Tag: reflection (Page 2 of 5)

Despair

1 March 2024 / Editor

Poetry by Michael S. Glaser

I take refuge among the trees
the Maple, Cedar and Chestnut Oak

where the wind dances with the leaves
and the birds invite my spirit to sing their songs.

The soft blue of the endless sky
knows that everything on earth is small

– even despair –

and reminds me that I am a part of something
wonderous – this sanctuary of mystery,

of sunlight, shadows and this breeze
that ruffles my hair

like my father did each time
he felt proud of his only son.

Michael S. Glaser has published eight collections of his own work and served as Poet Laureate of Maryland from 2004–2009. He now co-leads workshops which embrace poetry as a means of self-reflection. He co-edited The Collected Poems of Lucille Clifton (BOA 2012). Read more at http://www.michaelsglaser.com.

acquisition

1 February 2024 / Editor

Poetry by Charlie Steak

walking
on the beach
I pick up shells
at the surf line
each tiny, perfect
(to me at any rate)
pale petal pink
delicate, ridged, lined,
butter paper yellow
rinsed in swirling water,
eluding my fingertips
chalkboard black
I have no purpose
for this handful of
bleached white
deserted homes,
is it ungrateful
to re-scatter
I’ll keep
one

Charlie Steak is an author and playwright currently living in the southwest USA. The winters are great but gardening in summer resembles Armageddon. Or maybe Mordor. He has written for Space 55, Synthetic Human, Rising Youth Theatre, and many other organizations. His poetry will be published in Constellations this winter.

Some Kinder Resolutions for a Better Year

31 December 2023 / Editor

Poetry by Cecil Morris

Learn from the cat. Settle in sunny spot and stretch
oblivious to obligation or cascading shoulds
or judgmental stares. Let the bones go loose,
all muscles relaxed and negligent.
Turn off notifications and ringers,
all beeps and trills and buzzing vibrations
that call the mind from its rightful work
of undirected cogitation.
Commit to silence for one hour
each morning and each night and, maybe,
each noon, too. Take those quiet hours
to notice the world at its business—
the pale shoot splitting the sunflower seed
to seek the sun, the unhurried humming
of a bee progressing from blossom
to blossom, the tulip’s reverent pose,
the way a bit of dust can levitate
in a slice of light. Do not make haste.
Every moment does not need to yield
a product or an accomplishment.
Laziness is a healthy pleasure
so make of its indulgence an art.
Make of indolence a new hobby.
Linger over a favorite song.
Let it play twice.
Enjoy.

Cecil Morris retired after 37 years of teaching high school English, and now he tries writing himself what he spent so many years teaching others to understand and (he hopes) to enjoy. Poems appear or are forthcoming in Ekphrastic Review, Hole in the Head Review, Rust + Moth, Sugar House Review, Willawaw Journal, and other literary magazines.

January 1

31 December 2023 / Editor

Poetry by Alexandra Newton Rios

This is a new year I rise to meet
to run to the sun rising red
amidst eucalyptus and slender-leafed tarcos
running the track of black earth softened
by the rains in a province of deep heat.
I run to the rhythms of a life
found in the doing
the raising of five children
transformed into leading five adults
into their next steps without me.
All is well say the birds as I run
this leaving one place for another
this removing myself suddenly with gratitude
for all that a tree over two hundred and fifty years old,
a mountain and the birds give.
We are rising to meet the new year,
the new day, the new possibility
which is beginning.
Yellow-bellied quetupí know this every day.

Alexandra Newton Rios is a University of Iowa’s Writers Workshop graduate. Madeleine L’Engle spoke highly of her poems in 1995, and she received poetic praise from W.S. Merwin in 2011. She is a bi-hemispherical mother of five. Read an earlier poem in The Bluebird Word from July 2023.

Christmas 2000

17 December 2023 / Editor

Poetry by Nancy Kay Peterson

A red grapefruit sunrise hugs the horizon
and stark sycamore limbs lance the lunar landscape.
Chimney smoke signals an unreadable message.
Snow creaks in protest at every step.
Cold pierces even the heaviest coats.
It is a handful of days till winter solstice,
then Christmas, then nearly half a year till
the bare branches vanish in greenery, chimneys quiet.

II.

Christmas lights glow like jewels in the dark room
where, Norwegian traditions passed on to me,
an unrelenting weight, will pass to no one.
My Jewish ex-husband tolerated the annual pine invasion.
My Hong Kong husband eschews the antique ornaments
in favor of a minimalist approach — less work.
Scarred globes of my childhood remain boxed
like the Christmas pasts sleeping in my heart.

III.

The few remaining family have happy hour,
call the one uncle left, his days now numbered.
My brother-in-law has brought his mother
from the Aase Haugen Home where an old man
sat in his wheelchair by the door
asking “Can I come, too?” I can’t erase
the thought of one of us there as he is now
waiting for a Christmas that will never come.

The moon’s grin is ever cold, never changing.

Nancy Kay Peterson’s poetry has appeared in The Bluebird Word, Dash Literary Journal, HerWords, Last Stanza Poetry Journal, One Sentence Poems, RavensPerch, Spank the Carp, Steam Ticke, Three Line Poetry and Tipton Poetry Journal. She’s published two chapbooks, “Belated Remembrance” (2010) and “Selling the Family” (2021). For more information, see www.nancykaypeterson.com.

Photo by Kier in Sight Archives on Unsplash

Longing for a Close Family

2 December 2023 / Editor

Nonfiction by Sherri Wright

In little boxes I see living rooms, kitchens, bedrooms and a lovely turquoise pool. Spread out over six states all eight siblings’ faces appear on my Zoom screen. I see white hair, wrinkled faces, sagging necks, thick rimmed bifocals. We have all aged precipitously since our parents’ memorial two years ago.

In my memory I see us young and laughing, amid a sea of Christmas gifts and children, Mom cooking, and Dad shooting grainy 8mm movies.

As young adults we did everything together. Wilderness camping — my older brother rigging ropes and pulleys to hoist food packs in trees away from the bears. Being a bridesmaid in my younger brother’s wedding. My sister and I taking our daughters to Hawaii when neither of us could afford it. Driving to Florida with my youngest brother and our kids through a snowstorm the winter after our divorces. Playing soccer and running a marathon with another sister. My siblings were my best friends.

My youngest sister announces brightly that she just had a COVID vaccine and asks if everyone else has. Moving screen to screen everyone nods yes. A granddaughter in Alabama had a mild case, another in Colorado is recovering. Florida brother asks, “So you all listen to the news and believe that crap about masks?” Minnesota sister cuts in abruptly to describe her beach vacation with her daughters and grandkids. No more talk of COVID.

I ask about a niece who lives in Brooklyn Center where protests continue after the shooting of a young Black man. Her dad is terse. “She lives far from that police station. She’s safe.” I say, “Oh good, I’m glad.” Nothing more. No mention of Black Lives Matter although we grew up in Minnesota where it all began.

Arizona brother sold his Arabian horses since he and his wife can no longer ride. Minnesota sister’s weight has stabilized and anti rejection drugs have been decreased since her heart replacement. As her face appears in the large center screen I see how thin she is. Utah sister makes us laugh. Her daughter in NYC adopted a cat because her apartment has mice. We smile when a curly black puppy crawls over Minnesota brother’s shoulder. We ooh and ah at old oil portraits of Mom and Dad on New York sister’s wall and remember them hanging over the fireplace at our parents’ house. The fireplace of so many Christmas Eves.

For a moment I feel a warmth that used to be so easy.

We long for that close family but none of us will dip below the surface. Over the years we’ve learned where the sharp edges are. Who veers right, who veers left, and who wants no conflict. Eight individuals raised under one roof by the same parents, we know how divergent our beliefs, how passionate our politics. How fragile the connection. So we tiptoe around the hearth, drop a few twigs and dry grasses on the ash and dart quickly away. No one wants to spark the fire.

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. Read earlier work in The Bluebird Word.

Wednesday in the Neighborhood

22 October 2023 / Editor

Poetry by Bonnie Demerjian

Because my dearest friends are dead or distant
I eavesdrop on the sparrows’ whispered conversation in the blue-green grass.

Because the red-hot scream of chainsaws makes the forest weep,
I bury my face in the cool fountain of lobelias.

Because the flag is like a furious fist,
I melt into the marbled eyes of my old-lady dog.

Because lies multiply like hawkweed on the highway,
I harvest the truth of blueberries.

Because the longed-for heat of summer became instead a fiery furnace,
I rejoice in rain and the chance to pull on socks again.

Because the whirling hulla hoop of years slows and settles,
I putter among exuberant late-blooming lilies. They have no foretaste of grief.

Because these burdens must not win the day,
I beckon to the easeful gulls to lift our weight.

Bonnie Demerjian lives in Southeast Alaska and much of her writing is flavored by this place of forest and ocean. She has written four non-fiction books about the region and her poetry has been published in Blue Heron Review, Pure Slush, Tidal Echoes, and Alaska Women Speak, among others.

Circumlocution When Speaking of Water

13 October 2023 / Editor

Poetry by Sharon Whitehill

I don’t want to talk about water.
How it feels on the body, or in the mouth:
the salty surprise of a first ocean swim;
or bathwater swaddling your body in heat
on a wintry day; or such crystal clear springs,
filtered through sand, as Michigan’s Kitch-iti-Kipi.*
I don’t want to talk about iron-tinged water
tasting of blood, of snow creeping into the mittens
and chapping the wrists; or of the lake
that swallowed and swallowed and swallowed
that girl until the lifeguard dove in. Nor about water
as currents that roil the rapids or crest into waves;
or pond water swirling with creatures that shock school children.
Truly, I don’t want to talk about water.

Rather, I want you to notice what springs to your mind
about trees, clouds, or water: these are yours,
yours alone, to express. Which will free me
to sit here in silence, looking back on my personal trees,
looking out through my window at Florida clouds,
looking inward to contemplate water—
that power that governs my zodiac sign,
that mutable element pulled by the moon into tides,
that sustainer of life and relentless dissolver—
in my own way.

*Ojibwe for Big Cold Stream

Sharon Whitehill is a retired English professor from West Michigan now living in Port Charlotte, Florida. Apart from poems published in literary magazines, her publications include two scholarly biographies, two memoirs, two poetry chapbooks, and a collection of poems. Her chapbook, This Sad and Tender Time, is due Winter 2024.

Letter to an Estranged Father

3 October 2023 / Editor

Nonfiction by Angela Kasumova

Recently, on my way to visit a friend, I drove by Kitty’s Restaurant and Lounge in North Reading. Do you remember the time we went there? It was a Saturday, late summer, either in ‘94 or ‘95, and we’d come from Lawrence where we picked up my school uniform. We stopped by Kitty’s for lunch on the way home. It was a throwback spot: dim lighting, torn booths, cigarette smoke. The bathroom was all red tile and red vinyl and red toilets, like something from a horror movie.

We waited a long time for the food to arrive, and when it did, I remember giggling as I looked down at the brownish steak tip gristle sitting in oil placed in front of me. I don’t remember what you or Mom had, but neither was good. It was one of the worst meals we’d ever had. Comically bad.

I think we left without paying.

Despite the badness of the restaurant this memory is a happy one. We laughed and smiled in unity over the awfulness that was Kitty’s.

Not a day goes by where I don’t think about the tragic outcome of our family, my mind filling with “whys” and “what ifs” and “if onlys.” Lately though, I’ve begun widening the lens, allowing a little more light in.

Turns out we had our good moments, like bonding over bad meals.

Angela Kasumova is an emerging writer of creative nonfiction with over a decade of experience working in the fields of mental health and education. She lives with her husband and sons near Boston, Massachusetts. Read her first published piece on The Bluebird Word from June 2023: For Sale: Kawai Upright Piano, $1,250.

silhouette photography of trees near water — Photo by Blaque X on Pexels.com

Fall Sun

12 August 2023 / Editor

Poetry by Sharon Scholl

rises reluctantly through ground mist,
travels on the fringe of the horizon,
sinks into a cloak of early dusk.

I find the last of it in a tiny pool
and savor its remains reduced
from August lake to dim reflection.

Leaves enough remain to catch its light
and send their shadows dancing
with a scatter of dry weeds.

Lingering squashes dangle on shrinking
vines while single pumpkins sit deserted
in a field of empty furrows.

This is the season of farewells
to spring wonders worn and drab,
to the past that fades in memory.

Sharon Scholl is a retired college professor (humanities) who convenes a poetry critique group and maintains a website (freeprintmusic.com) that donates music to small, liberal churches. Her poetry chapbooks, Seasons, Remains, Evensong, are available via Amazon Books. Her poems are current in Third Wednesday and Panoplyzine.