Category: Poetry (Page 25 of 44)

Lord of Depths

3 October 2023 / Editor

Poetry by Peter T. Cavallaro

I met God in the ocean swell.
Yes, didn’t you hear?
There
in the roar of the surf
standing astride sandbars
I met him.
It happened when I got jolted off-balance
and passed into the dread wall—
heart pounding,
a rush of cold on my face,
the weight of watery worries on my hair.
There was I, alone: descending
spread-eagle
inside the collapsing tube
where sky eclipsed
and sound stood still
and my eyes, kissed by debris, locked shut,
when I felt
my body rise, hoisted
by some muddy clamor—
weightless
care-less
swallowed – a plaything!
tumbling fro
at the whim of breakers,
like clay in their crush.
There
in the press
of that green deep
came God;
in the pit of the sea we met.
And he said:
“Control is your illusion.”
The waters rolled back,
lowering me
onto a carpet of kelp
where
the sun’s rub pierced
my receding aqua-veil.
Stillness – and then roar.

Written underwater

Peter T. Cavallaro is a poet, writer, attorney, adventurer, and nature photographer. He lives in New York.

Class Assignment

3 October 2023 / Editor

Poetry by Margaret D. Stetz

the famous poet gave a reading
at my school
because the English teacher
knew him
attendance was required
his voice was dry and white
what I imagined
certain wine was like
though I’d never tasted any
something you had to
twirl inside a crystal glass
not drink with pleasure
his shirt was Oxford cloth
white and sharply ironed
the reading was
informal
so he’d left the top two buttons open
rolled the cuffs
his shoes were loafers
which I’d only seen on girls
(adults I knew wore lace-up shoes
and uniforms to work)
his hair looked dry cleaned
freshly pressed
when he began to read
he gazed straight
at the first two rows
where young men sat
a group I’d never seen before
(did they travel with the poet
like a set
of matching luggage?)
the young men
also white
not quite as starched
were silent
bobbing heads
to show they understood
the Classical allusions
gliding past me
like a boat along the Styx (the only line I got)
I knew there must be
witty twists and plays on words
because the poet
sometimes slightly raised his eyebrows…
soon I was nodding
face pitched forward
eyelids lowering
I shook myself to stay awake
reciting in my head
the lyrics of a Beatles song
the record that
I couldn’t wait to play again
when I got home

Margaret D. Stetz is the Mae and Robert Carter Professor of Women’s Studies at the University of Delaware, as well as a widely published poet. Read her earlier poem “Robins” from the August 2022 issue of The Bluebird Word.

Glancing Down at the Carnival

3 October 2023 / Editor

Poetry by Robert Nisbet

Leaving a small dark town, hurrying,
we pass a notice, To the Carnival,
swing homeward over a sweep of bridge,
then glance down at the show itself,
in the valley, in its meadow,
a multi-coloured load of sight and sound.

We see and hear, briefly
the motley morrice of copious ribbon
the comedy notes of oompah-oompah
a cone of helter-skelter red
maybe a hurdy-gurdy grinding

We sense . . . maybe
the sketching of likenesses
the telling of fortunes in shadowed tents
and (as in American country fairs)
a bespectacled girl sitting at a card table,
typing poems for the passing crowds . . .

Stay, stay
oompah, oompah
but our car has to race on, race on . . .

Robert Nisbet, a Welsh writer, was for several years an associate lecturer in creative writing at Trinity College, Carmarthen, where he also worked for a while as an adjunct professor for the Central College of Iowa. His poems appear in Robeson, Fitzgerald and Other Heroes (Prolebooks, 2017). Read Robert’s poem “Later” published in The Bluebird Word‘s January 2023 issue.

The Scent

12 August 2023 / Editor

Poetry by Barbara Siegel Carlson

The heart’s fingerprints are everywhere.
Richard jackson

From somewhere in the city
come the colorful pungency
of oils and spices,
the scent of wet stone,
a woman perspiring
in her high heels that click by,
and the smoke a squinty-eyed man
exhales as he taps
his ashes to the ground
a few feet from the doorway
where a raw-cheeked woman sleeps
under a blanket of particles
near a piece of mooncake some pigeons
& sparrows are sharing.

Barbara Siegel Carlson‘s third book of poems What Drifted Here was published by Cherry Grove Collections in 2023. Her previous books are Once in Every Language and Fire Road. A chapbook Between the Hours was published in 2022. She teaches in Boston and lives in Carver, Massachusetts.

jellfish swimming on water — Photo by Tim Mossholder on Pexels.com

deepsea census

12 August 2023 / Editor

Poetry by Kristin Van Tassel

we give you lamp
light that we might
see you transparent
sea cucumber in sheer
pink open blossom 2
miles deep—& see
you yeti crab, pincer
thin arms frost furred,
or you blind lobster,
needle nosed pliers
in open jaw—& you,
comb jelly, trailing
translucent tulle
veins glowing LED
cool, sliding starless
sky 4.5 miles below
our surface—so
quiet, this cold

Kristin Van Tassel lives and teaches in rural Central Kansas. She writes essays and poetry about place, travel, and teaching. Her work has appeared in World Hum, Wanderlust, Whale Road Review, The Land Report, About Place, Porcupine Review, and Ecotone.

photo of birds on concrete wall near city buildings during daytime — Photo by Negative Space on Pexels.com

Birds at Dawn

12 August 2023 / Editor

Poetry by Sarah Das Gupta

A blackbird sings at break of day,
the notes cascading, trickling,
over sunlit tiles.
On the old flint wall
a sparrow chirps, cheekily
to an awakening garden.
A pair of thieving magpies,
black patches over each eye,
chatter like pirates
from the dark yew,
planning a surprise attack
on the treasures of the bird table;
while ring doves coo softly
from an avenue of ancient limes.

Sarah Das Gupta is a retired English teacher from Cambridge, UK. She has had work published in many magazines/journals including Bar Bar, The Bluebird Word, Cosmic Daffodil, Green Ink, Waywords, Shallot, Pure Haiku, Rural Fiction, American Readers Review, Paddle, and others.

silhouette photography of trees near water — Photo by Blaque X on Pexels.com

Fall Sun

12 August 2023 / Editor

Poetry by Sharon Scholl

rises reluctantly through ground mist,
travels on the fringe of the horizon,
sinks into a cloak of early dusk.

I find the last of it in a tiny pool
and savor its remains reduced
from August lake to dim reflection.

Leaves enough remain to catch its light
and send their shadows dancing
with a scatter of dry weeds.

Lingering squashes dangle on shrinking
vines while single pumpkins sit deserted
in a field of empty furrows.

This is the season of farewells
to spring wonders worn and drab,
to the past that fades in memory.

Sharon Scholl is a retired college professor (humanities) who convenes a poetry critique group and maintains a website (freeprintmusic.com) that donates music to small, liberal churches. Her poetry chapbooks, Seasons, Remains, Evensong, are available via Amazon Books. Her poems are current in Third Wednesday and Panoplyzine.

Wandering the Mojave

12 August 2023 / Editor

Poetry by Cynthia Bernard

Along with the silvering of my hair
the years have gifted me
with a Frequent Wanderer Award
granting open access
to the Mojave of Middle-Night,
where there are many
interesting places to meander
but there does not seem to be
a trailhead that leads back to sleep—
and though I could remedy the one
with gloves, a bottle of dye,
and the laundry room sink,
there seems to be no compass
to help me navigate the other.

For a long time I grumbled about this
and stumbled through too-much-coffee tired days,
but then, during one weary too-early,
I paused to watch a horned lizard
swishing tail, flicking tongue
near the base of a Joshua tree
and noticed the almost silent whisper
of a gestating poem,
stopped to play with her for a while,
and soon I was surrounded
by her many siblings, cousins, and rivals—
quite a lively little nursery
with a hungry baby sonnet I’d almost forgotten,
two toddling villanelles fighting over a yucca flower,
and a pantoum with sand in her eyes crying in the corner.

Middle-Nights now, when the Mojave calls,
I am ready, having indulged in another
gift of the years, the afternoon nap.
I brew up a pot of cactus flower tea,
toss my tinseled hair over my shoulder,
grab my favorite pen,
and set out happily a’wandering.

Cynthia Bernard is a woman in her late sixties who is finding her voice as a poet after many years of silence. A long-time classroom teacher and a spiritual mentor, she lives and writes on a hill overlooking the ocean, about 25 miles south of San Francisco.

blur close up drip drop — Photo by Pixabay on Pexels.com

Wouldn’t it be something

12 August 2023 / Editor

Poetry by M.S. Rooney

to meet the one
who invented the spoon, that
mouth-sized bowl, that
stirrer of soups, that
gatherer of rain water
from spring puddles.
It doesn’t seem a thing
you would think to invent
just for yourself.
After all, a stick is quick and sure,
fingers do just fine, and
you can drain a big bowl
with just one tilt.
But for the other,
the child, the beloved,
how we must have yearned
for something more shapely,
more tender, to hold,
to offer,
again and again.

M.S. Rooney lives in Sonoma, California with poet Dan Noreen. Her work appears in journals including The Blue Mountain Review, Illuminations, Leaping Clear and Pensive Journal, and anthologies including A Walk with Nature: Poetic Encounters that Nourish the Soul. Her work has been nominated for a Pushcart Prize.

In My Mother’s Last Garden

12 August 2023 / Editor

Poetry by Regina Berg

The roses near the house have bloomed
and bloomed again.
The tomato vines are lush, laden
with fruit, sun-warm, red, taut with sweetness
and crisp green globes you will slice
thin, cornmeal coat, fry golden
and wrap in a fold of white bread.

The collard greens and cabbages are full grown,
though you will leave them to tender
with the first frost. Cucumbers secret themselves
on the other side of the neighbor’s chain link fence
until your quick eye guides me.

Your eyes and ears are the only things quick about you now.
Cancer and age have leached your bones.

We sit on the small concrete patio where the sun rests
on your thin shoulders and a wind warm
as the remembrance of a Mississippi spring
soothes knuckles swollen with years and labor.

Silvered hair scraped into a single braid and pinned
at your neck, you lean close and laughingly gossip
about the young man who bought the derelict
house next door, though you call hello and wish him well.

You won’t come out here on your own, even
with your cane, you are so fearful of snakes.
and truly we may see one sunning itself
against the house once or twice a year.

When we lived in the small jumble of a house
just down the alley, you tended a patch
in a vacant lot hidden by weeds that towered
over your garden stakes.
There were surely snakes, but
you had children to feed and a sharp hoe.

You who made something from nothing
for so long, have a freezer full.

Now your garden runs
a slender path between the fence
and the concrete walk, filling every inch
with food that will feed us still
when you are gone.

Regina Berg is an emerging poet who resides in Chicago, IL. She is GGE (greatest grandma ever!), a baker, crocheter, and sometime traveler. She enjoys solitary writing, retired life, and lively conversations.

Category: Poetry (Page 25 of 44)

Lord of Depths

Class Assignment

Glancing Down at the Carnival

The Scent

deepsea census

Birds at Dawn

Fall Sun

Wandering the Mojave

Wouldn’t it be something

In My Mother’s Last Garden

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