Category: Poetry (Page 46 of 52)

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Sparrows I Have Known

21 June 2022 / Editor

Poetry by Catherine Coundjeris

My first memory is of song–
song in sunlight rapturous and bright.
Elusive bodies hopping in branches
and on rooftops, lining wires
and chattering back and forth.

In Boston to my delight,
by old Ironsides, they
came to rest on my table.
Perching on the backs of chairs,
begging for morsels.

With my brother in Oxford,
we noticed their variety
marveled at their language
photographed them on walks.

Now in Frederick, outside Walmart,
they sit on baskets, flit
between cars, and angle
for scraps still curling along
the macadam.

It is April and I remember
our trek through back roads,
looking for hawks and eagles
with sparrows for company.

I have seen them
beat each other up
at bird feeders.
We have my brother’s old
feeder but we need
to buy a post for it.

They come anyway and
taste the seeds
on our fruit trees,
alighting on the wildflowers
on the hill behind our house.
My brother would have enjoyed it here.

A former elementary school teacher, Catherine Coundjeris has taught writing at Emerson College and ESL writing at Urban College in Boston. Her poetry is published in The Dawntreader, Visions with Voices, Nine Cloud Journal, Academy of the Heart and Mind, Bombfire, Paper Dragons and many more.

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Pilgrim

19 June 2022 / Editor

Poetry by Rob Lowe

I like clocks, and books, and music,
Things which structure the way forward,
Are signposts and dwelling places.

Map-reading living is my hobby;
But exploring the nature of being
Requires a compass of faith.

I am waterproofed with hope,
My thoughts are warm but breathable;
I am well-equipped for the journey.

And when at last the sun goes down
After a walk through mountain terrain,
I pitch a tent of morality.

I have no home, nor family,
My friends are birds and beasts and trees;
They talk to me nightly.

I saw a harvest once, of people,
Crowded on a plain below;
And in the midst there was a steeple

And what tolled from its Sunday bell?
There is no lasting peace until
Religion consists of poetry.

Rob Lowe has written privately for many years, but only lately started submitting pieces for publication. Typical work can be found in recent issues of Lucent Dreaming, Libretto, Seventh Quarry, Aromatica Poetica, and some anthologies. He lives in Milton Keynes in the U.K.

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The Clock

17 June 2022 / Editor

Poetry by James Blears

We bought the clock when I was ten, two or nine,
I just can’t recall, but it had a fine chime.

I do remember it ticking day and night, all in all,
Tutting, like a maiden aunt, perched on a table, in the hall.

But as minutes and months and years went by, it’s time keeping,
Became slack, then a joke and finally a downright lie.

It lost respect by losing time, so no one consulted it any more,
For when it promised it was three O clock, it was past time for a tardy tea
At well after half past four.

And then one day with its hands at noon,
Not a moment too soon, and not that far from our front door,
It’s pulse just ceased, and it was no more.

James Blears is a British journalist based in Mexico City since 1992.

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Surprise on the Tollway Enroute to New York

15 June 2022 / Editor

Poetry by Carol Coven Grannick

Indiana, you surprise me:
in the rain, a painting unfolds
of clouds outlined with your gold brush
as if placed in for effect
and clouds from brushes
dipped in grey and swiped across
the sky, shaping the rhythm
of breath as it flows
over the open land
gazing at burnished corn stalks,
food gone for feed
and under the signature of the grey brush
a quiet low-hanging pink
that begs to be seen as beautiful.

Carol Coven Grannick is a poet and children’s author whose novel in verse, Reeni’s Turn, debuted from Fitzroy Books in 2020. Call Me Bob, a nonfiction narrative in verse, will be a 2022 Oprelle publication. Her poetry has appeared in a wide variety of print & online journals.

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Memories of Arenal

13 June 2022 / Editor

Poetry by Hilary Stanton

In my teacup I hear
rain—rush on the roof,
rumble of approaching jungle storm
slapping shiny leaves, broad
sides to the sun still shining.

Hammock hung under
a tin roof, open
to wind introducing
coming clouds.
The light drops,
deafening water
rattles, hammers corrugated metal.

I sip my tea.
The pitch in the cup drops,
the drops hang shining.

Hilary Stanton lives in the Boston area with her husband and their three homeschooled kids. She enjoys hiking and designing original creations using yarn, fabric, or words. Her work has been published in Cobalt Review and Light; she is currently working on a novel.

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A moth and her flame

10 June 2022 / Editor

Poetry by Thai Lynne

the children fall asleep
my skin absorbs the violent silence
and I come alive: unfolding, expanding
like a set of lungs, a deep breath
and I exhale stardust and simplicity
but there is a restlessness in letting life decide
which direction to point my painted toes
and when to lean in but my body resists
there is a prickling under my skin
and its name is not Satisfaction
I leave it outside the door with the snow on my boots
and I unfold inside this house that isn’t mine
the flickering heat of the fireplace
is like aloe on my sunburnt skin
soothing the ache beneath and I yearn for the peace
that comes from living with intention
as though I were the architect of my own life
rather than a spectator, and I envy
this house pregnant with purpose
and its name is Contentment
a place where those of us
the weary Empaths, overwhelmed
can curl up with a glass of wine in the hot tub
and flirt with desire and design
and oh! the spicy heat that drowns us
under the burden of a life not fully lived
can either wear the mask of crippling defeat
or shining renaissance
I choose the fire.

Thai Lynne is a stay-at-home mom of three, who works construction part-time with her husband, is pursuing a BA in Creative Writing and a freelance writing career. Her work has appeared in Borrowed Solace Magazine, The Hunger Journal, Twist in Time Magazine, Zimbell House Publishing, Dodging the Rain and elsewhere.

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Beyond the Window

7 June 2022 / Editor

Poetry by Sarah E N Kohrs

Beyond is the light-gray world
poised with clouds that linger
but my eyes settle not on those.
Instead, I see a brown moth flicker
against the screen-less window
where a trillion droplets
settle like stars. Those wings
move in such succession, my
heart seems to speed up, too.
I raise a hand, palm ready
for comforting, providing
relief, hope, even.
But the window doesn’t open
and the rain drips in dirges.

Sarah E N Kohrs is an artist and writer, with over 80 journal publications in poetry and photography. She has a teaching license, endorsed in Latin and Visual Arts, homeschools, and creates with clay in her pottery studio. SENK lives in Shenandoah Valley, Virginia, kindling hope amidst asperity. http://senkohrs.com.

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A Full Moon in Winter

5 June 2022 / Editor

Poetry by Tad Tuleja

The flat soft pallor of this night’s moon
Sidles noiseless to my window
Turning the slatted blinds I have not closed
Into ebony and silver prison stripes.
Whisks of moon lean in beckoning
But I am snug though sleepless
And I have been out there before
When the ground was painted ashen
And the air had given up its breath
To windless mystery. Human eyes cannot
Bear that color. What creature would be afoot
At such an hour? I hear no owl’s wings,
No coon-rattled trash cans, no feline squawking,
Only my wife’s gentle breathing, best of
Consolations, until—there!—some distance
Away, the thinnest of whines flutters
The ash, as Coyote scopes the ground
For skittering fieldmice. In safer light, tomorrow,
I will find his calling card, the berry-pocked scat
He places in driveways as if to say:
Come, drowsy brother, break fences
With me. I will show you a moon
You have not seen before.

Tad Tuleja, a folklorist and songwriter, has edited anthologies on vernacular traditions and military culture and received a Puffin Foundation grant for his song cycle “Skein of Arms.” Visit https://skirmisheswithpatriotism.buzzsprout.com for his weekly podcast. Under the musical alias Skip Yarrow, he performs songs on www.skipyarrow.com and You Tube.

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3 haiku

2 June 2022 / Editor

Poetry by Joyce Miller

The last leaves fall
from the weeping cherry—
the farmer sees the city.

Blade of green
sharp with spring,
in winter snow.

A firefly alights a light
of bioluminescence on
a moonless night in June.

Joyce Miller served as a senior editorial assistant for The Cincinnati Review and her work has been published in The RavensPerch, Crack the Spine, Serving House Journal, aaduna, and Venture; Ohio Voices. She currently teaches Italian in the Romance and Arabic Languages and Literatures Department at the University of Cincinnati.

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The Turning

1 June 2022 / Editor

Poetry by Bonnie Demerjian

Sing a song of summer’s end —
crickets in the grass
katydids seesaw away while
locusts buzz of shortened days.
Half moon in the evening sky
veiled with trailing cloud
while the winds shush through the weeds
All restless, so restless.

The cats play ambush in the grass
heedless of the gathering dew.
In the field the dry corn stands
waiting, waiting.

Summer gathers in her skirt
apples, pears and grapes,
fragrant asters plump with bees,
sheaves of scraping insect song, and
waves of birds as they depart.

With a long and backward glance,
step by step she leaves us
soon to sink her body down.
Autumn, it’s autumn.

Bonnie Demerjian writes from Alaska. She has written as journalist and as author of four books about Alaska’s history, human and natural. Her emerging poetry and flash work has appeared in Alaska Women Speak, Tidal Echoes, Bluff and Vine, and Blue Heron Review.