Category: Poetry (Page 32 of 41)

The Unboxing

13 October 2022 / Editor

Poetry by Jennifer Campbell

Recalling craftsmen
and cobblestone streets,
I may be the apprentice,
laying rice paper
between leather straps
in a protective shield.
I slide slips over leather pulls
and foam circles
over grommets
and buckles.

I give myself permission.

I leave no fingerprints
on silver. The scent
of earth lets go
with each fold and tuck,
wrap and smooth.

The finished product
grows incrementally smaller,
an act of love
expressed one too many times.

Jennifer Campbell is an English professor in Buffalo, NY, and a co-editor of Earth’s Daughters. She has published two full-length poetry books and a chapbook of reconstituted fairytale poems. Jennifer’s work appears in The Healing Muse, San Pedro River Review, The Sixty-Four Best Poets of 2019, and Paterson Review.

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Cradling

11 October 2022 / Editor

Poetry by Andy Oram

I stand in a room without walls. Strips of hung paper from the
Past seventy years quiver from the joists.
In the center, a rough oak table is pressed by grinning friends and relations.
The table is scattered with treats
Carried from a scarred porcelain stove.

I feel the bundle’s warmth gradually intertwine with mine,
My forearm greets the churning of small legs,
And I accept them as my own.

Through the streaked pane of a solid double-hung window,
Recently bared of its weary paint,
I envision the eleven paces one year ago from the car to the house,
and my urgent grip on the papers embossed by a lawyer.
I race against the downpour with bent head and sole-squeals.

More precious than my grizzly head were these papers,
More worthy of a legacy than the leather shoes I dredged from the closing.
Arrived finally in my new home, raindrops from my coat still pommeling the pine floor,
I uncradled the packet to make sure nothing was smudged.

One is drawn to gaze at what one cradles.
I retrieve the child from some well-wisher,
Slip a palm beneath his head and become the whole universe of this unfamiliar creature,
Become a presence to the wide pupils that sweep me into their field of vision.

Now we share points on a simple harmonic scale,
The overtones traveling through my chest and arms and lips.
And the baby responds to my resonance.

Andy Oram is a writer and editor in the computer field. Print publications where his writings have appeared include The Economist, the Journal of Information Technology & Politics, and Vanguardia Dossier. He has lived in the Boston, Massachusetts area for almost 50 years.

Lines

9 October 2022 / Editor

Poetry by Christine Andersen

I don’t want to be the person
who colors outside the lines.

I want to be the one who lifts them from the page

scallops and twists and folds

until there is a butterfly
perched on my outstretched palm.

Be the one who blows the parting kiss.

Christine Andersen is a retired dyslexia specialist who hikes daily through the CT woods with her hounds. The changing New England seasons inspire her poems. Publications include Comstock, Octillo, American Writers and Awakenings Reviews, Glimpse, Dash, Months to Years and upcoming in Glassworks and Evening Street Press.

Pain Management

6 October 2022 / Editor

Poetry by Carol L. Gloor

A generic woman smiles
from the poster in the exam room,
her body wired with red nerves.
Mine’s the one running
down the right leg,
the one that’s caught fire.
A plastic spine stands
at attention on the shelf,
bristling with vertebrae.
The white coat points
to the bottom two,
this is where I will
insert the needle,
with very small risk
of spinal fluid release
or paralysis.
While I sign the release
I have no time to read
he’s still talking.

Carol L. Gloor has been writing poetry since she was sixteen. Her work has been published in many journals, most recently in Abandoned Mine. Her poetry chapbook, “Assisted Living,” was published by Finishing Line Press in 2013, and her full-length poetry collection, “Falling Back,” was published by WordPoetry in 2018.

Mysteries

3 October 2022 / Editor

Poetry by Rebecca Ward

Mysteries of bewilderment
trace night into darkness,
light casts reflection on keys
melody mirrors our souls:
entangled notes in creative freedom.

Rain kisses the window,
stories echo in musician’s fingers.
Sorrow-filled notes exude love, joy
full interludes escape into night.

Mirror captures moment, memories.
Wilderness of creativity
spins in random caution,
as unknowns shadow our thoughts,
our beautiful music.

Rebecca Ward is an adventurous, free-spirited woman. She is a full time member of the Mississippi Air National Guard. Writing poetry while immersed in music has once again found a home in her free time. This is her first published poem.

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To Thoreau

1 October 2022 / Editor

Poetry by Robert McParland

In your steps this day I look
Over this field, this flower spray
On sand I walk out toward the beach
Taking shells up with my hand
Here you stood that fateful June
Under this lighthouse, rhythmic sea
Like us you walked not knowing where
An ocean wave on light would turn
I see you now, standing here
Desolate, barefoot, on the shore
Your sad eyes scan the lonely sea
Remembering her, how they went down
Like a love sonnet in the waves
A sandbar claims the roughened tide
These summers now, journal in hand
My love too seems to have foundered on
Some waves that wash up toward a beach
Wood-creak crash, how we collapsed
The water broke upon our cries
Like you I walk in thought absorbed
Like water in sand between my toes.

Robert McParland teaches college English, writes songs, and has published several books on American culture and literary history.

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The Heart Unfurled

27 September 2022 / Editor

Poetry by Karen Luke Jackson

for Juniper

Her skirt billows as she skips the graveled lane,
chases a squirrel across the lawn

and up a flaming maple, tumbles
into a hammock which swallows her curls,

swaddles her legs, this fawn-eyed child
with a page-boy cut who bubbles song.

Somehow her heart knows
that she, too, belongs here

with the redwing blackbird
whose call she returns,

with the wooly worm
she cheers across the road.

Karen Luke Jackson draws inspiration for her writing from oral history, nature, and clowning. Her poems have appeared in Ruminate, Broad River Review (Ron Rash Poetry Award), Ruminate, One, Atlanta Review, and Channel Magazine. The author of two poetry collections, Karen resides in the Blue Ridge Mountains. www.karenlukejackson.com

Grandpa Taught Me to Garden

24 September 2022 / Editor

Poetry by Sharon Scholl

how to measure the black bed,
count out seeds resembling small
splinters shedding torn coats.
I watched as he poked a finger
into soil dense as chocolate cake,
dropped one seed in each moist well.

He taught me to plot my planting
into harmonies of pattern, leave
room for my sprouts to breathe
so every leaf has space to stretch.

I noticed how he flicked moisture
from his fingers so all could drink
but none would drown,
how he set the watering can swaying
like a pendulum toward his open palm.

Every spring I renew his lesson,
measuring, counting, planting,
watering, taking my turn to care
for this young and fragile life.

(Author Note: Inspired by the poem by Shutta Crum, My Mother Taught Me to Quilt)

Sharon Scholl is a retired college professor who convenes a poetry critique group and maintains a website of free original music. Her poetry chapbooks, Remains, Seasons, Timescape, are available via Amazon Books. Current poems are in Switchgrass Review and Green Ink Poetry.

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Choreography

22 September 2022 / Editor

Poetry by David Curry

First there’s that exhilarating “Haste thee, nymph” segment
of Mark Morris’s l’Allegro, il Penseroso ed il Moderato, a dance
seen live some years ago and, gratefully, again tonight
in a camera-smart clip posted on Facebook.

And then, this afternoon, there’s this bent woman leaning on a walker
with a broad smile for — what? — the uncommonly fair December day?
She’s by herself, oh so slow, takes two changes of the lights
to cross the street. At least one driver is impatient
and thoughtless enough to hit the horn. When
the woman gets to the other side of the street, she pauses
and looks back over her shoulder and then moves on
with her serviceable old blue coat and her intention.

David Curry‘s second collection of poetry, Contending to be the Dream, received “Special Distinction” in the Elliston Book Awards. He has been a writing fellow of the National Endowment for the Arts. For 10 years, he edited and published the poetry magazine Apple.

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First & Last

18 September 2022 / Editor

Poetry by Travis Stephens

I am the first brother,
the worst brother,
first to go to college
a little college, Tier 3, maybe.
The first to think it possible
to work with my brain
instead of my hands &
almost do it.
I am the worst at
staying in touch,
moving west,
then north,
then south & staying
west until the salt tasted fine.
I am brother divorced with no children.
Last to mortgage. Broke.
I was the first to go gray & to
write poems about our family.
Brother drunk.
I stood by the graveside of
one brother,
standing with the others.
Somebody cried.
Somebody said say something.
Say something.

Travis Stephens is a writer and tugboat skipper who lives in California with a muse and her extended family. His book of poetry, “skeeter bit & still drunk” is available on Amazon or at Finishing Line Press.