Tag: love (Page 4 of 7)

My one true love is golden like the sun

25 June 2023 / Editor

Poetry by Riley Davis

My one true love is golden like the sun
With specks of green like the fresh morning grass
Truly, for me you are the only one
That I will want forever in my grasp

I greedily want you all to myself
Since of you, there is not a great bounty
Although you are also selfish yourself
When I’ve had more than my fill, you hurt me

I love you when you are warm and fluffy
As everyone deems you should always be
I love you when you are cold and greasy
For I love you in all states, I decree

You nourish my heart and keep my soul fed
My true love for all of time: garlic bread

Riley Davis‘s eyes were first opened to the world of fiction with Harry Potter when she was eight, and they have not closed since. Although most of her creative work for her college career has been writing for games, she enjoys writing short stories and poems as well.

As Simple as That

30 May 2023 / Editor

Poetry by Dale Ritterbusch

My daughter sends me
a photograph of her cat, her lone cat,
lying on her bed next to two other
cats, her boyfriend’s cats
that have just moved in.

They seem to like being together,
no turmoil over the turf,
no petty jealousies
evinced as they lie there, resting
in a cat’s repose.

I think of times lying next to my wife,
just lying there, no movement,
merely an occasional touch,
a hand trailing lightly
along the arm, the shoulder.

It is as if we were cats;
nothing profound escapes our lips,
nothing of importance
to communicate, to fill the silence.

What is profound is the silence,
the touch, the recognition
that this space is filled,
that words are an unnecessary encumbrance
like an additional blanket
when we are already warmed enough.

Dale Ritterbusch is the author of four collections of poetry. He recently retired as a Professor of English at the University of Wisconsin-Whitewater. His creative work is currently being archived in the Department of Special Collections at La Salle University.

Awakening

13 May 2023 / Editor

Poetry by N.T. Chambers

It was a late
Spring morning
the sun barely reddening
a drowsy sky –
our dog restlessly
asleep in his corner –
a quiet universe
within the room
undisturbed by events
yet to be
or the Sunday
one-half hour away.

You were
a sepia photograph
in a semi-darkened space–––
contorted on the sheets
with pillow-combed hair
gently caressing one cheek –
a singular bead of sweat
drifting silently
down your neck
as you turned over –
offering a dream-laden smile
to no one in particular.

I found myself wanting
to draw you closer
to inhale your night muskiness,
feel your breath on my chest,
but chose to honor your slumber –
there was coffee to make,
a paper to be retrieved,
pancakes to be cooked
and a lifetime to be shared

N.T. Chambers writes about the emotions, events, and experiences intrinsic to the human condition. Numerous works have been published in several journals and magazines, among them The Banyan Review, Inlandia, The Orchard Poetry Journal, The Decadent Review, New Note Poetry, Quibble Magazine, and Share Literary Journal.

Late Love

11 May 2023 / Editor

Poetry by Sharon Scholl

We meet in the dark kitchen
with separate hungers,
different aching joints,
each with reasons to be sleepless.

I switch on the stove light,
wince at sudden brightness.
You click off your flashlight,
stand mute, indecisive.

What will digest at this hour?
Something quick and harmless
that may invite sleep – at least
fill dull time until it comes.

Quietly we munch and sip, shuffle
by habit around each other.
It’s the company that satisfies.

Sharon Scholl is a retired college professor (humanities) who convenes a poetry critique group and maintains a website of original music compositions (freeprintmusic.com) for small churches. She is the patron for poetry and music composition contests for young creators. Her poetry chapbooks are available via Amazon Books.

On Observing My Daughter At Breakfast

7 May 2023 / Editor

Poetry by Clarence Allan Ebert

My daughter wears a hand-me-down shirt
tie-dyed with the stars, three sizes too big.
Her clothes arrange themselves
in psychedelic constellations.
Her face is a yellow rose through the light
of honey dollops dropping in milk.
She has never tripped and has no band-aids.
She makes no fuss and sleeps with a night light
She is barely aware I love her so much,
oblivious to her own impermanence.

Clarence Allan Ebert celebrated his 70th birthday recently and pledged to maintain some Baby Boomer relevance in the world through the fine craft of poetry. Read his poem from The Bluebird Word‘s January 2023 issue.

The Power of the Circle

6 April 2023 / Editor

Poetry by Nancy Machlis Rechtman

The river was raging
But the herd’s only choice was to cross
So the baby moved even closer to his mother
Remaining under the others’ watchful gazes.

The storm had created a ravenous monster
Drawing the elephants away from the riverbank
On the other side
Like a Siren.

But they were powerful
And each purposeful step
Brought them closer –
Except for the baby
Exhausted by his attempts to move
As the current swirled around him
Pulling him away from the herd
And down towards the wildness of the rapids.

The herd was drained as they gratefully climbed the embankment
And only the mother and her baby were left
To fight the tentacles of the river
But just as the baby seemed to be safe and about to step onto the land
The current tightened its grip
And started to yank him away from his mother
But she wouldn’t cede her boy to the greedy waters
And she thrust her trunk under him and held on
So he wouldn’t be swept away
But the river also refused to back down
Now that it had the baby firmly in its grasp.

The other elephants turned and saw the struggle
And knew what they had to do
So they lumbered back down the embankment
And without hesitation stepped back into the ferocity of the river
And they surrounded the mother and baby with their power and strength
And love.

The mama took a step back to join the protection of the circle
Keeping the baby in the heart.
With renewed strength, together they pulled him out from the jaws of the insatiable barrage
And brought him back to the safety of the land
Where he remained in their center
And after a moment of renewal
They turned and made their way as one
Onto the next step of their journey.

Nancy Machlis Rechtman has had poetry and short stories published in Your Daily Poem, Grande Dame Literary, Fresh Words, The Bluebird Word (read her poem from May 2022), Discretionary Love, and more. She wrote freelance Lifestyle stories for a local newspaper, and was the copy editor for another paper. She writes a blog called Inanities at https://nancywriteon.wordpress.com.

home for the holidays

3 March 2023 / Editor

Poetry by Nicole Farmer

the cold the waiting
the airport the anticipation the anxiety
the arrival the introductions the hugs
the car the road the talking
the home the familiar the suitcases
the shopping the cooking the eating
the mess the cleaning the dishes
the board games the laughter the competition
the fire the warmth the stories
the traditions the movies the quoted lines
the photos the misunderstandings the confrontations
the alcohol the overeating the teasing
the gifts the hugs the texting
the sore throats the tea the tissues
the cold the grey the wind
the accusations the whispers the hurt feelings
the love the irritation the exhaustion
the suitcases the packing the loading
the car the road the silence
the airport the departure the hugs
the cold the relief

Nicole Farmer is a reading tutor living in Asheville, NC. Her poems have been published in many magazines. Her chapbook entitled Wet Underbelly Wind was published in 2022. Her book Honest Sonnets: memories from an unorthodox upbringing in verse will be published by Kelsay Books in 2023. Read more at NicoleFarmerpoetry.com

Tony Told Me

16 February 2023 / Editor

Nonfiction by Susan Mannix

I remember the moment. The look he gave me through the iron bars of his stall, straight in my eye, said it all. “It’s time to let me go.”

But I wasn’t ready, no one in my family was, most of all my sixteen year-old daughter Lauren. Tony (Registered Jockey Club name: Spartans Pride) was her heart horse. The one we searched for and she chose. The one who started making her dreams come true. I remembered how her face lit up in surprise and delight as she ran across the grass parking lot to our trailer. “Mom, I won! I won! My first blue ribbon!” She held it up proudly. That was a year ago and just a month after we bought him

What a day that was.

So different from today.

Tony started showing signs of discomfort earlier while Lauren was at school. “Camping out” (stretching his hind legs behind to relieve abdominal pain), pawing, pacing. This wasn’t the first time with him and I waited for it to pass like it usually did.

It didn’t. The pawing became more frantic and he started to roll.

Phone in hand, I ran out into the paddock and hollered at Tony. He popped up and as I lead him into the barn, I called our veterinarian. In the twenty minutes before he arrived, I walked Tony around in the front of our barn to keep him from rolling, which could cause a deadly twist in his intestine.

The vet determined it was an impaction – a blockage caused by a mass of grain and hay in his gut. The only thing to do was pump mineral oil and warm water in him in hopes of loosening it. Once done, Tony was given a dose of Banamine, an equine pain reliever.

The wait began. I checked him often, relieved to see each time he was comfortable. He even passed a little bit of manure – another good sign. Once the drugs wore off in a couple of hours, we’d know more.

The pain returned. Then came the on-call emergency vet. By now Lauren and her sister, Brooke, were home from school and had set up in the barn with a close friend to keep constant watch on Tony. More mineral oil and Banamine, Another wait. If this didn’t work, the only option was surgery.

“He seems more comfortable.”

“I bet this will work.”

“Look, he’s nosing around for hay. That’s a good sign.”

Statements of hope that were delivered with eyes that were desperately grasping for reassurance. To each one I nodded vigorously and gave an enthusiastic “Yes, I agree!” I sent the girls up to the house for a quick break and stayed behind.

The soft spring air and the chirping of the tree frogs could not ease the heavy stillness of the barn. Darkness pressed in on all sides.

I looked into Tony’s face seeking a way to push back the darkness. Our eyes met. Mine begged him to get better; his said it’s time to face what’s happening. That’s when he told me, even though he stood quietly.

Hours before we loaded him onto our trailer and made the fifty-minute drive to the Marion duPont Equine Medical Center in Leesburg. Before his worried, scared eyes said “I can’t do this,” as veterinary techs took his vitals. Before the staff prepped him for emergency surgery, his body wracked with pain. Before my daughter sat for hours on the cold hard floor of a dimly lit hallway, offering up her dreams so her horse could graze once again in our pasture.

Before the phone call that woke us after only two hours sleep.

Before the desperate voice of the veterinary surgeon came through the receiver begging for permission to let him go.

Before I knew it was time, Tony told me.

Susan Mannix is from Maryland, where she lives on a small farm with her family and menagerie of horses, dogs & cats. Formerly a biomedical research editor, she is now working towards a Master’s degree in creative writing from Wilkes University. Find her at susanmannix.com and on Twitter at @lynsuze.

that’s enough

13 February 2023 / Editor

Poetry by Corey Bryan

I’d walk again through icy rain
to eat a chicken salad sandwich on
the world’s driest bread with you
just one more time.
I’d pretend to like seafood and say all
the right things like, “shrimp are the blue collar
workers of the ocean and it feels bad to eat them
but this cocktail sauce is way too good”
and stuff my face.
I’d support everything you
say no questions asked even if you do get a
tiny bit conspiratorial after the third glass
of the house red.
I’d tear down those reality tv show posters
they hung up on Boulevard
which cover your favorite piece of graffiti.
I’d cook you dinner
and buy all your favorite ingredients like
watermelon radishes and dinosaur kale and all the
other vegetables that sound crazy like that.
I’d watch all those shark
documentaries you love and
the more I think about it the more I think I’d
punch a shark in the nose, saddle him up
and take off for Lisbon where you are
now and say to you
“I hate shrimp and watermelon radish
and red wine and graffiti and I especially
hate dry bread
but I love you and I think
that’s enough.”

Corey Bryan is a fourth year student at Georgia State University majoring in Rhetoric and Composition. He is currently writing daily poetry prompts, along with some original poems, with a friend of his at poetryispretentious.com. He has one poem forthcoming at Sage Cigarettes Magazine titled “her kind of love”.

The Lamp in the Room

28 January 2023 / Editor

Nonfiction by Melissa Knox

The bell-shaped white lilies, stretching upward, concealing tiny light bulbs, charmed me. With the delicacy, though not the colors, of Art Nouveau, the lamp softened the room. There was a little white plug. I wondered why it wasn’t plugged in yet.

The furniture was white and mostly square, except for a small black leather sofa near the bed. Between it and the bed, a laminated white bedside table held my husband’s toiletries bag and plastic bottles of pills. The window, which didn’t open, looked out on the white, rectangular buildings of the university hospital. Beyond that, the road filled with pitched-roof German houses, tidy, so much neater than ours. From that road, I figured, he and I could walk to our house in six minutes. But he was never going to walk that road again.

“Oh, look at this pretty lamp!” I said, as the nurse wheeled him to his bed. He cast a blankly sad look at the lamp.

My husband knew what the lamp meant before I did. It didn’t charm him, I now think, because he’d correctly identified it. Where I just saw lovely design, he, raised Catholic, had seen many a virgin-and-child scene strewn with lilies, symbols of life after death. His tumor markers had vaulted up, after a few weeks of dramatic descent. His doctors couldn’t pull any more rabbits out of hats. A few days earlier, he’d had one last immunotherapy. The doctors said it had no side effects. My husband and I sat on his white bed and read the plastic bag listing the side effects, one of which was sudden death.

“It’s just death!” we joked. We spoke of the children and their triumphs, chatted about the one who’d gone vegan for a week and now demanded steak, discussed the wet spot in the left-hand corner of our guest room and how to repair it, held hands. “I couldn’t have asked for a better wife,” said my husband. What came out of my mouth was, “Please send a message to let me know you are okay.” I wished I could have taken that one back. It fell into the whiteness of the room.

The lamp was lit when I returned around one in the morning with my middle child. The room was white, but my husband was yellowing, his lifeless face looking surprised. He’d fallen forward so quickly he knocked over the nurse who was stabilizing his breathing. Just like that, what I knew would happen astonished me when it did—and now the white seemed the blankness of unknowing, the move toward “that undiscovered realm from which no traveler returns,” which we cannot describe—it’s white. Waiting for us to draw on when we get there? Or just nothingness? The room couldn’t tell me; the lilies gleamed—the lamp plugged in, the light shining.

Melissa Knox‘s recent writing appears or is forthcoming in Counterweight, Areo, Parhelion and ACM. Read more of her writing here: https://melissaknox.com