It Was a Good Year

It was a good year —

just a few broken dreams,

no broken bones,

no famine,

no nuclear war.

It was a good year!

My new friends are fun,

my old friends are alive.

I’m a year older

but 365 ways wiser.

I've replaced a few broken dreams

with a dozen new and whole.

I can do it because

I have no broken bones,

I am not starving,

nuclear war didn’t destroy me.

I can dream big again!

It was a good year —

just a few broken dreams,

no broken bones,

no famine,

no nuclear war.

It was a good year!

© Helen Kanevsky, 2018

New Year train on the Circle line of Moscow Metro
Photo by government of Moscow
from Wikimedia Commons

Christmas Eve on a New York Subway

It was long ago, living in New York,

thrift store shopping on the Upper East Side

on a snowy Christmas Eve.

My best friend and me,

my first year back from Hawaii,

traipsing from store to store,

plundering the exquisite cast-aways

of the rich and famous,

laughing as we paid Wal-Mart prices

for Bloomingdale’s goods.

Walking the streets of Madison Avenue

we were the poor relatives from Brooklyn,

living in a broken-down building on the edge of Bed-Stuy,

paying $80 for rent,

setting roach traps every night before bed,

living on mac and cheese and tuna casserole.

The subway, our magic carpet ride,

transported us Uptown, to indulge our pleasure of “thrifting,”

our friendship deepened by the love of the hunt,

the clicking of the hangers as we pushed through

dresses, sweaters, pants, shirts, trying on shoes 

and hats and scarves, so joyful to find a bargain

that matched our desire for that very thing,

and smug, thinking we looked like a million bucks.

We walked miles in that pure snow,

on those safe streets,

welcoming shops full of abundance

and the good cheer of Christmas in the City,

softened, everything softened

by snow, Christmas lights, happy people.

It was night as we neared the subway

to go home.  Gathering our bags

around us, we sat down on the long bench

that ran the length of the train car.

We lurched toward the next stop.

The doors opened and a drunk man got on.

He looked around, and seeing the bench empty,

staggered forward, sat down beside me,

put his head in my lap,

and fell asleep. 

© Evie Safran, 2018

Snow in New York, by Robert Henri
in the collection of the National Gallery of Art
from Wikimedia Commons

Palooka

The ex-wife always hated my fights, said that boxing’s a barbaric sport.

And since my only talent was channeling rage, I never had any retort.

While it’s true that my peers had considerable skills, athletes with timing and grace,

Ruled by fierce dedication to their craft, honing technique, precision, and pace,

As opposed to a brawler who just longed for a chance to punch someone else in the face,

Perhaps that’s why I’d spent so much time sprawled out on the mat.

The people would jeer and they’d call me a bum; a mountain of lumbering mass.

I’d fling wild blows at my pugilist foe and he’d promptly knock me on my ass.

It’s hard to say if more practice and grit would have made a difference in the ring.

Every time I passed through those parallel ropes, my mind fixated on one thing—

An image of pop with that damn leather belt.  I swear I could still feel the sting.

Once I was old enough to hit back, he switched to a bat.

A career based on trying to punch my way through time was not favorable to success,

And to treat weekly trauma to body and mind, I began drinking to great excess.

Those last couple bouts I was swatting at air; a display that had grown tired and sad.

Greeting jabs and left hooks with a frenzy of howls, I clutched onto the corner pad.

Then a straight right hit me square in the jaw, thrown by a man with the face of my dad.

With a slow count and loud bell, the farce had come to an end.

Lucky for me there is always a place for the spiteful to bloody their fists.

At mixed martial arts fights on amateur night, I’ve been working my way up the lists.

No exhibitions of fluidic form, here brutality is what earns respect.

Every man who steps onto to that octagonal floor has some wrong they’re trying to correct.

Nothing to gain but a merciless clash with a thug like my dad, I suspect.

And if that’s not exactly true, I can always pretend.

© Ben Siegan, 2018

Roman Hardok knocks out Jakob Jakobi in round 2
Photo by Henning Snater
from Wikimedia Commons

Trombone

Slip and slide, that's how he plays it;

wrist and ride, he really slays it.

Ride and guide that shiny brass trombone.

Lazy notes, like sunset clouds 

drifting high above the crowd, 

a shroud of blues

fills the room 

with sweet sadness,

and they like it that way. 

Play on, shiny brass trombone.

© George Phillips, 2018

Sonny Rollins at the Stockholm Jazz Fest
Photo by Bent Nyman
from Wikimedia Commons

Nest

One fell out of the neighbors’ tree across the street, 

landing on the ground below.

Sticks, a bit of fluff, and the long string of plastic 

I had reached to throw away,

the kind that peels back to reveal the wet string cheese 

mothers press into small red hands, 

crumbed with dirt from front yard acrobatics, 

interspersed with 25 cent visits to the lemonade stand 

in the driveway next door.

It survived the winter, 

the plastic flag reminding passing dog walkers 

of the noisy, delight-verging-on-tears afternoons, 

the faithful, stair-sitting mommas 

peeling back the plastic and brushing off scraped knees, 

staving off the witching hour, 

when football tackles give way to bedtime routines, 

Daylight Savings gives way to winter snows, 

and moving men load trucks and drive south.

I left it, 

no longer littering, but christening 

the bare footworn, somersaulted, slip-and-slided, 

homegrown patchwork bit 

of mud and grass.

© Rie Harris, 2018

House sparrow male carrying nest material
Photo by P Jeganathan
on Wikimedia Commons

I am what I am (Je suis comme je suis)

I am what I am.
This is how I was made.
Yes, I laugh out loud
When I feel like laughing.
I love the one who loves me.
Am I to blame
That it is not the same one
Whom I love each time?
I am what I am.
This is how I was made.
What else do you want,
What is it you want me to be?

I was made to please.
There is nothing I could do.
My heels are too high,
My spine is so arched,
My breasts are so firm,
And my eyes are so rounded.
And then -
What's it all to you?
I am what I am,
I please the one who likes me.

What happened to me -
What's it all to you?
Yes, I loved someone.
Yes, that one loved me.
Like children who love each other,
Just knowing how to love,
Love, love …
Why do you question me?
Here I am to please you,
And there is nothing I could do.

                                      by Jacques Prévert;
                                           translation by Leo Gornik,  © 2018

"Flirtation 2," by Frédéric Soulacroix
from Wikimedia Commons

The Shape I Have in Mind

Lately my poems 

hide in 

impenetrable 

marble blocks.

I wear out my eyes

and my hands

trying to force

a shape. 

I need a poem made of clay, 

that falls before me in a great lump,

and yields to gentle pressure

into the shape 

I have in mind

without waste

or dust

or blood.

© Laura Seale, 2018

American sculptor Doris Caesar in her studio
Photo from Wikimedia Commons

Waiting While Poetry Lurks

Spontaneity reveals nature,

The guide man lets us know.

A figure is born in one stroke,

That’s what painting shows.

I, with my personal traits, 

Look challenge right in the eye.

"Tell us what is right and wrong,"

The song goes, "you won't have to die".

I speak many words with less thought,

Some words fake ones; some are real. 

Here is where I write one more poem,

To tell you precisely how I feel.

Peace is right and war is wrong,

I think love is better than death.

If summer were here all year long,

I would worry not about my breath.

Summers come and summers go,

And I find beauty is but a dream.

Paintings may be all that is left,

And they are covered with steam.

Who is right is better than who is wrong,

Some say they change with every scene,

With money, everything is possible,

I believe that's the American Dream.

So, I put on my clothes every day,

We all go that way to work.

Then I take them off to go to bed,

As I wait while poetry lurks.

© Dennis Wright, 2018

"American Dreams Come True,"
photo of Spc. Nikolaus Stiles taken by Sgt. Uriah Walker,
from Wikimedia Commons

The Only Consequence of Truth

I’M NAKED ON THE JAMES,

BODY AND SOUL, BUT

CAN I BE AS HONEST AS TRUTH?

CAN I REACH INTO FEELING TIME,

WRITE DOWN AND COMMIT TO INK

WHAT I THINK, WHAT’S REALLY

ON MY MIND AND IN MY HEART?

JUST WHERE DO I START?

A SEPARATION IS SURE

BETWEEN TRUTH AND FANTASY--

BUT WHERE’S THE LINE I MUST DIVINE

TO INVEST ONE WITH REALITY?

THESE SANDED BANKS OF THE RIVERSIDE

MAKE RECORD OF A FLOOD THAT ROSE IN TIME--

BUT EVEN THAT RECORD WILL SUBSIDE

AS TIME AND FLOOD AMORE SLIP BY.

SO WHY IS THE MARK

OF MY FLOODED HEART WITH LOVING

SUCH A MONUMENT?

CANYONS ETCHED BY TIME IN STONE

RESIST THE PASSAGE OF MEMORY,

WITNESS AND MAINTAIN THE TRUTH.

THIS IS NOT TO BE DENIED, YET

MEMORIES CAN’T BE DEIFIED.

THE ONLY CONSEQUENCE OF TRUTH

IS THAT WE ARE, AS WE ARE.

WHAT WE MAY YET BE

REMAINS IN TIME FOR US TO SEE.

WE HUMANS ARE UNIQUE, I GUESS.

FOR WE, OF ALL, ARE ALLOWED TO CHOOSE

A PERSONAL MIX OF REALITY AND MUSE.

LODGED BESIDE THE WATER’S EDGE,

WINDED TEXTURES FILL MY EYES,

COLORS LEAP IN BRIGHTENED HUES,

THE SPIRIT OF CHANGE, ALONE, ABIDES.

EVEN THE TREES

WHICH BY PRIMAL GRIP AND TENACITY

HOLD THE EDGE TODAY,

TOMORROW MIGHT BE SWEPT AWAY--

ONLY IN THE MOMENT CAN WE STAY!

IS THIS WISDOM?

IS THIS LIGHT?

IS THIS SALVATION?

OR IS THIS OUR PLIGHT?

ALL I KNOW, AS I WALK AND STOP

ALONG THE RIVER HERE

IS THAT EVERYTHING IS MORE THAN IT APPEARS.

THE LONG RAYS SHOW

AS THEY RANGE ACROSS THE BOTTOMLAND, 

LEAVES OF GRASS ARE TALLER THAN THEY STAND,

AND SEED PODS LITTERING THE SANDED WAY

ARE ENLIGHTENED IN THEIR DISARRAY.

AS EVENING FLOWS UP TO THE STARS

AND STILLNESS GATHERS IN THE MAW, 

EVEN THE CLACKING OF THE CROWS

SOFTENS INTO AWE.

CRICKETS NOW TAKE UP THE SONG.

HOW THE MOMENT LINGERS ON!

© Gerry Sackett, 2018

James River from Robius Landing Park
by OlWhitey
from Wikimedia Commons

Vanishing

Was it last week I boarded a plane in Botswana, zebras on the 

runway, hot as hell?  Lifted up from hippo ponds, carried 

past Lilac-Breasted Rollers, today I’m back home to 

snow on the ground, bean soup bubbling on my 

stove.  Of every savanna glory, I’m still 

spellbound by the cheetah’s stare, 

head bobbing like a compass 

point, with padded gait of a 

nimble stalker.   These 

slender cats of highway 

speed, spotted skin, 

rudder tails, they 

are finite, 

they are 

retreating 

into shiny 

pages on 

bookshelves 

where 

almost all 

rhinoceros 

live. 

© Marti Snell, 2018

Two cheetahs
Photo by Gary Stolz, US Fish & Wildlife Service
from Wikimedia Commons

The Photographer

“Say ‘cheese’,” he calls,

as she stands before the camera

looking pensive.

Be happy with your

housewife-in-an-apron world.

Smile.  Say “cheese,”

and join the world of make-believe.

© Peg Latham,  1997

Picture of a "traditional" housewife
by JosephineRN28
on Wikimedia Commons 

I Will Stay

The gully leads the land to the water table

For the water’s sake as a young man

Would lay his coat in mud for the queen

The branch flows all summer gathering

Grasses and birches skirts all billowing

Because the pastures kindly tilt this way

This farm’s eight acres inclined to the sea

Sending water down and down even after

The trees have lifted so much to the sky

All last year I built sacred fires in caves

As high as I could find but in this watershed

The fire circle goes down behind the branch

And I still don’t know how it is I got here

Or why water behaves this particular way

But some love has roped me, and I will stay.

© Bill Prindle, 2018

Sprout Creek
Photo by Julian Colton
from Wikimedia Commons

Near the End of a Meeting of the Live Poets Society

A black clock

Was what I saw,

With white numbers

That were really planets,

Which ticked around

The round void.

We saw it all

Upon our wall,

And now we waited

As it commanded.

But one of us wanted

To say one more poem,

Not stopped by the clock,

Though the meeting had ended.

The poem would be sung,

Unafraid of time,

Unabashed, clear,

As it took a ride

On the white numbers

That were actually planets,

Forming a ring

In a void not inimical.

So the song did go down;

The song did go up

On a Ferris Wheel,

Measureless, 

Whose fun stops

Only to fearlessly

Start again--

Its turning renewed,

Slightly improved,

Surprisingly dependable,

Our glee unreproved.

But can a song be free

From clock and void?

Are we allowed to see

Our glee go free?

      © Stephen Margulies, 2018

Eye on the Bay, Bridlington ~ Yorkshire, England
Photo by Paul Glazzard
from the Geograph Project
on Wikimedia Commons

Dad's First Car

Somewhere in the ‘20s that would have been,

when a man learned about magnetos and mudholes,

when he took care not to break an elbow or thumb

when twirling a crank, carried a cake of soap

for a squeaky fan belt and a pinch of oatmeal

to seal a radiator leak, knew that somewhere

on a back road he’d borrow a fence rail for a jack,

have to back up the steepest hills

when the engine was starved for gas—

small bits of lore from a time long gone,

as he is, but strong in his memory

as he is in mine, lips still moving in some silent language,

still telling me stories I really want to hear.

              © David Black, 2018

Woman hand cranking the car to start it on a rainy day, August 1926
Photo by Infrogmation of New Orleans
from Wikimedia Commons

Water

Your first bath —

a midwife cleans you up.

You don't have fun.

Then come

the sprinkles of holy water in church,

the tepid water of the nursery,

the ardor of rain water,

the predatoriness of ocean water,

the ice water after you make love,

swallow fire or juggle clubs.

You drink that water in one gulp.

Motes of dust stuck to furniture,

your eyes are red,

but the tears dried up.

Left here alone for weeks on end

with waterlogged images

to ponder in thick gray clouds,

you play hide-and-seek

with memories of the March sky

in patches of meat and mustard,

with a carpet of bold spring flowers,

with a blue outline of mountains.

The fated assault of the time,

dark shadows around the eyes,

the hair unwashed and tattered,

promises written in water

form a puddle of bitter tears.

Your life is water under the bridge.

The last bath.

© Helen Kanevsky, 2018

Bridge over the South Yuba River ~ Nevada City, California
Photo by Kelly M. Grow, Calif. Dept. of Water Resources
from Wikimedia Commons