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Poem: Musings on Autumn

Leaves break free, fly in the wind,

scattering, scattering. Silhouettes bank

against chipping, cracked brick buildings.

Leaves play a whirling dervish beneath the 

sun’s mercurial tempers.

Under a maple tree I sit while red souls

of summer’s spent drop onto my

windshield as shadows dance on the

dashboard—my arms, my face, and

I think of pumpkin pie, log fires,

football games and Halloween. 

Autumn’s nostalgia fades to cliché,

like memories of Maw Maw’s threadbare

Sunday dress, like my vacant thoughts.

Even wistful melodies eventually play out,

as do autumn leaves, as do laughing

children jumping in autumn leaves, 

and love.

                                      by Patty Cole

Poem: Traces

Went walking in the mall where we used to walk

During the cold season.

It was the first time since you had gone,

And your footprints still glowed to me.

And I saw your face in the empty store windows.

Next to me

Shoulder to shoulder

Hand in hand

As we made our circuit around the mall.

I can still feel 

When I put my arm around you 

As we walked

And I pulled you to me.

My innocent,

My little one

Who needed my protection 

When your world had lost

Its color, its light

And so much was grey.

I could feel, and I knew

I was your color, your light

And your connection 

To this world.

So, as I walk this place

You still linger here.

Flickers of motion

Flashes of feeling,

And so much emotion.

My tears realize my pain.

Thank god something remains.

Enough to help me get through

Without you.

It's difficult to come back here.

                                    By George Kauffman 

Poem: To Mis-Carry

“I want her back when you’re done.”

They will toss you out, flush you down.

They won’t know to stop when my Grandpa’s eyes –

like sky – are there.

And your nose? They won’t know.

That’s your daddy and sister –

right there!

“I want her back when you’re done.”

Forty-five minutes of waiting

stacked next to the three months

I carried you.

The brown hands of a nurse handing me hospital Tupperware.

“I want her back when you’re done.”

Tucking you right there in the safety of me.

Self-preservation not letting me look,

but little by little my warmth breaking through coldness.

Carrying you home to the wood of our kinfolk:

Loblolly tall and Maple wide.

Scrubby Oak to decorate your spot

with acorn crowns.

“I want her back when you’re done.”

Your daddy – muddy with earth –

Your sister and I searching the hills and

bases of trees for marble quartz.

Sweating out our grief that day.

“I want her back when you’re done.”

At church it starts and keeps up

through five hymns.

Two creeks flowing, meeting up

at my chin and falling into two open palms:

waiting for the Good Lord to dry them up

so we can pass on dry land.

“I want her back when you’re done.”

In the by and by.

                                  by Elizabeth Callahan Steiner

                                  Previously published with Literary Mama, 2017

Poem: Out West Trip March, 1989

Rising, surprising,

from Arizona’s dry palette,

Jerome is still clinging

to the side of its hill,

its roads steeply climbing

and lined with the houses

and shops built by miners

long since moved on,

where Slim Chance & Friends

are pickin’ nights at The Palace

drinkin’ watered down high balls

in tall, smoky rooms,

where mornings, the locals

are gathered at Macey’s

downing coffee and pies

and the talk of the town,

where Dede won’t stay

in hotels rumored haunted,

where Tracy, the potter,

makes up his spare rooms,

where Still Life With Woodpecker’s

on the shelf in the hallway

signed by Tom Robbins,

still wishing “Good Luck”.

                             by caren stuart   

                             previously published in Wish You Were Here: A Poetry and Prose Anthology 

                             by Old Mountain Press

Poem: Deer scat

Scat in the rose beds,

scat in the drive, 

under the pine trees, 

dotting the lawn, 

down in the ditches 

where day lilies grow,

scattered on flagstones 

that lead to the porch, 

by the nandina the deer

strip of red berries, 

over to beauty bushes 

and swamp azalea 

they prune for us. 

Two hundred dollars 

worth of tulips

beheaded before

they bloomed.

Whose property do 

they think this is?

my exasperated 

husband asks. 

Ours, their cloven 

hoof falls whisper,

since the dawn of time.

                            By Judith Stanton

                            Previously published in Deer Diaries, 2017 

Poem: All My 1000 Loves (A numbers poem)

We were playing 20 hands of 5-card draw

It was a 4-some, with my best friend, my wife and Jimmie Carter

The prize-2300 match-sticks and pennies by the dozens-

Was just 72 inches away, and tingling. We were in the 9s all the way,

me and Jimmie, cheating under the table and counting 

Up our winnings 20 at a time, fingers and toes worth,

until the talk turned to how many lovers you had? and

lemee tell you me and Jimmie had some low numbers 

being shy Southern Baptist boys with strong mothers

and growing up in pint-sized towns where every girl’s 

daddy carried 3 0r 4 shotguns-meanwhile my wife is

vaulting past 30 while I’m trying to get beyond my ten

fingers and my “friend” is racing forward in his size 13s

enumerating all his 27 rejections and 45 almost-loves

when Jimmie smiles and says “Well, I have sinned in my

heart a time or 3,” and I get that, like a 100 on a math test

and I jump up and shout “All my loves, over 50, more than 200, 

probably 1000!” And that was just high school, 1966-1972.

                                                            by Gary Phillips

Poem: Lines, Margins, and Spotlights

 A woman with chestnut hair, alabaster skin, 

drives a light-green Prius with ski racks

through a 4-way stop sipping something to go

in a white cup, mocha or skinny latte, 

while talking through her Bluetooth.

She gets up at 5:00 a.m., does yoga

for an hour then gets her bonny boy up 

for homework check and breakfast and hugs

all before she showers for work.

During the day she teaches second grade.

At night she sings at The Infinity, wears

a light gray sequined dress, pulls her 

impossibly, curly hair up with a blue ribbon 

which spills all over the tie. She stands 6’1”. 

Her eyes mirror oceans in greens and blues. 

Sway, sway with a slow rhythmic pat to her hip.

She opens her pouty mouth and words 

pour out in sultry melodies: Lilting and throaty,

endearing and erotic. When she sings,

she escapes her world, fluttering upward 

like butterflies escaping a cave.

Its fire. Its shadows. 

She performs at all times: Mommy, teacher,

singer, inside perfectly constructed margins,

under every spotlight. She does some coke

at intermission in the dressing room. 

When her seven-year-old is with his Daddy

on weekends, she pulls the curtains, 

releases the blinds, draws the needle 

between her toes, shines like constellations.

                                 by Patty Cole

                                  Previously published in the Broad River Review, 2020

Poem: Friendship Up North

White snow

White sky

Cold white air

Snaps in the nostrils

And swirls

With the intricate scent

Of dark coffee

And cranberry bread

                            by Leela Ellis

Poem: Sweet Deal

 Deities are nomads – clapping wanderers

spilling and spouting wisdoms 

                                                  on slopes, in tents 

until enough of us sanctify a place they can call home.

A cellar, a barn, church, temple or tabernacle –

out of the weather, 

                                 in from the hillside –

upgrade the boulder to ornate altar.

Polish the halo beneath a good roof.

But then they must come up with lessons and parables.  

The pressure is on  . . .  make us believe 

in fresh fables where ours are stale.  

Keep true returners hungry for allegories, mild scolding.  

Threaten malevolent blights and plagues.  

In my eleventh hour. 

                                   I long for them to extol us, 

and reward with more than sacred snacks –

restore with blessings and love.

A beneficial arrangement, and comfortable chair.  

Gold and shekels in the plate.  

                                                  Occasional myrrh.  

Fried chicken in a basket.  Socials.  Folding money.  

Seventh day adoration.  Got it made . . . 

plus two weeks off with praise. 

                                                by Sam Barbee

Poem: First Daffodil

 First Daffodil

The first daffodil bloomed today.

Brave yellow majorette,

she peered awkwardly behind

for other members of her troupe,

and espied a cluster of emerald shoots

beneath a barren tree.

Perhaps tomorrow

she will have company

on her march towards spring.

                                         by Jennifer Weiss

                                         This poem was previously published in Eno Magazine.

Poem: The Waves

 

I walk the pier, shunned

by the gulls, missing the echoes

of another pair

of footsteps.

 

I once cared to untangle

discarded fishing line and

repair damaged poles, but now

I count myself among the detritus.

 

The chipped railing,

gray with years of guts and rain,

does not cradle my arms comfortably.

 

I’d hoped you’d return to me—

an angel, a ghost, a mermaid, an unusual shell,

a clump of seaweed arranged just so.

 

Instead, I have the water.

 

Most look to the sky—I look

to the green depths and foam;

your whispers in the

crashes, our tears in the salt.

 

And the waves tell me

that there is such a thing

as eternity.

                                     by Katelyn Vause

Poem: TAXES

                   (My apologies to Edgar Allen 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 deduct  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 the 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, “Never more!”

                                      by Al Manning

Poem: Defiant Is a Whiskey

Napa is wine; Carolina is whiskey.

Beyond the Internet, but not beyond the ubiquitous Dollar General

Winding through the green pavements of the upstate border road

Seeking Carolina whiskey dreams.

Passing over the rippling creek, past the trailer.

Swaying down a dirt drive to a distillery made by Florida pirates

Falling slats of shacks showing a gleaming barrel inside

A barking dog on the hill told me no one is home

Left me thirsty.

 

Long an expatriate in a foreign land,

Adopted by a cold California Sierra mountain.

Smelled vanilla Ponderosa pines, touched bold black obsidian, walked a sandy volcanic path.

Spent forty years in the high desert wilderness,

I left, thirsty.

 

Drank in the South, whiskey, and music.

Rainy afternoons, sunup to steaming evenings stared with fireflies.

At waterfall height, looking below to the great green arboreal creature

Breathing out what we breathe in.

Down in the dive bar, all sweating side by side, no civil war here. 

Satisfying my heart to dance with a cousin,

Drink a shot and branch water.

My bifurcated soul spans this country,

Stretches tight, snaps back.

Neither blue ocean, nor mountainside slakes my thirst complete.

Keep on

Sipping from that spiritual pipeline, California to North Carolina.

                                            

                                                           by  Nancy H. Williard

Poem: Ignition

Where have you been, girl

Hiding behind life's wrinkles

Pressed skin, one kiss...breathe

                                         by Pamela D. Hardy

Poem: Lost & Found

I search for a memory

Down the dusty corridors of my mind.

Past undistinguished boxes

And grey, unfocused shapes.

This is a memory I should know right away.

But can't retrieve it now when I need it.

I concentrate as I move through aisles

Of nothing particular.

Fuzzy piles of…stuff

But not what I want.

It should be around here;

I can almost get it.

I know it’s nearby.

Frustrated, I stop,

Think hard, and hard, then relax.

Like a text message

It suddenly appears,

Sharpening itself

So I can see it.

Finally!

That was an experience I am too familiar with,

And feelings of concern temporarily occupy the light.

Time to move on,

Everything back to normal.

                                         by George Kauffman                                  

Poem: Storm

 

“If you don’t get what you want, don’t miss the lesson”___His  Holiness, the Dali Lama

Beyond the overwhelming fury of the thing,

there is something about how we have refused, how we have how hardened again and again.

This dragon of a storm is roaring for a reason.

In the waves taller than trees, in the dark fury of the winds we are missing it.

And now how can we be still and know?

 

We are being given the dragon’s treasure and the creature screams in its outrage, “Is this what you want, finally?”

We don’t even notice it has vomited up its diamonds, its yellow chains, as the sickening pull of the great waters swallows up the treasure that sparkles like golden bones, and devours the glittering rocks. The treasure gleams and then is overcome in seething waters.

 

We are busy listening to our voices, listening to our fear, and Quan Yin rides the dragon on the waves in stillness unimagined. Her voice is a flute, clear as a summer’s afternoon in sun.

There is something we must hear in all of this. There is something we must cherish, some call, some message and maybe we can come to know again what precious truth is hidden in the whirlwind.

 

 

By  Linda Beatrice Brown,

September 10, 2017

© Linda Beatrice Brown

Poem: Steam Calliope on the Natchez

Even from way over on Elysian Fields it sounded 

like a disaster drill, a siren a frantic army of titanic

kazoos blasting out holiday medleys, alarmed we

headed down to the levee, there high up behind

 the wheel house playing in harsh blasts and shrieks

the rotund meister hulking in a broad hat,   

walloping out Here Comes Santa Claus, the crowd 

between panic and tears gaped at the discordant squeals 

of steam, even a flock of birds sweeping up-river veered off over 

the bayou for safety as we, trapped on the ground helpless 

and too astonished to flee watched the whistles tear

into the air like a scene at a fiercely burning building 

the whole steamboat threatening to explode with joy.

                                           

                                by Tom Dow

                                "Steam Calliope on the Natchez"  first appeared in the Red Clay Review, 2019

Poem: Sweet Benedictions

 

Twilight fades at the horizon.

Night is born

like baby Lord Krishna,

in a dark storm.

Winds whistle. We jostle

on a boat in the giant arms of the ocean.

Whales, starfish, and seahorses plunge

into waves of unrest.

Water splashes in my face,

gushes inside the rocking boat.

Dark memories of yesterday spill in, chilling my spine.

Humanity is parched for life like

miles and miles of cracked cement.

A passing boat’s lingering siren

hollers to the Seven Wonders of the World.

Clouds open their gates,

mystic beasts of wonderland roar and

the sun’s sweet benedictions fall to the earth.

The lighthouse flickers in sight.

I step from the boat

with bare toes into sinking sand,

shaking my wet hair, dropping to my knees.

My soul calls out in prayer:

      Restore peace, unity, and healing

     in this torn, rugged land.

                                    by     Aruna Gurumurthy         

Poem: Co-op Gardening

I did my part -

Sketched a plot

Amended the soil

Dug a trough

 

Embedded the seeds

Pre-emerged

Watered and fed

Mulched in hope

 

Now it’s up to                                                        

Heaven’s part

To provide what

I cannot –

 

Rays of sun

Nutrients of earth

Showers of rain

For flowers of blessing

                                           From  Seasons in the Garden By Sandra Fischer

Poem: Damn You

You have no right to be in my dreams.

The house we would build on the hill.

Clearing thorn trees and loving the view.

Then going away.

Not having the will

That makes dreams real.

Damn you.

You have not right to be in my dreams.

But whenever I am on the hill, the dream is there,

And you are in it.

Damn you.

                                by John R. Dykers, Jr.  

Poem: The Unkind Offering

Intense kitty bemoans the loss,

The mouse in the house just got tossed.

“I’ll find a rat or fat bunny.

I’ll leave it some place, not so funny.”

 

                                             by rick bylina

 

Poem: Spring Comes

 Zealously invading

Winter’s cold with its promise

Gnats hatch to swill in warm light

Sap swells into buds

 

Feebly, worming its

Presence into Winter’s wrath

Smoothing wind’s bite until

Only lone flakes remain.

 

Slowly limping until

Stems push dirt aside, petals emerge,

And Spring tumbles in on thunderheads

Spreading its promise in humid air

 

Enduringly, heeding the

Calls of recreation,

The ancient prayers of life, Spring

Lingers in warm breezes and heavy dews.

 

                                              by Carol Phillips

Poem: EN LA BASURA

Hot dinner with you

Laughing, talking, sharing

Good things we love

You ask where it is

The overly sweet

Overly melted

Burnt sugar drivel

Es en la basura

Con tus mentiras

You accuse me

You throw

A tantrum

You distract

You insist

That it's all my fault

 You are drunk

And lying

You gave away my spirit

You gave away

 My time

My Life

To some some drunken

Wide thighed

Cajoling stranger

Who plays with your guilt

The way a fisherman

Plays with his dinner

Before he skins it whole

And says

I thought we had an understanding

                               by Patricia K Phillips

Poem: On the River

                                                                                  

Two older boys and me, loaded with gear

Came to the Green River in nighttime.

We trolled the river and laid out some lines

And water was over my chest at times.

It was a year like any other year.

 

Our forests lost and farmland gone to seed,

We caught some fish and cooked them on a fire

Watched the water and talked about desire

Howled at the moon and called each other liar

while Nixon wept and televised his greed

                                           by Gary Phillips

Poem: On 10th Street

In Spring some cherry trees weep

like their green sister willows

but wear blossoms

tip to trunk to tip

like rivals

while the other snow clouds 

are palest pink

thinnest film lingerie

that first hope

in the now

not hereafter

and we can only say

bravo, bravo.

                            by Ruth Moose