Complementary

For Tony Russell

For those who stop themselves

I am afraid to share my voice but you love to sing.
From now, when I am beside you,
may your glad singing always override my inhibitions.
May you remember to look at me directly 
and sing loudly with no thought to my shyness.
May your voice, which soothes me in plain speech,
in singing wrap around me and pull out my smile, 
a hum, so maybe someday my song will rush out to meet yours.

You avoid moving to music but I love to dance.
From now, when you are beside me,
may my sway and stomp always override your embarrassment.
May I remember to look at you directly 
and dance freely with no thought to your shyness.
May my feet, which walk comfortably beside yours,
step joyfully around you and pull out your smile, 
a bounce, so maybe someday your dance will rush out to meet mine.

 © Laura Seale, 2017
 



 

Turning. Another Milestone.

Four AM, and after a few hours sleep, 
I’m awake—and resenting it, I’ll admit—
restless in body and spirit.
Every few minutes I flip over the pillow,
the fresh side a few degrees cooler.
Try my left side, then my right,
my stomach, back.  There is no magic posture.

And then I remember
and take comfort in the telephone call
this afternoon from my daughter.
Forty-six years old, and at last a mother, 
she rang me to say she’s sitting there watching
her three-and-a-half-weeks-old son
in his crib, trying to turn over.
Her voice fills with delight,
as she describes that amazing sight:
how, lying on his back,
he struggles and kicks one leg clear,
then balances on his side,
with each effort growing
minutely stronger.  
I can hear him behind her,
cooing and grunting,
as he arches and rocks,
determined to complete the maneuver.

(C) Tony Russell, A Gathering

The Last Titan

To Tony Russell

Making my own hell, 
awaking in the daylight 
from an eerie echo of night,
stirring nightmarish worries 
into a healthy porridge, 
involuntarily vomiting 
a debauched lifestyle, 
swearing to drink only water. 

But Happy-Ever-After life 
is about to end. 
A love affair with the erratic life, 
beautiful young bride,
home-sweet-home, 
seeds handed and sown, 
kids fledged and flown, 
the last breath,
the last seep of life 
like the last rite. 
The unfinished book 
like a heirloom passed on 
to a new Happy-Ever-After life.

(C) Helen Kanevsky, 2021


  

Zoom

 Zoom Zoom Zoom… running on the technology highway 

Email and text may soon be outdated 

To computers and iPhones we are now mated 

Snapchat and facetime may be fast, facebook will be a thing of the past 

Zoom Zoom Zoom…running on the technology highway 

To know what’s new just google this, google that

Find old friends and write notes in the chat

No more books; just read on-line; worry not, your eyes will be fine

Zoom Zoom Zoom… running on the technology highway 

Meetings in isolation, but you’re not alone 

Connect with co-workers, working from home 

Learn about COVID, get all the stats and know all the facts 

Zoom Zoom Zoom… running on the technology highway 

Order all your groceries and other supplies 

Fix your virtual background to “travel” world-wide 

Get a spot while they last; view a webinar, take a class

Zoom Zoom Zoom…running on the technology highway 

Attend a church service with music complete 

File your taxes and keep things neat 

Share ideas in a break-out group, please remember to unmute

Zoom Zoom Zoom… running on the technology highway 

Oh the wonders of what we now can do 

And for the children this is normal too 

Sign up for a test, sign up for a shot 

LIFE NOW ON ZOOM 

Like it or NOT

Zoooom………

© Anne Cressin, 2021

Below: Ruben Gallego on Zoom meeting with

constituents from Glendale AZ

Image from Wikimedia Commons

Having Coffee with God

 In a place 

From a far past 

A backyard suspended

In the air, from a hill

In El Cajón, California

A pool and tiles around

All that this place is about

I sit on the edge of the void

Between the pool behind 

And nothingness ahead 

Right between us

The two of You and me

A little mug of espresso

Sits very little but strong

On the smooth blue green tiles

Me and this teeny little cup

Brings a memory back

Of a sunflower standing tall

And a tiny ant walking low

The proud and the humble 

In the delicious aroma of humility 

My heart is awake  

With love and passion

My mind crystal clear 

With spiritual bewilderment

You whisper gently to me

I am The Source of everything

Then you affectionately show me

Below, four vultures riding the air

Turkey birds circling the void

Around and counterclockwise 

Four beautiful words

No God but God

La ilaha illa Llah

From the beginning to the end

All evolves around My God

On the edge of everythingness

One sip after another

One word after another

So much to share 

So much to catch up on

My favorite thing in the world

Having coffee with You

A spiritual romantic moment

Taken in with gratitude 

Put around my finger 

As a priceless extinct diamond 

This edge of Divine enlightenment. 

© Imane Lemnii, 2021

A kettle of turkey vultures circling.
Photo by Jessie Eastland
from Wikimedia Commons

A practical list of the thing I have not, will not, or cannot fix

the chisel gap wedged between my front teeth my left windshield wiper, my screen protector, my screen, the four tiles beneath my sink: heinrich, stooley, waldorf, and moe, the second and third light bulbs, my thrift store painting, my bungee cord, my longsword’s crossguard, my dice bag, my website, my tax relief, my scalp and the scalp after, my didgeridoo, my mayan souvenir, my providence, my blender, my tomahawk head, the USB port, my deep noon, my bird voice, my lanyard noose, the first belt loop, my threaded spool, my dry vocal cords, my nose, my right loath sclera, my locking thumb, my hoax, my courageous double, my afterthought, my mouse colonies, my mice, the lamp whose shatter hangs cordial like half-lit guillotine, my dues, my don’ts, my do not disturbs, my disturbances, my ice-maker, my speaking terms, my formal terms of surrender, my colon, my first stain, my singularity, my sortie, that sudden stoppage of null, my old ways, my weight, my front right burner, my bad day, my time sink, my grant proposal, dinner (C) James Cole, 2021

Under a Mopane Tree in the Heat of the Day

A lioness stretches out long, eyes closed, still 

but for the in and out of breathing.  Four flawless

cubs sprawl over her belly, press into her breasts. 

They nurse and knead with baby paws.  She turns 

her body, raises one tawny leg, and the cubs 

topple, mew like miniature bells, scramble, 

search, reconnect – joined-again magnets.  

 

We sit silent on the savanna.  Our unmoving 

roofless vehicle six yards from this august 

animal, predatory carnivore, mother of 

nurslings.   In this moment I sense the kinship – 

a summoned tingle deep in my breast, soft buzz 

echo in the belly that announced the flow of milk.  

She knows that too – nuzzling mouths latched on, 

sucking with fury, and that fleeting serenity, 

mine too.  Her ears are never stopped. 

She hears stalks of grass, their snapping. 

© Martha E. Snell, 2021 

Lioness with cubs, Ngorongoro Crater, The Serengeti
Photo by Tony Young
from Wikimedia Commons