Category: Poetry (Page 34 of 43)

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.

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Eagle Fantasy

14 September 2022 / Editor

Poetry by Michael Shepley

it was only just
an early morning dream

but for a time
I was an eagle

sharp hunter eye high
in a soft sunny sky

targeting a strange
shape shifting prey

running over the dun
furze of rounded hills

fast flitting slip of
snipped night sliding

quick as the wind
hugging ground like skin

when I woke knowing
it was only the hunt

for my own damn shadow

Michael Shepley is a writer who lives and works in Sacramento. His poetry has appeared in Vallum, CQ, Common Ground, The Kerf, Jonah, Blue Unicorn, Salt and a few others.

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Six Months After Father’s Leave-Taking

9 September 2022 / Editor

Poetry by Nancy Kay Peterson

There is no word
for the weight of winter,
no number for the centuries
that press upon bone.

Alone in my father’s meadow,
drifted with moon-lit snow,
I count the Indian burial mounds
that lie at forest’s edge.

At 30 below,
everything is clarity,
the line of black trunk,
the curve of white land.

Everything is soundless
except my whispered leave-taking.
I make no promise
to come again.

Nancy Kay Peterson’s poetry has appeared in Dash Literary Journal, HerWords, Last Stanza Poetry Journal, RavensPerch, Steam Ticket, and Tipton Poetry Journal. From 2004-2009, she co-published Main Channel Voices: A Dam Fine Literary Magazine. She has two poetry chapbooks, Belated Remembrance (2010) and Selling the Family (2021). Visit www.nancykaypeterson.com.

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Artifacts

8 September 2022 / Editor

Poetry by Kristin Chemis

Inside your house
you have pieces
that seem to have been there from
an ancient time, old relics of days
when you were happier
and could afford to gather adornments lightly—
when you took unwanted
furniture off others’ hands
or delighted in an unexpected find,
filling up your home and all the while laughing, planning
your future and moving forward, always moving forward,
until many years later
when you look back and a hazy amnesia has crept in—
where did I get this, who might have used it before me?
Why did I even bring this into my home,
and—how did I manage to forget?
The unrooted ties to an ever-changing past
float around you and seem to change
their color, their look. They are almost
no longer recognizable, except for a hint
of some pleasant memory, some remembered feeling
of lightheartedness and freedom.
The clock’s hands have journeyed
around and around a million times, and you
don’t even know now where the clock came from.

Kristin Chemis is the mother of twin boys and a baby girl. Her writing has been published in Press 53, Apple in the Dark, and San Diego Woman’s Magazine. Kristin is also the author (under pen name K.K. Tucker) of the children’s book The Parrots Next Door.