Twin Fawns
Two fawns barely old enough
to graze slip inside the white
taped fence from the shelter
of the woods, their spots still
bright, their mother on patrol.
I look away and sigh
at the disorder of
my kitchen—last night’s
pasta with Italian sausage
onions and green peppers
took a lot of pots. I ought
to clean up my mess now.
But these are the first twins
I’ve seen this year, fresh
and glittering, so I look back
only to find them gone.
Any pursuit of wonder
requires obsessive vigilance.
Judith Stanton
From The Deer Diaries
For You, Daddy
One day you finally realize you’re no longer 11
and he is no longer 45, but rather 49 and 86.
And you will not always have him to correct your grammar,
fuss over how you boil spaghetti, or tell you not to spend
your money on all those hats, even though you’re an adult.
And you will not always have him to call every morning
just to hear him yawn and to tell you he’s already out of bed
even though he’s not.
But you will continue to call his number when someone else’s voice
answers the phone, and you won’t say a word.
You will be that ghost.
Patty Cole
Taxes
(My apologies to Edgar Allan Poe)
Once upon a midnight dreary as I struggled, weak and weary,
over a changed Form 1040 I had never seen before.
Back and forth I did the sums, looking for deduction crumbs,
hoping, ever hoping that I’d find a way to score.
But, alas, twas not my lot to escape an awful blot
upon my worldly fortune, Uncle Sam keeps wanting more.
My mind grows dim with sorrow; the due date is tomorrow,
and I must find the answer else I’ll end up very poor.
Can I claim those gambling debts resulting from my stupid bets?
Should I try to itemize my bar bill from the club?
What about my one contribution, will that not bring absolution?
Surely I can claim deduction for the new pants that I tore.
Alas tis midnight past, and the time is flying fast, and I must find an answer
to the question: How much more?
You may think my answer funny: I’ll just send them all my money,
and request that they return to me all that not spent before.
It is now six months gone by, and as yet there’s no reply,
Could it be that Uncle Sam will grant me no succor?
Then the Raven came rapping, rapping
the Raven came rapping, tapping at my window door.
Oh to be so doubly blessed, a messenger from the IRS!
Surely he has come to tell me that my problems are no more.
And I said “Oh bird austere, do you bring me news of cheer?
If you brought to me a refund, then together we will soar.
I am down to bread and beans, for I do not have the means
to buy a decent meal. Tell me, Raven
am I affluent, as I was in days of yore?
Quoth the Raven, “Nevermore!”
Al Manning
Who can know?
Who can know incredible joy,
Can know incredible sorrow.
In the difference lies Hell.
The Unity is God.
These Woods
What know these woods of our passings?
How could we think they should care?
We’ve done little to deserve their compassion
We've defiled them
Scarred them
Pushed them far from our lives
They should have no use for us
But as I stumble along
Head bowed below bare branches
Gathering tinder for this week’s fires
Fires to warm our now somber home
Fires to pierce the desperate chill in our hearts
These woods comfort me
Embrace me
Soothe me with calm, gentle silence
Wrap me in their blessed endlessness
For man is animal
Like fox and deer and bear
Despite our attempts to deny it
Despite our claim to be more
Man is animal
And these woods embrace all of their innocents
Even the wayward ones
They celebrate our birth with their spring
Energize our life with their summer
Acknowledge our maturity with their fall
And mourn our return to the roots with their winter
And winter is here
Winter is here
So together we mourn a return to the roots
Together
These woods
and I
Mike Sepelak
A Warm Summer’s Day
I cried for you, or did I cry for me
On that warm summer's day
The bay was calm - I drank its coolness
On that warm summer's day
As you danced your life, my life, for me
Your questions there for me to ask
Caught in my throat - the polluted sand of the bay
Your arms dancing
My tears crying
The Bay washing
Soothing, loving the sand away
But your foot caught my heart
Your foot pounding, his voice pounding
Were my heart pounding, pounding, pounding
The drum of antiquity pounding
As your partner read David’s words
Your dance ended then
The pounding echoing
The silence of my heart
You left as you came, a
Dirge that swelled my pain, your pain
But tears of my pain held me back
Tears of your pain called me back
Back to life, to the dirge of your feet
Walking silently in my pain
On that warm summer's day
I cried for you, or did I cry for me
On that warm summer's day
The bay was calm - I wept its coolness
On that warm summers' day.
Stone and Steel
I'm not the sharpest knife in the drawer
More woodsman's axe than surgeon's scalpel
Cleave by inertia more than intelligence
I know this
And accept it for what it is
My lot
But it need not mean I'm dull
A blunt tool
Good for nothing more than rude smashing
I'm more than that
I work hard
Keep my broad edge clean with stone and steel
And with this edge endeavor to strike with rudimentary precision
For effort and proximity can carry the day
If that's what you have
We can't all be scalpels
And axes are needed in this world
They build from the ground the platforms of the knife
There's dignity in their work
Though they're seldom celebrated for it
It's the scalpel that's revered
But blades, unattended, quickly tarnish and rust
Razor edge turns pointless
While axes, when whet, work untiringly, and long
Even when blunted by hard times
I'm not the sharpest knife in the drawer
More woodman's axe than surgeon's scalpel
I endure by the effort
Stone and steel
Dog Days
The summer swelters are here.
Days that make me want to burrow
deep into the earth, praying hard
for the wet blessing of a rain drop.
Trees droop their shoulders,
leaves limp as fingers dangling
without purpose.
Nothing sings.
Nothing moves
but the dragonflies gliding
through the thick warm soup
that once was air.
Hard to breathe.
Hard to care.
Caught in the doldrums,
I take baby breaths,
and dream of the quiet chatter of sleet
as it hits a tin roof.
Catherine Bollinger
The Telling that Changes Everything IV.
Christmas Day, December 25, 2011
Humor is essential when you balance
on that edge between justice and mercy.
Nothing I hate more than to see people
mistreated, but I learn that the villains
have their moments of terror, too. Rage
can blindside any of us–no matter how
watchful we are, how self-aware and
enlightened. Yet we have no choice
but to re-find our equilibrium, consider
the culprit’s ancient dread, hold firm
to what is right, but smile and forgive.
A tough act to follow. Only those who
see clearly, who have taken the beam
out of their own eyes can do it. It’s
called healing, and it doesn’t make
you popular. Your stern side is
scarifying. They want absolution
before they confess their faults.
Not possible, and anyway, the first
essential, if you want to change,
is to forgive yourself. Learn how.
Unresolved guilt compounds itself
and leads to more and more cruelty.
There’s no substitute for honesty
at exactly the right time and place.
Not too soon, not too late. How do
we know the moment has arrived?
That’s when watchfulness pays off.
A space opens suddenly, and we see
the path straight into the rascal’s
soul. In the meantime, we always
have work in front of us. People
need our clarity, our joy, how we do
a stake-out to catch the errant heart
when it suddenly opens wide.
Judy Hogan, Moncure, N.C.
Mockingbird in the Apricot Tree
A flash of white, gray
against the pink confetti laden
braches
party sky behind
the bride
groom in velvet tux, white tie,
tails. He can sing
any song,
sing it better
sing it louder
breast as puffed
as clouds
singer,
sentry,
servant of the song.
Ruth Moose
Voyeurs and Voyagers of Spring
Peeping, poking,
punting green antennae up,
polyhedral periscopes.
They’d turn the world
to carrots’ frothing lace,
squashes’ crawling blossoms.
You hear their chirpy patter
rippling pods, bulbs, earth.
Their accompaniment?
Rejoicing frogs.
You feel them tripping you,
vines trapping in embrace.
The smell as fresh as soft new rain,
all lavender and clean
shot through with yellow-green
tart onions.
From vernal equinox to
summer solstice,
they have sway.
Who’s voyeuring whom?
I should not beg
quantum reciprocation
but do so quantum times.
Yet, after every failure,
I still have hope to hear
the goat-footed balloonMan whistle
Spring’s voyagers to the port of me.
Lynn Veach Sadler
