Bird in a Tree

A bird singing in a tree

brought to mind

something I’d read

a study on reciprocity

how bird-song calls

the plants and trees to bloom

and how plants and trees call

the birds to sing their growing song.

The clouds too soak up moisture

from the earth in order to be—

floating around the world

dropping rain at the earth’s request.

So too the sun must need the moon

(because in the night I need to remember)

the moon would be a floating rock

if it weren’t reflecting sun.

I saw a black creek yesterday

reflecting a cloud full of pink light

I needed to see that

for my growing up.

It needs me to see it too—

for there is light known

and metaphor is born

when I see the sky

reflected in the earth’s eyes.

  © Linda Suddarth, 2011

Bird in a tree; photo by Tony Russell

The Early Sun

The early sun 

passing through the red-gray stems

of the river trees

casts long shadows into the snowfields.

The river is dark and shiny;

the buttes above shoulder the sky

and repeat a winter theme.

I love this quiet,

this lockdown of activity.

We should take the time to dream.

The only sound is the thrum of my truck engine,

the only movement 

is the heated air

escaping through my open truck window,

wavering the scene.

I’m glad I live in America,

where we have conquered fire

and have fuel to do much and build much,

and to view this winter morning.

The shadows are shortened;

now the sun is higher,

and the sycamore trunks show white

among the red-gray branches.

I shut down my truck

and listen to the quiet.

The shadows pulling back into the trees

make no sound.

Only the river going down has a voice,

rubbing frozen banks and islands in the way.

What a day!

- © Gerry Sackett, 2011

Sycamore; photo by Tony Russell

Valentine's Day

I am in love 

with my furnace. 

It warms 

and comforts me 

on dark days. 

Humming happily 

in the dim cellar,

it sings as it

dutifully springs to life 

with a whooshing sound 

just as I am about 

to don another sweater. 

But how can I 

express my love? 

A reserved pat in passing 

on my way 

to the laundry 

is all I have to offer.

© Peggy Latham, 2011

Grindstone

This forest chews lava, and exhales the whispers of glaciers...

Sipping from rock once fuming and flowing

Drawing from deep water pebble-pimpled silt, 

Splitting muck-mired cobbles of glacial mowing 

Benefacting cycles of rise and wilt... 

This forest chews lava, and exhales the whispers of glaciers...

                    © Devin Floyd, 2011

Rock and water; photo by Tony Russell

Open Mic at Rapunzel's

Notice

At our last meeting Jona Noelle suggested that people might enjoy the Open Mic Night held on the second Friday of each month (that would be this coming Friday, Feb. 11) at Rapunzel’s coffeehouse, located in The Packing Shed in Lovingston.  The Open Mic night is for people with all kinds of talents, including poets (“If you’ve got a talent, we’ve got a stage”), and starts at 8 pm, with signup starting @ 7:30.

  They also have a night, Friday, Feb. 25, designated specifically as “Poetry & Fiction Night,” likewise at 8 pm.

Here’s a link to the Rapunzel website:  http://www.rapunzelscoffee.com/

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