the sun. 
We both have wrinkled skin.
It makes me feel so old. 
I wonder just how old she is.
She has a right to be wrinkled,
For she is old, so old. 
The sea. 

© Joyce M. Broughton, 1997

Sea waves striking a breakwall
Photo from Wikimedia Commons

Monday, January 12, 2015

Is This Synesthesia?

Cassidy’s ears, skillfully lovely yet not quite of Earth,
Swivel like the most advanced satellite dishes
To hear the good ghosts that rustle in the night,
As if cloaked in fine-spun gold.
He sniffs the delicate delight of their healing perfume.
O he sees the benevolence of the thoughts of the good ghosts
That haunt our room and clumsily try to extend help to us
Through the bewildering knots and knots of dimensions
That distance us from these spirits reluctant to deceive.
He sniffs fear and love in the room like aromatic candles.
He hears and inhales good and evil
Though no evil comes from the fumbling ghosts, our friends,
Who haunt us and whom we haunt.
Cassidy attempts to instruct us all 
At least to read lips, seen or unseen, spirit or human.
But even for Cassidy this teaching is not easy,
He who hears, sees, smells so well
And always knows where float the glow and perfume
Of benevolence, in whatever world we are in or believe we are in.
He can hear and smell clouds in their joy swelling
To fill all skies.
He can hear their tenderness blossom like mountains.
He hears more modest clouds move through blueness as if they
Were simultaneously foam, boat, wave, and sail.
Even upon cessation of the rain,
Cassidy hears grass continue to swooningly sip
While worms shape alphabets through the moistened soil
In their invigorated wiggling.
Cassidy hears birds become alert with the knowledge
Of their fulfillment.
The muzzles of daffodils blare out for my cat
The rejoicing gold of their glow!
But Cassidy in quietude will hear dawn yawning
Like an abyss that blesses;
And he will always hear twilight just begin
To feel the sensitive swell and dip
Of the horizon.
He can hear me smile.
He sniffs my fingertips to get perfect knowledge of my heart.
He hears my footsteps approaching his goodness
Down the slightly painful miles of cement.
When I see him in the dignity of his duty
Peering at supposedly unpopulated air
And hearing salubrious sounds unheard by me
I know he is haunting the good-hearted
But imperfectly-skilled ghosts who are trying to help, trying to help,
And whom my admirable animal
Is trying to guide, trying to guide.        

© Stephen Margulies, 2015

Green-eyed Abyssinian
Photo by Petekurt
from Wikimedia Commons

Monday, January 5, 2015

Sit Quietly and Take It In

When you sit quietly and allow yourself to hear your heart
Then your soul can come forth to comfort you
When you sit quietly and listen to the wind and feel the flowers
Then your soul takes on the contentment it begs for
When you sit quietly and view the vastness of the mountains
Then your soul can feel the presence of the Divine Creator
When you sit quietly and view the tiny creatures of the earth
Then your soul can feel deep into the soil of life
When you sit quietly and feel the flow of the wings above
Then your soul can step out and fly with a joy
When you sit quietly and feel the mist of the waves
Then your soul can be washed clean with a pureness
When you sit quietly and watch a deer slide gracefully in your path
Then  your soul can feel the gentle love of your Higher Power
When you sit quietly and feel the earth under your feet
Then your soul can plant itself solid in your temple
And you can write and write and write
To seek the contentment of your soul
And you can write and write and write
To find the answers that rumble inside to come out
And you can write and write and write
To know the joy of exploring what surrounds you
And you can write and write and write
To feel yourself on a healing path
That brings you to write and write and write
To know you are right with the world
And So It Is

© Hilda Ward, 2015

Photo by Tony Russell