Poet's Body

I have a poet's body,
so to see my beauty,

you may have to search deeper within.

I make up my face not with lipstick,

for if my lip sticks you're not hearing

what I've said.

I have a poet’s body,

not perfect,

yes there are flaws.

I’m not structured a certain way,

no concrete,

I'm breaking down walls.

I stay covered,

not exposing my flesh,

would rather arouse you,

with the words that I spit.

I have a poet’s body.

My stomach holds truths,

some find hard to digest.

I expel ideas,

meticulous

with common sense.

I have a poet’s body.

My shoulders carry burdens,

that anchor me to the ground.

I massage out the stress,

by writing this down.

I have a poet’s body.

I inhale my surroundings,

hold for a second my breath,

then exhale metaphors,

resuscitating life just as quickly.

I have a poet’s body.

My heart pumps creativity

that flows through my veins,

allowing others to say,

they may feel the same.

Yes, I have a poet’s body,

so to see my beauty,

you may have to search

deeper within.

I have a poet’s body.

and my mind

is waiting to be examined.

       © Suzanne Saxon, 2013

Possibly only the second known photograph of Emily Dickinson,
seated on the left.
Photo released Sept. 7, 2012 by Amherst College Archives and Special Collections
and the Emily Dickinson Museum

Visit

Mother and two cubs lumbered black 

from the shadows under heavy maples

whose branches spread out over the lilacs 

bordering the backyard.

The babies left their mother to scramble up a pine 

gnarled from past winters and dry summers.  

They draped their legs over two branches, 

their long fur cascading like Spanish moss, 

and watched the larger bear paw her way to the back deck.

Behind thin glass, I peered over my reading glasses at the scene,

mesmerized by her proximity and her enormous paws,

their claws manicured into steel knives,

her fur knitted into thorny brier.

How unconcerned she was with the swing 

set into slight motion

or the chimes twirling in the wind.  

She rose clumsily on heavy back legs 

and tilted the bird feeder on its side, 

shoving stolen food past well-worn teeth 

onto a pink tongue.   

She glanced over, no thought for me.  

With a growl, the mother beckoned her babies,

their fur a tapestry in shadow.  

They bounded down the tree, leaves shaking like maracas 

and 

joined her at the tilted bird trough.  

Together they gulped the remaining gravel down,

then side-stepped the slide to head for blackberries,

thornless and plump from last night’s rain.

© Susan Muse, 2013

 Mother black bear, a cub barely visible
Photo by Alan Vernon, Wikimedia Commons

Childhood Memories

It was a bunch of mulch piles,

I think,

our fort. 

But perfect. 

We even built a bathroom,

and kept it freshly stocked with

leaf toilet paper. 

Sometimes,

the newspaper shed was unlocked.

We'd climb the 

mountain stack,

and slide to the bottom.

The ink,

long dry,

wouldn't stain our knees,

just drench the stale air with its smell. 

Once,

in the woods,

we just sat down and started digging.

We weren't pirates that day,

but still found a treasure horde:

old mason jars, chipped porcelain, leather shoes, a calcified stirrup.

We'd perfected how to climb 

their fences

without barbed wire snags. 

And we knew just how 

fast to run

through the field to still have time

to avoid the cow patties. 

At our creek,

we'd swing from the tree branches,

and catch tadpoles in the murky water.

At our river,

we'd slide off the rocks,

mermaids. 

© Miranda Hogan, 2013

At Our River
Photo by Tony Russell