Category: Poetry (Page 18 of 34)

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Wolves

2 May 2023 / Editor

Poetry by Alice Collinsworth

When I was very young, my parents assured me
there were no wolves near our home, in spite of fairy tales.
Wolves lived in forests, in mountains, they said.
We had neither trees nor hills.

When I grew older, we visited a zoo, where I saw wolves
kept in cages, pacing, squinting through the insufficient bars
between us. Calculating.

Then came rumors of wolves roaming the plains,
sightings at local farms, small dogs
suddenly missing. I could hear them wail.

Then they came to live with me, right here in town.
They’ve built a den on the porch and they come inside,
helping themselves to sandwiches and wine,
sharpening the knives.

I no longer have a cat.

I slink upstairs and listen to their laughter
and the clink of silverware.
Helpless, I howl in anticipation.

Alice Collinsworth retired recently from a career involving journalism, writing, and media relations. Her poems have been published in several online journals, and she was twice selected as one of Oklahoma’s Woody Guthrie Poets. Her writing has won awards in numerous local and regional contests. She lives near Oklahoma City.

Memories of Old Things

27 April 2023 / Editor

Poetry by Peter A. Witt

Bedroom closet is full of ghosts,
not the kind that lay siege with angst,
no, the kind that recall the warmth
of a spring day, when soon to be wife,
Sally, was the victim of my indiscreet kiss
as I wore my still favorite blue-green shirt.

An old skate brings memories of doing twirls
on the frozen pond until Mr. Smithers
chased us near teens off, afraid we’d
all plunge to our deaths, or worse yet,
having to rescue us.

Coin collection reminds me of Uncle Fred,
the dear old man, who used the tarnished gelt
as props to tell us endless stories about places
he’d visited, but really hadn’t, we listened anyway.

Under a shadow of dust is a painting,
the brush by numbers kind, done in third grade —
like the rest of my life, colors spilling
over the boundaries and mismatched.

Finally, a baseball caught on the day
Sandy Koufax pitched a no-hitter for the third time,
at least that’s what I told people, and would
pass onto my grandson without correcting the story.

Cleaned out the closet as I packed for the retirement home,
no room there for anything beyond a few faded pictures,
last year’s Christmas cards, my favorite reading chair,
a pile of books I’ve meant to read for years,
and a heavy blanket I’ll lay over my lap,
while I finish a painting with my unsteady hand.

Peter A. Witt is a Texas poet and a retired university Professor. He also writes family history. His poetry has been published on various sites including Verse-Virtual, Indian Periodical, Fleas on the dog, Inspired, Open Skies Quarterly, Active Muse, New Verse News and Wry Times. Read his poem “Garden Reading” from The Bluebird Word‘s January 2023 Issue.

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I learned self-destruction from a cartoon

23 April 2023 / Editor

Poetry by Esther Sadoff

All morning, sweat springs from Arnold’s brow
as he awaits the beatdown at the end of the day:

a pummeling between him and a huge kid
and everyone knows who’s going to win.

I’ve been lowered a few rungs by self-deprecation.
Folded myself into impressive origami-smallness.

I’ve thrown in the towel, waved a white flag, and run
for the hills but in this episode of Hey Arnold!,

Arnold actually starts to hit himself in the school yard,
a dizzying kaleidoscope of faces spinning round,

but what stands out most are their egg-shaped
eyes vacant and hungry for action.

Arnold gives himself such an insane beating
that he scares the bully into submission.

I’d like to think of myself exactly like that:
two sides of the mirror fighting each other,

a reflection that won’t quit, myself standing over
(or under) my other self and declaring it some kind of win.

Esther Sadoff is a teacher and writer from Columbus, Ohio. Her poems have been featured or are forthcoming in Little Patuxent Review, Jet Fuel Review, Cathexis Poetry Northwest, Pidgeonholes, Santa Clara Review, South Florida Poetry Journal, among others.

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The House

20 April 2023 / Editor

Poetry by G. Milton

The house, like my childhood, abandoned.
Withered, worn, and saddened.
The broken door hangs by its rusty hinges.
Once mighty, now only cringes.

The windows, like my dreams, shattered.
Shiny shards of glass tossed and scattered.
The ragged steps creak and sway
buckling under the stress of another torrid day.

The roof, like my life, dilapidated and leaking.
Much like the tears I’m constantly weeping.
The paint just peels and fades away.
Once vibrant, now, only a somber gray.

The foundation, like my soul, buckled and cracked.
Trembling like a kitten being attacked.
Once strong, stubborn, and sturdy.
Now, broken, weakened, and dirty.

The house, like me, has been through it all.
Beaten, battered, ready to fall.
Although we dread the next inevitable storm,
inside us both, it is still inviting and warm.

G. Milton is a part time writer and full-time grandparent.

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Hide and Seek

16 April 2023 / Editor

Poetry by Robert F. Bradford

First, I hid my opinions
Nobody wanted to hear them anyway
Then, I hid my desires
Nobody wanted to fulfill them anyway
Next, I hid my plans
Nobody was interested anyway
Automatically, I hid my visions
Nobody shared them anyway
Of course, I hid my songs
Nobody wanted to sing them anyway
Always, I hid my stories
Nobody could grasp them anyway
Barely, I hid my art
Nobody could fail to distort it anyway
Finally, I hid myself
Away from all the nobodies.

Then I sought that hidden self
And all the lovely somebodies
Appeared.

Robert F. Bradford has won two Bay Area Theatre Critics Circle Awards (Best Play, Fringe of Marin Festival), and been produced in the Midtown International Theatre Festival (NYC). Stories in The Raven’s Perch and Slow Trains Literary Journal. He is an Adjunct Professor of English and Humanities at Dominican University of California.

Epithalamium

13 April 2023 / Editor

Poetry by Trent Busch

The quilt rack I’m building
for my nephew was commissioned
in a silent deal: I’ll make
you one on the promise
I’m spared the ceremony.

He made no promise, nor
was asked for one outside
the conversation I
tied the ribbon on of
present without presence.

How could he? Those other
ones who see the moment
of their lives beyond the whims
of sickness, golf, or I’d
rather be in Georgia.

It’s three-quarters finished,
the arches a ring of
laminated oak,
dowels, stretchers, and base
a half year in the planning

to remind them on their June
day of Christmases
and the hard snowy nights
shared by their ancestors
in new, west Virginia.

In my mind, except for
flowers, I’ve played their song,
done the dance and built my
part of the bargain. Where they’ll
get the quilt I don’t know.

Trent Busch, a native of rural West Virginia, now lives in Georgia where he writes and makes furniture. His poem “Edges of Roads” was the 2016 First Place winner of the Margaret Reid Poetry Prize.

The Power of the Circle

6 April 2023 / Editor

Poetry by Nancy Machlis Rechtman

The river was raging
But the herd’s only choice was to cross
So the baby moved even closer to his mother
Remaining under the others’ watchful gazes.

The storm had created a ravenous monster
Drawing the elephants away from the riverbank
On the other side
Like a Siren.

But they were powerful
And each purposeful step
Brought them closer –
Except for the baby
Exhausted by his attempts to move
As the current swirled around him
Pulling him away from the herd
And down towards the wildness of the rapids.

The herd was drained as they gratefully climbed the embankment
And only the mother and her baby were left
To fight the tentacles of the river
But just as the baby seemed to be safe and about to step onto the land
The current tightened its grip
And started to yank him away from his mother
But she wouldn’t cede her boy to the greedy waters
And she thrust her trunk under him and held on
So he wouldn’t be swept away
But the river also refused to back down
Now that it had the baby firmly in its grasp.

The other elephants turned and saw the struggle
And knew what they had to do
So they lumbered back down the embankment
And without hesitation stepped back into the ferocity of the river
And they surrounded the mother and baby with their power and strength
And love.

The mama took a step back to join the protection of the circle
Keeping the baby in the heart.
With renewed strength, together they pulled him out from the jaws of the insatiable barrage
And brought him back to the safety of the land
Where he remained in their center
And after a moment of renewal
They turned and made their way as one
Onto the next step of their journey.

Nancy Machlis Rechtman has had poetry and short stories published in Your Daily Poem, Grande Dame Literary, Fresh Words, The Bluebird Word (read her poem from May 2022), Discretionary Love, and more. She wrote freelance Lifestyle stories for a local newspaper, and was the copy editor for another paper. She writes a blog called Inanities at https://nancywriteon.wordpress.com.

Rise

3 April 2023 / Editor

Poetry by Elizabeth Hereford

for Glenn

He took his time to see the stars,
tested the seconds to capture their essence.

Paused.

He devoted time to thought,
taught us by example,
made space for you,
and listened like he did to the night,
with eyes and ears wide open.

It took patience to watch the sun and moon rise,
but he waited for them faithfully,
knowing the sight would be worth his time.

He still has faith in you, always.

So rise, and do it thoughtfully,
knowing that when the stars
shine tonight he will
be among them.

Pause for him.

Test how many seconds it
takes to capture him in your heart.
Make space for him
and he will keep listening,
faithfully.

Elizabeth Hereford is an emerging writer living in Naperville, IL. She holds a BA in English from Grinnell College and an MFA in Creative Writing from Lindenwood University. She has poetry forthcoming in Literary Mama and is currently writing a novel in verse.

How to Walk Your Dog

1 April 2023 / Editor

Poetry by Nicole Farmer (after Julio Cortazar)

Begin by tossing your senile mom’s prescription drugs down the toilet, then run through the house humming a tune until it hits you that they will all dissolve and end up in the city water system, or the ocean, worse, and pull your hair at your stupidity! When you hear her alarm go off, run to get the dog and whisper ‘We have to get the hell outta here!’ Dash to the car and sit still together while the engine warms. If you hear a whippoorwill, and feel the pink streaked sky cloud your mind, and the overhead light melts and drips into your coffee mug, then you are ready to be dragged through the woods by a fifteen-pound terrier who refuses to learn to fly (Don’t boss him, don’t cross him, he’s wild in his anger) – No, wait, that was just the smell of stars crashing to the earth and the taste of your palms exploding in a joy you cannot explain for the beauty of this day. Don’t worry, the rabbit can lead you home.

Nicole Farmer is a reading tutor living in Asheville, NC. Her poems have been published in many magazines. Her chapbook entitled Wet Underbelly Wind was published in 2022. Her book Honest Sonnets: memories from an unorthodox upbringing in verse will be published by Kelsay Books in 2023. Visit her website: NicoleFarmerpoetry.com

Bellflower

30 March 2023 / Editor

Poetry by Charlene Stegman Moskal

for Barnett

You were a surprise—
planted in early spring

in soil too dry
to hold the essence of you,

but there you were
digging in

like the Bellflower
that has ridden the wind,

dropped gently or tumbled
into a dark, moist, earth-spiced bed

to carry the generations
that shaped its destiny

to grow , bloom, offer itself
to the world as a spark of color,

royal purple heralding the summer
against a background green as hope.

And here you are,
my own unexpected Bellflower

just when I was sure
the field had gone fallow.

Charlene Stegman Moskal is a Teaching Artist for the Las Vegas Poetry Promise Organization. She is published in numerous anthologies, print magazines and online. Her chapbooks are One Bare Foot (Zeitgeist Press), Leavings from My Table (Finishing Line Press) with a third from Kelsay Books in Fall 2023.