Mementos

Small things

seem to take on fresh meaning

as pages yellow

through time

filed in drawers labeled "junk."

Old photos

and love letters,

a golden locket

still untarnished

that seemed real when

presented long ago

by a special beau.

A display of colorful objects  

look up when brushed

with a duster,

that swishes quickly by stolid ceramic faces,

mementos from a loving friend

to dance upon the shelf.

These objects remain

and letters retain

wafts of cologne

once carefully applied

to hold the message

unstained and lasting,

as if the message could disappear!

It endures in wisps of memories

and things stored, but not forgotten.

© Shelly Sitzer, 2017

Knick knacks
Photo by Francisco Anzola
from Wikimedia Commons

Chance

Life is messy and irrational.

I make a plan, just to watch it fall apart.

So I concentrate on doable things,

sort out the dirtiness of real life

from the spotless world of my imagination,

even as these incompatible things

sow seeds of madness

in my burning, buzzing brain.

  

I try to distract myself

by looking at dancing birds,

I spend the day picnicking,

but cannot stop the seeds from sprouting.

Beautiful life and hope

are destroyed 

by a stroke of bad luck,

by lack of money,

or the cultural tide

crashing against the cliff face of reality.

I feel threatened by the power of my will

and take a break from struggle.

I listen to hit songs,

study my successful peers,

read a person’s character by his garb.

I dismiss words and smirks.

I let things pass.

Cultish servitude to the past is gone:

today I worship Chance.

I no longer mistake a coincidence

for self-conscious Providence.

I create order out of chaos,

make a superior plan

from the debris of salvaged ideas— 

and watch the new plan fall apart.

Chance is blind.

© Helen Kanevsky, 2017

Waves from the Indian Ocean crash against the cliffs of Eagle Gorge,
Kalbarri National Park, Western Australia
Photo by Gypsy Denise
from Wikimedia Commons

Like roofers

we climb over each other, slipping and catching the other’s 

hands until our feet are steady.  We check eaves, clear leaves, smooth 

wrinkles in the casing, then fall to the heat of our slate-shingled skin.

We are a choir, ensemble of song, just two mouths earnest in 

harmony.  We make mice in the walls weep, our voices pound 

tympani, take captive the inner ear of all who stand near.

We are Isabella Bird in Kurdistan, Nelly Bly circling earth, Marco Polo 

riding Mongol empires. We navigate by planets and stars, by the dark 

pulse of our organs, by pupils meeting pupils, grasses’ murmur at our feet –   

With no permission, seven decades in, we hike up stairs, climb to highlands, 

walk inclines foreign to our peers, heights newly reached to see Bar-headed 

Geese cross the Himalayas four miles up, to hear a bank of trumpets shout.  

We scale high level étage, Mares’ tails frozen above, countryside 

spread out like a toy town, gray and brown squares, dots of green, living 

bodies too small to see, some wet in wombs, some soon to die.  

I turn on the radio 

will myself to hear the news – 

only stories of us.

© Marti Snell, 2016

Mares' Tails by Nicholas A. Tonelli
from Wikimedia Commons

Before and After

The night the bat flew in was the tipping point.

The tar paper stapled to the wood-framed maw of my shack

came away on a windy winter’s night in Upstate NY.

The bat, sensing no difference between the dark inside me and out,

flew in, settled upside down in its new cave.  

It was a homesteading year for me and my young son,

a way to keep him with me and our extended family,

working the land, plenty to eat, little money.

I milked cows, harvested honey from the bees, 

stayed awake all night with the birthing sows, 

watching that they didn’t roll over on their babies.

I fed the chickens, the horses, the cows, the pigs, 

jammed the pick through the ice in -40 degree winters 

to get water for the livestock,

slept in coat and hat and burned green pine

in the wood stove; burned anything I could get my hands on 

til the chimney caught fire from the creosote.

I named my shack “Sadness.”

I did nothing well enough to feel proud;

I worked hard but felt no connection to my tasks, 

no love for the animals or myself.

Everything was a burden, a weight filling my stomach,

a confirmation of  failure.

I couldn’t adjust to this life and its demands.

Every day was winter.

I want to go back to the minute 

before the bat flew into my house.

I sat in darkness with the bat.

I sat, thinking of the irony of yearning for the routine I hated - 

the milking, the mucking out, the infinity of farm life -

yearning for the familiar misery of it.

I watched my son, sleeping in his crib, 

unaware of the little drama around him.

I opened the door and shone the flashlight til I found the bat on a cross-beam.

I stood on a chair and threw a blanket over it, 

trembling that it would escape, would settle again,

too high for me to reach.

The bat fluttered as I held tight.

I walked away from the shack,

unfolded a corner of the blanket and ran back inside. 

In the morning, I climbed high on a ladder

and, with a staple gun, tacked the tar paper back to the wood frame.

I did it all in a state of numbness,

barely present, yet knowing  

somewhere in my primitive brain,

that if I kept on, 

kept on doing everything,

I would be transformed.

© Evie Safran, 2016

Photograph of a Woman with a Hay Stack
from the NARA archives
Wikimedia Commons

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

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

Fifties Gal

In high heels and dresses that floated on the waves of her crinoline,

She'd saunter down Manhattan streets

As "fellas" whistled from around her

Because she decorated their views.

In skirts expanded by petticoats

Swirling her colors,

She'd dance the lindy 'cross party floors

As hopeful beaus

Stood in line waiting for a chance to partner her.

Fifties gals in flipped hair styles,

Their hair held back by colored bands—

Her mind remembers as she studies the mirror

For signs of a person left behind.

Still standing straight on her 70th birthday,

Hair blonde as it once was, 

Only a few gray streaks and lines

Telling the world she's no longer fifteen.

© Shelly Sitzer, 2014

"Women's fashion in the 1950s"
from "Fashion Pictures
Vintage fashion galleries from 1955-58"

Hands

Hands

You clench fists,

gripping us tightly,

dry and cracked,

in need of tlc.

You fling us around

wildly as you speak.

We spend days nurturing others,

nights making meals,

and you have never even dressed us in pretty jewels

(well maybe that occasional ring).

Our tips press letters and numbers

that keep us connected with loved ones 

in places far away.

Our enamel is never polished bright;

you tried it once 

and said it felt as though it were numb.

We feel the pins and needles

when the weight of you

becomes too much to bear

and you fall asleep

with us tucked under your head.

We remember that time in traffic

when you white-knuckled 

the steering wheel

for fear the other cars were too close.

We feel the aches as you hold tight the brush, 

struggling to get the knots 

out of your daughter’s hair.

You rarely thank us.

You hide us in pockets 

standing on sidewalks.

We could have been used

to create masterpieces of music,

years of guitar and piano lessons

stretching us,

but you chose an alternative,

giving the blood that flows to our ends 

to others.

We hold scars 

from moments 

that are too painful to speak of,

and we've never once complained.

© Suzanne Saxon, 2014

"A Woman's Arm," by Adolph Tidemand, Google Art Project
from Wikimedia

Suddenly Like Light

Time changed without his notice, suddenly more like light

tracing the tops of pines, spectrum of greens finer and more haunting

than tones of an Indian raga, mysteries in a needle's breath--

eyes ached against borders of being human, to know

this shade of a young fascicle at dawn compared to its late afternoon

hue, when the odor of baked pitch and resin presses up

to the canopy, or this night color, tantalizing, back-lit by autumnal half moon--

too delicate for his own receptors--green which forced his kneecaps to earthen debris,

drew out a prayer, lips fervent and wet, to just once see with eyes of an owl or hawk,

to divine from this ebony green how old the needle was, how much life

it contained, how long until a breeze would usher it from the branch

and fold it into the earth.  He began to think that if he watched closely,

the whole future might spread out before him in a ray of light. 

He couldn't remember when the thought first occurred

to him; it seemed now that he'd always believed it.

© Michael Mahoney, 2014

Long-leaf Pine
Photo by Tony Russell

Dream of the Seed-Bird

In my dream our young bodies prowled a warm night, 

a garden-park, vacant besides us.

As we ranged, breathing mist,

we saw a free parakeet with flowing ribbons clipped in his crown feathers. Bright comet descending, he stopped by the fountain, admired his new colors in reflection. 

I crept close. He was slow to react, so I caught him.

I removed his crippling decorations, then saw that his wing feathers were delicate sprays of millet, shedding seeds onto my palm. Surprise loosened my grip, and he flew.

I have failed as his righteous savior. He is too fragile, too delicious to live; he'll be giddily stripped at dawn by a dozen seed-crushing beaks. But that is Nature's way, and I am its student, so I must follow to see.  

We slunk after, feeling our midnight way across well-kept lawns by instinct and by science - 

we are hunters and scholars. Soon we saw him land on a roadside sign; he was not alone. 

Two more parakeets, a budgie, and a red Amazon parrot perched together, greeted and groomed, with beaks and claws gently setting each others' plumage right, tucking in the seed-bird's millet, so his wings showed just sleek feathers. 

They chattered on. Without translation I understood this convention of uncaged birds, sharing stories, commiserating, celebrating free life. I need not save them; I need not observe their bitter endings. 

So I learned. So we learned.

We turned to each other to celebrate free life. We set each other right with fingers and mouths, landed together for a while, then bounded apart into the dawn. 

   © Laura Seale, 2014

Malabar Parakeet
Photo by Suriyahumars
from Wikimedia Commons

Insomnia Ghazal

"What was your name again? When did your chair get so close?"

The voice of all tired women in bars with no close. 

His eyes found the checkered tile of the bathroom ceiling.

It's hot enough tonight, he muses, to forego clothes.

God, why did you deign to teach me the tongues of angels

When my weight of sin wouldn't let them dare to go close?

Counting Games: Sabbath is Seven. Victory. Seven.

Freedom. Seven. (She clenches her eyes, sleep is so close).

He traded baseball cards for a new glove, forgetting

The shears. The tangles of briar beyond the fence grow close. 

There is no sleeping here. No sheep to corral tonight. 

What hope is there without counting? The night knows no close. 

"When will you learn?" mother laments, brushing my wild hair. 

Like I'd care for style in treetops where the wind blows close. 

Again: Sin. Three. Hell. Four. Shame. Five. Submit. Six. Slumber.

Seven. Restful. Seven. Sarah. Two away-- so close. 

© Sarah Fletcher, 2014

"Complications of Insomnia"
Mikael Haggstrom from "Medical gallery of Mikael Haggstrom
Wikimedia Commons

Standing Proud

There are times when you drive 

a square peg into a round hole,

as a trunnel fastens

post to beam, but today it’s round into round,

and when I’m done, the pine panel

will hold fast to the frame

for a lifetime or more.

I touch the protruding head 

with a calloused thumb,

finding it stands just a little proud.

With a scrap of sandpaper

I smooth it and touch again,

all the time thinking of Dad’s words

as we sawed and hammered 

at something long-forgotten:

“It’s the proud nail that gets driven down.”

Another lesson from that country poet

that even now shapes what goes upon this page:

words that as I trim and sand these lines

remind me that brilliant phrases are given us, 

that what I leave behind is more debt than gift.

© David Black, 2014

Mid-19th C. post & beam barn with pegged joints
Whidbey Island, Washington
Photo by Anne E. Kidd for the National Park Servise

Inspired

Inspired by two young women 

who at less than half my age 

already understand and articulate 

twice as much wisdom and knowledge

of the heart, 

and how we are all connected – 

or not —

to our own pain 

and the pain of others, 

to our goodness 

and the goodness of others, 

to the spirit within 

and to and from and back 

to us. 

Inspired by two young women 

whose words of poetry 

flow like song, 

assuring me, 

and starting somehow 

the continuing process 

of my own healing.

Even at more than twice their age. 

I take still small steps 

and gently peek beyond 

the curtain of my soul, 

once again daring

to look deep 

and connect — with 

God, 

self, 

and others;

allowing my pain to be expressed, 

knowing the peace that comes

with letting go and opening up

to be 

inspired by God.

© Anne Cressin, 2014

Jona Noelle and Flora Lark
"The Fire Tigers"

Praise Song

I praise the West Wind that blows down off the mountain

Whipping up waves and currents

On our back yard lake.

I praise the Sun as he reflects and shimmers

Bright diamonds moving across the water.

I praise the weeping willow as she

Waves her hair wildly in the wind

While the perfume scents of the blooming trees     

And flowers waft our way.

I praise the Seasons – turning on the wheel of time –

Each becoming more precious the longer I walk

This earthly journey.

Though darkness gathers and day draws to a close,

I Thank the Sun setting in all his revelry and

Bless the promise of another sunrise yet to come.

© Diane Harner, 2014

Sunset
Photo by NOAA from Wikimedia Commons

If Only They Knew

Who are we to think that we’re any more alive than the stars,

Who spend their days burning, exploding, screaming their innermost selves to one another across the mute emptiness of day to day void,

Livers of a continuous present,

Residents of an oceanic nothingness with the bigness to hold them, now and forevermore, face to face in an unyielding embrace,

Dancers of a billion years’ dance,

Runners of an eternal race,

Giving birth with their final act of death,

Legions of celestial mothers patrolling heavenly haunts?

And we, spectral sparks cast carelessly from the surface of our tumbling ember,

Have the audacity to name them.

© Axel Cooper, 2014

Van Gogh's The Starry Night
from Wikimedia Commons

On My Way to My Muse

On my way to my Muse

I must clean off the kitchen table

And put the dishes in the dishwasher

And load clothes in the washing machine.

On my way to my Muse

I must get my favorite pen

And find a special journal

And finish writing out the bills

And pick up my messages

So I can have silence.

On my way to my Muse

I must get rid of all my doubts

And my share of not being good enough

And not being organized

And not being ready for success.

And so on my way to my Muse

I must call for a session to remove my doubts

And get a massage to relieve my tensions

So I know that I am the best I can be.

Then I reach out again to my Muse

And I find my hands aren’t quite clean enough

And my space isn’t clear

And I haven’t finished my chores,

And so I write her a letter

And ask her to forgive me

And to come again when I am ready.

© Hilda Ward, 2014

The Muse of Poetry by Konsantin Makovsky
from Wikimedia Commons