I Sing the Body Politic; A Sestina for Election Day

I am discovering with trepidation

that no age is old enough to learn about

the fragility of the human body.

The ripple of ribs flowing under the oar

of a collarbone. Heart underneath, beating

lopsided. Like a bird with a fractured wing.

What does it matter that I live in a swing

state when I can barely discern a nation? 

My myopic mind’s eye... a system’s beating

pulse appears inconsequential to a bout

of arrythmia in my own red or-

gan. Does a vote cast extend my own body?

But I fill out my ballot. Sing the body

politic. Watch the neighbor woman’s child swing

her legs under the chair outside the booth. Or

maybe she was dancing the demarcation

between body;(s) and body;(pl). A quote about

choices ("Life is the sum of"- Camus)  beating

in my mind, I see her pink clad feet beating

Choice’s shroud one day; the weight of a body

reduced to moment.  Life's meaning now about

pen on paper. Four more years of her swinging

from this self definition; the duration

of plural breath. We are drowning in infor-

mation, but starved in knowledge. Stumbling left or

right hoping to choose wisely. Daily beating

down wisdom’s door in the itching temptation

to choose well. Make us proud of our one body.

To not be the one standing in the swinging

Door of truth forgetting what it’s all about.

Is it all about me;(s)? Or is it about

me;(pl)? Do I belong to myself? Any more

confusion and my profile might simply wing

into blue like asphalt lines off of beating

heat. Then I shall no longer be named body.

Just anybody. Call me Population.

And yet, something about the still-strong beating

carotid thrills. Or maybe it’s your body  

adjacent, winging me to denotation.  

     © Sarah Fletcher, 2013

Voting in the United States
Photo by Tom Arthur
from Wikimedia Commons

Love on a Stone Wall

What is it about this stone wall

That so inspires the public baring 

Of your private souls?

This sharing, Jeremiah,

Of your forever love for Karly

With the next stranger to stop by?

Will the mountains towering above this wall

Bow down in awe, KS, of

Your forever and ever adoration?

Or the morning mist that 

Lingers sleepily

In the lush valley below

Delay one second longer

Because you, Lilly Wheeler,

Were here?

Will the sun burning its way

Through the morning clouds

Turn down its flame,

Stunned by the beauty 

Of the turquoise flower

You drafted on these rocks?

And the hawks that circle above,

Gracefully hunting their breakfast,

Will they shield their talons

Out of respect for your love

That is maybe not forever, though true enough?

What do the hungry birds care for your truth?

And Carla, why bother to engrave your love for Tre

Only to return the next month with Alex?

Such is the permanence of love on a stone wall.

Even you, who in despair

Declare yourself a “bonehead.”

Why must you share your pain with random passers-by?

Can you not see

Before you at this moment

The loveliness of the stone wall,

The majesty of the towering mountains,

The delicacy of the rising mist,

The power of the burning sun,

The grace of the circling hawks?

And is all this not enough

To make you stand in humble silence?

© Carolyn Brumbaugh, 2013

Graffiti wall at Venice Beach
Photo from Wikimedia Commons

Raspberry Wine

The day will come,

There'll come a time...

When we shall taste raspberry wine,

I'll pour a drink from the carafe

As we turn to share a secret laugh.

Someday will come when you are mine

And we will sip raspberry wine.

Into the fireplace our eyes will gaze,

Reminiscing life's tangled maze.

Though some will say that we're too old,

Our hearts will never become cold.

We'll be like petals falling down in May,

Drifting through each and every day.

Each time you brush aside my hair.

My face will be forever fair.

And life will be more than divine

As we sip raspberry wine.

And I will drink from your goblet,

And you, my love, will drink from mine.

© Shelly Sitzer, 2013

Raspberry port
Photo by Jon Sullivan of PD Photo. org
from Wikimedia Commons

Ode to the Mango

Oh, ecstasy of taste!

The sublime succulent

honey sweetness of

your sun kissed flesh

melts in my mouth,

while your fluid essence

drips down my chin,

fingers, and hands.

I’ve watched you for days,

noting the color changes 

of your skin: 

from hues of green

to yellows, golds, and then

faint pink maiden’s blush

takes on deeper embarrassed

shades of red,

while your hard interior

begins to yield to soft caresses.

Then, I know it is time.

You are mine to take

when I see the first fruit fly

explore and inhale

your fruity aroma.

© Diane Harner, 2013

Mangga gedong gincu
Photo by W. A. Djatmiko
on Wikimedia Commons

Seven Adults Cheering on a Friday Afternoon in Israel

A kitten was dying on the hot sidewalk. 

She was grey and very soft. 

My friend and I were fair-skinned and female

Wandering an unfamiliar town 

Called Tsfat.

But 

This kitten. 

We dropped our purses and watched her drink 

Water from our bottle cap. 

The rabbi was old and very grey

Walking home on this almost-Sabbath

Sharp-quick steps on the stone 

But 

This kitten. 

All three of us watch her, our heads in a circle. 

Her ribs expand against her skin 

And collapse. The women are many 

And covered and grocery-laden

Prayer calls calling them home

But 

This kitten. 

Seven of us now in desperation 

Whisper sweet to her coaxingly. 

This little cat. A little life going too soon. 

Only a cat. Only a life going too soon. 

 And why, when wars and money and oil and honor 

Beleaguer us do we care about this soft, grey thing. 

Heat bears down and time ticks out 

But I’m not about to go away. 

The rabbi stands immoveable 

And the women stand transfixed. 

And the cat stands up

And walks.  

© Emily Brown, 2013

Kitten in Sibi Mali
Photo by Guaka
from Wikimedia Commons

A Vision of Ganesha in Green Not Always Just Virginia

I don’t want to be a man anymore

I want to be a silvery freak

A grayish freak, a bluish freak

A dancing freak made of silvery stuff

Not quite a man, not quite a man

But an elephant man with prehensile nose

And long, long loopy flopping arms

And jigging legs that enlace the air

And a nose that taps the dappled air

And eyes that unpeel the tender air

And skin that swings through the mighty air

And toes that graze the grassy air.

From a sordid bus, I saw such a man.

On a dew-intense hillside, he did his turn.

Upside down and right side up,

He swung his skin through the shadow and light

And his thick toes grazed the airy grass

And he swung his skin through the mighty air.

Loosely, elegantly, he sang in my head:

“The poor aren’t good

The poor aren’t bad

The poor aren’t smart

The poor aren’t dumb

The poor aren’t dirt

The poor aren’t god

The poor aren’t wrong

The poor aren’t right--

They’re just the poor,

Like you and me

They’re just the poor

Like you and me.”

© Stephen Margulies, 2013

Art by Stephen Margulies

The Weaver

Filaments of red and black

pulled by small, quick fingers -

this is the way my mother did it,

building a pattern

piece by woven piece.

A blanket for the back

of a tired horse,

or a tired child -

on a long Winter walk to Santa Fe -

is now an area rug

in a coffee shop

in Carson City.

© Scott Stark, 2013

19th century Navajo blanket
downloaded from "Indian Blankets and Their Makers"
by George Wharton James (1914)
from Wikimedia Images