Category: Poetry (Page 23 of 34)

Farewell Season

23 November 2022 / Editor

Poetry by Sharon Whitehill

Poinciana, Your branches speak to me of love.
Buddy Bernier

The mellow close of a Florida day,
seats reserved on the wraparound porch
of a renovated Victorian manse:
a celebrative meal with my sister and Rick
before they head north for the season.

Alone on my side of the table,
I mirror their mutual delight
at the flamboyant tree across the road.
All of us awed by its scarlet-orange blossoms
ablaze in the pre-sunset light.

Snapping a series of photos,
I yield to the impulse
to sling my arm over Rick’s shoulder—
this brother-in-law, for so long a vexation,
gentled now as the soft evening air.

I lift my wine in a toast to the evening,
the bright-burning tree,
and our season together.

Now here comes Linda, our friend,
flashing a ring: I got married!
Though her exuberance fades
on hearing my news.

I was afraid of that, she sighs,
when I only saw three of you here.

A comment that crystallizes our mood.
The Portuguese call it saudade:
the sweet wistfulness of reluctant goodbyes,
honed to an edge by our silent awareness
of one empty chair at the table.

Sharon Whitehill is a retired English professor from West Michigan now living in Port Charlotte, Florida. In addition to poems published in various literary magazines, her publications include two biographies, two memoirs, two poetry chapbooks, and a full collection of poems.

flowers during golden hour — Photo by Irina Iriser on Pexels.com

Sunrise Dances

21 November 2022 / Editor

Poetry by Hawke Trumbo

My mother taught me to slow dance.

She placed my left hand on her shoulder,
my right hand in her left.
Her right palm rested on the curve
of my spine.

Pre-fab flooring supported our steps
as my feet shadowed her glide.

We swayed in a Virginia valley
to the tune
of a Rocky Mountain hiiiiigh Colorado.

We saved time in a bottle,
lulled by the easy silence
of our pine and oak audience.

We twirled in kitchens,
perfected our timing to strums
’bout poems prayers and promises.

We pivoted as a teenager
found her feet and a mother learned
to loosen her grip.

Our arms stayed firm,
so we never lost each other.

Hawke Trumbo (they/them) is an East Coast writer and graduate of Chatham University’s Creative Writing MFA program. Their work has appeared in Coffin Bell and for the Western Pennsylvania Disability History & Action Consortium.

selective focus photography of plant with dew — Photo by Lum3n on Pexels.com

Rain Drop

16 November 2022 / Editor

Poetry by Mary Padgen Michna

The after rain
waits quietly
in perfect balance
with infinite patience
poised on a pine needle.

It is the one
who holds back
you know
there is one
in every group.

One who saves
the best for last
to bring its balm
to anoint
the unsuspecting traveler.

Mary Padgen Michna always wrote poems. When she grew up, she was more comfortable telling someone else’s story and worked as a journalist. After retiring, her poetry has appeared in Bullets into Bells and the University of Pittsburgh’s online publication. She received an honorable mention in the 2022 Passager Poetry Contest.

landscape photography of sunflower field during sunset — Photo by Peter de Vink on Pexels.com

Consider the Dawn

14 November 2022 / Editor

Poetry by Jayne Martin

For Ellie

A raspberry wave splashing
Onto a blank canvas of possibility
Sunflowers turn their faces to the east
Eager to sip from the rising sun
Knowing nothing of the indigo of sorrow
That weighs upon my heart
Taken much too soon
Your loss still a fresh wound festering
regret for all I could have done
better
I drown in the silence
Force myself to rise and step into the day
It is a gift, this life
Each moment
As fleeting as the flight of fireflies
I will be like the sunflowers
My face to sun following its journey
across a serene sky
One breath in, one out. Repeat
Trusting in the passage of time to heal
Bowing my face to the west where
The sun drops into tomorrow
As I await
The dawn of another day to come

Jayne Martin is the author of “Tender Cuts,” a collection of microfiction and “The Daddy Chronicles-Memoir of a Fatherless Daughter.” She lives in California, but dreams of living in Paris. Visit her at www.jaynemartin-writer.com, Twitter: @Jayne_Martin, Instagram: jayne.martin.writer, TikTok: jaynemartin05

Happy 125th Birthday Miss Earhart

11 November 2022 / Editor

Poetry by Melissa Wold

Oh Pidge, it’s just like flying.
Amelia Earhart (july 24, 1897 – january 5, 1939)

Like Nike, were you fated to fly
from a box off the roof of Grandpa’s shed
into clouds of gossamer sighs?

Did your treetop view of birds in the sky
propel your wings of imagination to spread?
Like Nike, were you fated to fly?

In your Electra sleek and spry
from the ordinariness you fled
into clouds of gossamer sighs.

Your tenacity and daring mystify
those of us who live in fear and dread.
Like Nike, were you fated to fly?

Did you hear the hue and cry?
Your loss left the world bereft; grief bled
into clouds of gossamer sighs.

On an island unknown, bones petrify.
Your story’s end remains unread.
Like Nike, were you fated to fly
into clouds of gossamer sighs?

Melissa Wold is retired from a career in higher education. She writes with a group affiliated with Mobile Botanical Gardens in Mobile, Alabama. She lives with two rat terriers named Rocket and Spark Plug. They refer to her as their live-in help.

lightning bugs

9 November 2022 / Editor

Poetry by Caroline Randall

at the park, we sit at a picnic table beneath a tree, our faces disappearing in the wane of

daylight. the night is warm with a cooling wind and the scent of distant rain, but we are here,

beneath this tree, discussing the deer across the field and the amount of people still

in the park. we speak of lightning bugs and their absence, and as if summoned,

a single lightning bug glowed, then another, and another until I lost count of their

individual orbs, and i thought,

what kind of magic is this?

that led me beneath this tree?

that brought me to you?

Caroline Randall is a writer and painter living in Louisville, Kentucky. She holds an MFA and a BFA in creative writing from California College of the Arts and Spalding University, respectively. She currently proofs and edits court transcripts for a living.

photo of two white ducks on water during fog — Photo by Karol Wiśniewski on Pexels.com

Haunted Lake

6 November 2022 / Editor

Poetry by Sheryl Guterl

Local legend tells
a winter tale:
A southbound stagecoach

took a short cut
across the frozen water,
hit a soft spot, and sank,

taking passengers,
luggage, and horses
to the bottom.

True or not, it’s reason enough
for mapmakers to name
this lake Haunted.

In an early September morning,
cooled night air
meets summer-warmed water.

Cotton-candy puffs
of fog roll over the lake’s surface.
Eerie, vaporized visions of pines,

cabins, docks, and beaches
come and go.
Spirits rise from the waves.

Sheryl Guterl claims these titles: mother, grandmother, former English teacher, former elementary school counselor, wishful poet, Albuquerque Museum Docent, alto, bookworm. Presently, she is cozied in a New Hampshire cabin, surrounded by water, birds, tall pines, and myriad critters. She will travel back to Albuquerque for the cold months.

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Sweet Moon

2 November 2022 / Editor

Poetry by Ursula McCabe

This morning I sliced into a cantaloupe
with ripe musky aromas.
Orange flesh unfolds as I split
the pock marked rind.
Opening up this soft melon
releases an aria of river floating times.

Years ago I rafted down the Salmon River,
an Idaho primitive wilderness area.
We returned home in a panel van
with too many people and a leftover cantaloupe
that had gone uneaten.

Six of us had drifted down the old river
through canyons with 100 foot basalt walls.
Rainbow trout practically
jumped in the boat, pink membrane mouths
puckering up as we slipped barbless hooks
out with our slippery fingers.

After churning rapids tumbled rafts
we warmed ourselves around campfires.
Flickering orange sparks skipped up to the stars,
where a fat round moon looked down.
That moon was as sweet and soft
as the cantaloupe I’m eating right now.

Ursula McCabe lives in Portland Oregon. Poems can be found in Oregon Poetry Association’s Verseweavers Anthology, Piker Press, The Avocet and Academy of the Heart and Mind.

Untitled

30 October 2022 / Editor

Poetry by Melissa Donati-Pizirusso

I am a helium filled balloon
Released from the hands
Of a little girl
Staring in wonder at the sky

A balloon that floats freely
Up
Into the wind
Caught in branches
Waiting for the next breeze to set me free

Descending then to the ground
And then picked up
By another breeze
Sending me to low points and then high
Low
High
Sweeping at the ground
Then dropping
Into a foliage of leaves
Waiting to be lifted again

By a breeze
That may never come
Or one that may bring me even lower

Until once again
I am picked up
by the hands of a child
that holds me like a treasure
to their chest.

Melissa Donati-Pizirusso is a Mom, Writer, and Assistant Principal. Her love of writing and poetry goes back to when she was a child writing numerous stories and poems on a daily basis. She is a graduate of SUNY Albany where she studied Sociology, Italian and Journalism.

What the Old Want

28 October 2022 / Editor

Poetry by Steven Deutsch

Not much—
friends
and family
I suppose—
for short visits
involving meals
at restaurants
with tablecloths,
or something sumptuous
simmered for hours
over a low flame.

How about a week
without a visit
to a doctor
or a single
medical test.
No MRI or EKG
or CAT scan,
or even
a tube of blood
with my name
in magic marker.

Time
is in free fall.
Like riding
an elevator
held by a single
strand of steel
down from
the 93rd floor.
Bring kindness.

And, when all
else fails,
a recliner—
well worn
in all the right
spots.
A coffee
straight up
and the book
I loved best when
I was young.

Steve Deutsch has been widely published both on line and in print. Steve is a three time Pushcart Prize nominee. He is poetry editor for Centered Magazine. His poetry books; Perhaps You Can (2019), Persistence of Memory (2020), and Going, Going, Gone (2021), were all published by Kelsay Press.