Tag: appreciation

Injury Lessons

1 November 2024 / Editor

Poetry by Nicole Farmer

The words tendinitis & torn meniscus get thrown
around doctors’ offices & at home leaving

me to come to terms with immobility & mandatory
rest, while my body revolts, my mind riots

& old age cackles in my ear all the fears
of dependency – send my mind reeling in doom,

despair, confined to a chair or couch
to slowly atrophy & wither away to obscurity.

Then just this morning the trees spoke to me –
underground roots rough raspy voice saying

hold tight, stand still & breathe in the day
be like us and sway your trunk/torso

do what you can to reach your limbs/arms up
move with the gentle wind.

Oh yes, there will be chair yoga & stationary
bikes in your future, but right now

slow down, stop racing & look around
delight in the early yellow light & the drying leaves.

August is evaporating so enjoy these last days
of simmering summer swelter.

So, I moved my reading chair to the deck & embraced
a long-awaited repose in the shade of the old maple.

Nicole Farmer (she/her) has published Wet Underbelly Wind (Finishing Line Press 2022) and Honest Sonnets (Kelsay Books 2023). Her poems have been published in Wisconsin Review, Suisun Valley Review, Apricity, Wild Roof Journal, Poetry South, Drunk Monkeys, Sad Girls Club, and many other journals. She lives in Asheville, North Carolina.

Anapana

1 May 2024 / Editor

Poetry by Tasneem Sadok

Overexposed with explosive imagery
the senses can quickly become dulled
to the granular exhilaration
of a grazed hand
Next time a snowflake falls on your cheek
Pause
And savor the icy pinprick
a crystallized remnant of your planet’s origin
Feel it dissolve
into your breathing pores
already restless
to transform again

Tasneem Sadok is an MD-PhD student at UCLA, fascinated by the brain’s intricacies in contexts of dysfunction. As the American-born daughter of immigrants who fled autocracy, her worldviews have always been steeped in countervailing dualities. Poetry has allowed her to find resolution in mind-numbing tensions while defamiliarizing accepted realities with curiosity.

Haleakala Sunrise

18 June 2023 / Editor

Nonfiction by Sherri Wright

The sky is pitch black and the temperature drops from seventy degrees to the thirties as our son-in-law drives the switchback road up the mountain. The trip is only twenty miles but it will take us more than two hours to reach the summit of Haleakala at 10,023 feet. Cramped into the back seat my husband, our nineteen year old grandson, and I flop into each other on every hairpin turn and our ears pop as we continue the climb. My daughter follows the route on her phone warning Azi of steep drop offs and approaching turns. Jenny wants to share with her husband and son the experience she remembers when she came here as a child.

At the top we step out of the warm car into a cutting wind and an immense dark sky — not just above but wrapping all around us — uninterrupted by tree or cloud or human made thing. And millions and millions of stars unobstructed by light pollution. The landscape is a monochrome grey surface of lava and rocks like I imagine on the face of the moon. We make our way up an uneven stone path toward the rim of the crater. Hundreds of people in parkas, rain coats and blankets murmur over the whisper of the wind. Jenny and I talk about how years ago we’d worn sandals and wrapped ourselves in beach towels but today the air feels so cold and the wind so bitter that I can’t stop shaking. Harry gives me his hoodie and swears he’s not cold. Sunrise won’t happen for another hour and a half. The thin air makes us feel light headed.

As the dark begins to lift, a warm blush rises above the horizon and exposes the width of the bowl and the depth of the cavern below. Few plants are able to survive here but scattered down the cinder slopes of the crater I see round grey bundles of silver sword. This ahinahina can live up to ninety years. Once in its lifetime it sends up a spectacular six foot stalk of vibrant purple flowers, then dies and scatters seeds to the wind. Here on Haleakala is the only place in the world the ahinahina grows. The mood is mystical. Early Hawaiians believed that the demigod Maui stood at this summit and lassoed the sun to slow its journey and lengthen the day. Thus, the name Haleakala means “house of the sun.”

In a swirl of light and grey and yellow, mauve and orange hues, a hush comes over the crowd and then an eerie silence. A silence I can feel in my chest and my bones. When the sun appears then quickly rises above the rim, the throng breaks into gentle applause. Black silhouettes in the glow, my daughter hugs her son.

Sherri Wright is a member of the Rehoboth Beach Writers Guild and the Key West Poetry Guild. Her work has appeared in Creative Nonfiction, Dreamer’s Creative Writing, Persimmon Tree, Ocotillo Review, Delaware Beach Life, Raven’s Perch, and Quartet.

Faculty Recital

4 January 2023 / Editor

Nonfiction by Pama Lee Bennett

The college students straggle in, wearing shorts and graphic T-shirts. They no longer wear protective masks, nor do I. A teacher in jeans and a faded top posts a “quick response” code on the wall, and students crowd in to scan their attendance with their smart phones. I take a seat alone in the recital hall, on the aisle in the left section, where I will be able to see not only the featured flutist, but also my pianist friend’s hands as she accompanies her. The flutist, pretty, dark-haired, and unadorned in a black blouse and black trousers, enters the stage, followed by my blonde friend in a black, long-sleeved dress. They begin, and I lean forward slightly, listening, appreciative of the tone and skill of the flutist. It is my first concert in two years.

I enjoy the first several numbers: the “Andante Pastorale et Scherzettino,” by Taffanel; “Les Folies d’Espagne,” by Marias; the “Aria” by Dohnányi. The audience is still and attentive, the flute and my friend’s virtuoso piano filling the once-empty air. Even the unfamiliar tones of the Chinese variations, by Chen Yi, interest me. And then the flutist exchanges her soprano instrument for an alto flute, and they begin playing Arvo Pärt’s, “Spiegel im Spiegel,” and the low, slow, sustained notes reach deep into my being and bring me to tears. Missing pieces of my soul silently enter the room and tentatively float to where I am seated and hover above me, pieces that had left me behind when life became distanced and isolated.

Later, backstage, I hug my friend, and I am introduced to the flutist. I say how moved I was by “Spiegel im Spiegel.” She asks if I’ve ever heard an alto flute before. I say yes, once, at a master class given by the British flutist Trevor Wye. She exclaims, “I bought this flute from him!” I stare at her, then we smile. My missing pieces begin to fall gently back into place.

Pama Lee Bennett is a speech pathologist living in Sioux City, IA. She plays in a Renaissance recorder ensemble. She has taught at summer English language camps in Poland, and at a school there in 2019. Her poems have appeared in Bogg, Evening Street Review, Dash, and Tipton Poetry Journal.

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.

animal leaf morning spring — Photo by Pixabay on Pexels.com

lament

15 April 2022 / Editor

Poetry by Nicholas Barnes

when you stopped
looking at ladybugs

like they were miracles

like they shouldn’t be there

but they somehow were,

and you started looking
at them like …

i’ve seen
a million of you before,

that’s the day you died.

that’s the day you stopped
loving yourself.

Nicholas Barnes earned a Bachelor of Arts in English at Southern Oregon University. He currently works as an editor in Portland, and enjoys music, museums, movie theaters, and rain. His poems have been accepted by Mortal Mag, Barzakh, and Something Involving A Mailbox!, among others.