At Uncle Henry’s

Rain’s coming. 

A sudden smell of wet whips around

the tower of elms, across the flap of maples

to settle around us, almost solemnly, near the back steps.

We bend over in work,

but look up at the abrupt hush

from the swell of the cicadas.

A south wind blows a bumble of storm in.

Even the larger leaves turn over,

flipping into camouflage to hide in plain sight

from the pat and the pitter of what sounds

like the first drips of an open faucet.

We turn the ice cream crank over

harder, faster,

harder,

slower,

as rock salt crunches

against the cut of blade.

Just in time, you said,

swirling the cream and scraping a bent spoon

up one side to catch a piece of pulp.

Quickly we dip out a cone of fresh peach,

and step through the open screen door,

and watch the slope of the backyard

run like a river.

© Susan Muse, 2011

Maple seeds in the rain; photo by Tony Russell

permanency and muscle memory

you said “it was a mistake”

like bitter icing on an old cake

permanent marker stains

and now it’s too late

to erase all the pain

i say “it is a memory”

an integral part of me

a memory my heart holds

twists and folds

until thoughts grow old

yes, i reached for your hand out of habit

memories have a funny way of doing that

then i looked to the ground

surprised to have found

a crucifix buried in it

i say mistakes are like bookshelves

that bring comfort when tears dry themselves

they carry the weight of a thousand decisions

and bear the weight when you almost cave in

besides what are mistakes

but  reasons to live

       reasons to love

and reasons to forgive

for all the shit i’ve gone through

i know i did the best i could do

how can that be a mistake?

life is about learning for experience’s sake

by gathering all those bits of knowledge

and “i’ll never do that again”

we learn who to trust, who to love and

who is a good friend

i’ve learned that hearts don’t break

they merely open and close

eyes fill up full of tears

an unexpected kiss on the nose

of all the muscles in the body

the heart remembers the most

my heart has learned to tense up

when other hearts get too close

yes muscles remember—each laugh, every cry

muscles remember and so do i

i’ve learned that hearts don’t sink

they simply float

on top of the ripples we create

in our mistake-ridden boats

the ripples tell me:

embrace pain

embrace change

embrace all that has held you down

embrace those waves when you almost drown

embrace all those mistakes

embrace and hold them close

for hearts remember everything

even if you don’t

i’ve learned that hearts don’t scar

they just take time to heal

all they need is closeness:

a safe friend they can feel

yes it’s true, painful stains cannot be removed

shout only makes them harder to work through

for when they become invisible to the naked eye

it is so much harder to realize

that these stains—these mistakes that left a mark

are essential to living and learning that

we all are a part of each other’s hearts

how appropriate it is then that these stains now hold my heart

surround me in hope when i drift apart

now I claim my many stains

add them up you’ll get my name

for this stain on my skin

is a symbol of my strength within

a symbol of everything i’ve learned and know

for like flowers i too continue to bloom and grow

© Jona Noelle Baily, 2011

Star of Bethlehem; photo by Tony Russell

STREETLIGHT POETRY SERIES ~ DAN BIEKER AND SUSAN IMHOF

FEBRUARY 3, THURSDAY, 8 P.M.

C’VILLE COFFEE

1301 HARRIS STREET

CHARLOTTESVILLE, VA. 

We are proud to announce our first reading of 1011 by two gifted poets and congratulate all of you who have made our first year a success.  Without your attendance and interest we would be unable to continue presenting local poets in a great setting.  Toan Nguyen, owner of C’ville Coffee has provided a hospitable setting for poets and Dennis DaLuiso,program director, has given us a place in his schedule and provided us with good sound.  It’s a great place for poets and their friends to meet, eat, drink and hear the latest in the poetic world of Charlottesville.

Judy Longley

Coordinator 

Streetlight Poetry Series

If Martin Was Here

If Martin was alive,

I wonder what he would say.

Would he cry out with deep sadness,

Or would he shout with deep concern?

Martin, what would you say about this world?

Would you be angry with what we have done,

Or would you be angry with what we have not done?

Would you say we have not heard your words?

What would you tell us we need to do?

Would it be the war or poverty or homelessness?

Would it be violence or education or hatred?

Would you tell us we need to reach out and touch each other

And share our concerns with love and compassion?

How would you feel about the racism that still exists,

And how many people walk the streets

With no place to lay their heads?

How would you feel about our sending more troops

When we should not have sent any at all?

How would you feel about the violence

That perpetuates each day on the streets

With no regard for the blessing of life?

Martin, if only you were alive today.

Could you tell us what we need to do,

And where we need to reach out

And help to hold our children with care

To guide them to reach higher heights?

Oh!  How I wish I cold ask you what we need to do

And where our hearts need to be?

Oh!  How I wish you could tell us how to help

Our fellow man/woman to find warmth and comfort in this life?

But I can’t ask you.

And so, I must find my own answers,

So I can reach out to change this world

To bring about peace and contentment.

I need to stand up and ask for help

So that we can all work together

To try and solve some of these ills.

Please, Martin, keep on inspiring me

So I can reach out and help all I can

And ask for others to help me along the way

So I must know I must never give up!!!!

© Hilda Ward, 2011

Martin Luther King; photo by Flip Schulke/Corbis in Time Photos

A Widow's Life

Early morning, after a night of tossing,

as she passes a mirror on the way to the kitchen,

the widow catches a glimpse

of her bent body and wrinkled face,

pain-etched but with many laugh lines.

She wonders, "Can this be me?

Why only yesterday, it seems,

I ran to the door to meet my husband

at the end of the day,

laughing and full of neighborhood news.

Now, on a bad day, when the roof leaks

and no one calls,

I play a game.

I put on a brave face and my lipstick,

dance alone in the living room to ‘Begin the Beguine,’

and call the plumber for someone to talk to.”

© Peggy Latham, 2011

Bark of aged tree; photo by Tony Russell

For Brennan Mahoney, who can cheer like no other father

I swung off as soon as I pierced

the Cibola National Forest,

parked on a gravel path sprinkled

with leaves.  Changed out of my tie

and slacks, pulled on an old pair of sneakers

you had given me, New Balance, white

and a half size too large.

Puffing up the hill, I only needed

to get far enough to scour off

the nervous anxiety that caked my insides.

You had reminded me of the secret

for what to do when it builds up.

My momentum waned, though, before

the release, and I turned back.  But falling down

the hill like water, I allowed my legs to take

up the land as quickly as they pleased—

I wound east and north, and seeing the car,

I pushed them now—pushed until I was a giant,

and as my mind surged I heard your

voice nine years ago:  Autumn became

spring and it was track season;

sharply rising above the crowd, your voice

nine years ago came to meet me with a jolt

of sacred love, came as far as this strange forest.

My tension dissolved in the water I became.

And the memory is one in a bucketful

that could never be repaid,

but I’d like to place the whole bucket,

if I could, out in the sunlight, unassuming,

to catch the blue of the sky and a passing cloud

in its reflection, which would remind me

of every spark of delight I’ve caught in your eye. 

© Michael Mahoney, 2011

What we see in water; photo by Tony Russell