Donal Mahoney

Waiting Room

First time seeing this doctor,

a specialist. Took a month

to get an appointment.

The waiting room’s packed.

I grab the last seat 

next to a lady in a wheelchair

knitting something,

perhaps for a grandchild. 

I pull out my cell phone 

like everyone else

but just to check messages,

not into games.  

No one’s looking at magazines,

it seems, any more.

It’s a cell phone world,

messages and Tic-Tac-Toe.

Half an hour later the lady 

stops knitting and whispers, 

“Sit back and relax, son. 

Life’s a waiting room.

We all have appointments.

Every name is called.

Even those who believe

no doctor is in."

Gardening in Autumn

She’s been a gardener for years

but more and more she brings 

flowers inside to arrange a

new garden on her mantel.

She’s in transition, she says,

but remembers summer fondly

in the autumn of her life

and sees winter coming so 

she gardens on the mantel now.

There, winter’s not a problem.

Her arrangement, she explains,

has a dahlia, last flower of summer, 

bold above hydrangea leaves

burning red in the midst of fall.

The mugo pine warns of winter.

The pine she’s had for 20 years, 

remembers planting it and hopes 

she’s an evergreen as well.

Tenement Scene, Havana, 1962

Woman in a window

brushing long hair madly

screams at a little boy

down in the street

licking an ice cream cone

some man gave him

some man she doesn’t know

not the man she’s 

brushing her hair for

who doesn't show up.

The man with the ice cream

may have to do.

Time Flies

Used to be

she’d tell him what

to get at the grocery store

and he always brought it back.

Now she makes a list.

Used to be

she knew by noon what

she’d make for dinner.

Everything from scratch.

Now she’s in the pantry 

rummaging at 6.

Used to be

the two of them would cheer 

the sunrise on the patio 

with coffee imported

from Antigua or Barbados.

Now they sleep in.

Have instant later.

Used to be

they’d sit on the porch

and watch the sun go down

with oohs and aahs 

and a glass of sherry.

Now they doze in rockers

until it’s almost 10.

Fifty Years Later

Fifty years ago

Jane got on a plane

and flew away

without saying good-bye.

Her parents took her, I know.

She was only 14 but she 

could have said good-bye

to me, the swain 

who saw her through

our last three years 

of grammar school

when she wore braces,

the only girl who had them.

Fifty years later 

at our class reunion

she didn’t come

but I did in a new suit. 

Charlie showed me 

a class photo of all of us

smiling except for Jane. 

The braces, I guess.

Charlie asked how many kids 

I could name and I named 

every one except for Jane.

Charlie said with mock surprise,

“You don’t remember Jane?

You two were pretty tight,

going to the movies and 

sitting in the balcony,

buttered popcorn and all,

a pretty big deal back then.

Someone told the nuns 

and they were furious."

I smiled and said 

“Well, Jane flew away

the summer after eighth grade

without saying good-bye.

I heard ten years later 

she got rid of the braces

and married some Swede

who likes sardines. 

He makes his own lutefisk.

I wish Jane and Ole well.

She was only 14 but she 

could have said good-bye.”

{ Donal Mahoney }

Jonathan Holeman

Ageless Beauties
~for Kenndra

Each day fades over the shining hillside
As we travel pathways of highs and lows
With sunlights and shadows to be our guide
Time, like an ocean full of ebbs and flows

Each month a current in the raging seas
Crashing upon shores of shimmering sands
With grains of memories that hold the keys
To all that a heart has held in its hands

Each year a blossom that withers away
Then floating down to return to the ground
Fragrant and colorful fading to grey
Mingled with dust, rested, silent, and sound

Each life a vast expanse of eternity
Ageless and beauteous, for all who can see.

{Jonathan Holeman}

Bobby Geans

Grandfather Awakens Me Each Morning

As I sit here and rock
And observe that old clock.

He takes me back in time.

He awakens me each morning
With a most beautiful chime.

He is always there
With his back to the wall.

With his old cobweb hair and beard,
Old dusty face and rusty hands.

His pendulum squeaks,
But that's because he's antique.

And I'm sure he'll be around,
Until the end of time.

{Bobby Geans}

Ray Gallucci

Les Deux Ponts De La Provence  

(The Two Bridges of the Provence Region in France) 

One carved by Nature, one built by man

In the Provence whose history they span.

Bridge of the Arch – Pont d’Arc of Ardèche.

Pont du Gard from Rome’s aqueduct mesh.

Though both are old, one cannot compare.

Pont d’Arc was formed before man came there.

And, relatively, younger by far,

No less impressive’s the Pont du Gard.

Both made of stone, Pont d’Arc’s dolomite.

Pont du Gard’s concrete, Rome at its height.

Magic of arch that Nature unveiled,

Pont du Gard raised to levels unscaled.

And so we marvel at les deux ponts 

Nature and man built here in Provence.

Different but same, one sculpted one poured,

Present and past and future adored.

{Ray Gallucci, gallucci@localnet.com}

Sarah Ricard

Not A Parent, Time, But Apparent Time 

We must love by halves when it comes to you, Time.
If we are embracing optimistic thoughts for the future,
we must renounce, however temporarily,
whatever's been wasted in the past, so as to concentrate
on a mad, happy dash
 to the light at the end of the tunnel.
"Since the beginning of time..." people say.
Who was there to celebrate your birth, Time?
I think you must have been born and then
had the universe's first existential crisis.
Do you fly when we're having fun just to taunt us?
And make it drag when we're not content
just to be sadistic?
Is Time still Time when it stands still?
As the centuries pass by,
do you smile upon some faces, and love them?
Are they the ones whose wounds you heal?
But no.
We are the ones in action.
You do nothing except get the last laugh, in the end.
...Don't you?

{Sarah Ricard, s.ricard@outlook.com}

Fred Leavitt

To Diane

I.
My violin shrieks
and rends the air with lament
but look who wields the bow
don't blame the instrument

I write ill matched couplet, tinkly rhyme
but others, with words full-known to me
breathed life to Kubla Khan and Leda's swan
and the fair lake isle of Innisfree

I I.
My spirit was dormant, uninspired
listlessly played by those I knew
aimless drippings on a cluttered canvas
and then came you

Newfound emotions surged within me
for Gods can be made from fools
I knew beauty, passion, tender love
It's the worker, not the tools. 

{Fred Leavitt, fredlvtt@gmail.com}

Llyn Clague

Cookout 

Evening settles on the lake
like snowfall on the prairie.
Wind drops, the gray of the water
subtly softens.  Calm expands.

Beside a column of white smoke
above a sparking charcoal grill,
like air bubbles from the lake floor
bursts of laughter rise, and vanish.

Friends, fire, food, light
slap of wavelets on the shore,
intimate as fingertips.  Hunger
and joy, under a dark, silent sky. 


Loon At Dawn 

Cries of a loon at dawn,
motionless gray lake,
sky of pink and blue.

Echoes bounding in the mind,
flaring embers of memory,
dimensions of a great quiet. 

{Llyn Clague, llynclague@aol.com}

Katrina Bauer

Shine 

The stars shine so bright
in the pupil of your eye;
foretelling your fate
on that night.
To shine as a star might.
Amazing and lovely
to all those who see.
You’re gonna shine
that bright someday,
you’ll see. 


The Moment 

He opened his heart
and I saw the light.
I opened my heart
and knew it was right.

I did not fight
his eyes that drew me in.
I did not scare
at the truth within.

I saw the love
that was within
and I was head over heels
with him.

{Katrina Bauer, bauer.km3@gmail.com}

Erren Geraud Kelly

Stars

Stars hover over me like the memory of you, they 
Hold me captive, like a word  from your lips 
A vision that will never leave  me 
Nor  does it dim in  its intensity;  in the 
Night, stars explode like a smile 
On your face, like a picture of you 
Now stored away, but your face lingers 
Brilliant as a tune playing in the background,
Rich as the planets in orbit
A planet from far away is 
Dwarfed by a huge moon, like your memory  
Bearing down on me, a benevolent  goddess 
Even as I watch the stars align and 
Reveal you, you are a wonder of the age; 
Revel in your light, as you rain your love  on me 
Yielding blessings from a fertile heart 


Aurora Borealis (northern lights) 

sometimes, you are visible,
a spirit dancing in the night. I’m sirius
perhaps, you are a solar wind;
I surrender to your magnetic force
as you leave
a trail of stars behind;
they form a pattern in the sky,
revealing your shape. To
know your beauty,
is to see the colors in the night
like the spirits, you change colors
frequently, from pink, to green, to red.  
they evolve into a geomagnetic storm;
i’m blinded by your science 
holmes or sam spade have tried to
analyze your glow,
the electrical storm, you leave behind
yields a cinematic sky, even the most
trained eye of a stargazer cannot decipher.
even if agatha christie,
could solve the mystery of you,
she would be
reeling like me,
in the colors of electrons, 

{Erren Geraud Kelly, errenkelly76@yahoo.com}

Colton Castle

Garden 

Knit my soul to yours
Oh fairest friend of mine
We'll steal away
To a quiet place
And I'll never leave your side

Call me to your garden
Rapture of my mind
The birds will soar and sing
A new song every morn
Call me to your garden
The wedding hour has come
The people all are dressed in white
And your face shines like the sun 


Bird 

Make me a bird
I want to soar and sing
And never speak another word
The clouds will be my home
And every soaring note
That dances from my throat
Will be a love song for you

{Colton Castle, coltoncastle@gmail.com}

Lisa Mcivor

Circles 

I first knew safety curled inside my mother,
slept where I belonged
below the rhythm of her heart.
There were no perils to dependency,
our boundaries of frail bone,
mythical as the separation of our skin.
Now we find ourselves from the startle of our sleep,
the gauze thin weariness of age,
its slippered foot upon the stair, 
the hesitance of hands
translucent as a moth’s wing,
papered knuckles swollen smooth,
their eager pathway of veins.
We are children
lost within the parchment of our fingertips,
the years stretched ponderous between us
to this fierce and final understanding
of feathered breath,
the blue of fragile limbs and letting go.
These are the lines of early evening
curved to surrender,
cheekbones against her pillow willing sleep, 
the bravery of certain mornings,
a slackness of chin and the heaviness of words,
bedclothes shared with sorrow
and the softness of her hair.
So everything falls to this;
the little loss, the brittle light,
still I would tell you it is love, even these
spare, unbeautiful remains.
The shadow in the doorway remembers her.
My mother watches its slow journey across her floor
like the edging of an ocean or a cup’s silver rim.
She has told me that it sparkles, 
that as it moves closer it has called her by name.
She  spends her days listening
now to the ebbing dark eased along  her wall,
and waits for the light to reach her blanket,
to feel its gentle touch
warm against her knees.
to the periphery of her blanket
and it calls her by name.

{Lisa Mcivor, mcivor.lisa@yahoo.com}

Allison Whittenberg

Water’s Wine

The balance of bliss is pain
The balance of pain is enlightenment
The balance of enlightenment is more enlightment
The balance of more enlightenment is transcendence
The balance of transcendence is alienation
The balance of alienation is bliss

{Allison Whittenberg, amw37@drexel.edu}

Henry Goldkamp

 

Desert, blue sky

 

A half-full phenomenon—
endless russets of dirt
horizoned& drinking
the generous, bottomless blue.
Only strangeness blooms here.
This doleful infinity
never meant any harm.
It is only wight in your eyes;
the mop-up
of the cropless
& the cloudless.

 

{Henry Goldkamp, henry@freshpoetrystl.org}

Celestial K.

Lotus Pose 

My body crossed in Lotus Pose,
my heart feeling limber and light,
palms resting up in a waiting charade,
ready for sweet changes to come to me;
like the savory scent of coffee gives each
waking person in the darkness of the mornings
without daylight shining yet.

If I stay still in Lotus pose --
neglect the blazing television news
that likes to cut into my soul like
all those heart-wrenching murders they like to
show, ignore the pain of all people
because there’s nothing I can do about it –
I might just feel hope for the world. 


The Power Within 

Disappointment can be overcome—
A shining star warming the numb,
Intriguing the soul,
Stimulating the mind’s rapid words
Of hope and desperate peace
Within the self’s abyss,
Without into the universe:
All spaces of God;
For into the future,
Where nonexistent time is silent,
Nothing can keep still
The million signs of change
As we alter and stir the silvery
Lining of the horizon and see
A new beginning for us again.

{Celestial K., Celestialk1@gmail.com}

JD DeHart

 

The Lyrics

the earth may have been created

to the jam session of the stars,

the creator may have his own

luminous playlist

which leads me to wonder

do we approach the sounds

of his strings and percussion,

his naming of planets and blast

of powder rock,

when we write a new song,

line up some words like children

on their stumbling way to the fountain,

do we approach the moment

of inception when we sit and strum?

 

{JD DeHart, jddehart80@yahoo.com}

John K. Graham

Let There Be Dance

Find yourself

in tango’s close-embrace,

   a milonguera

lost in intricate movement,

guided by the bandoneon’s

sad strains.

Never been to Buenos Aires?

Not important.

Wherever you are,

infuse your life

…with life.

Let there be dance.

Belly Dancer                                                              

She entered to applause

   and piercing whistles

to the rapid drum beats

of the darbuka and dübelek

flowing black hair, olive skin

   enigmatic smile

hips swaying sinuously

finger cymbals clinking

   chink, chink-a chink,

   chink-a chink.

Ottoman bangles gleamed

   and clanked

   on her outstretched arms

belly and legs moving synchronously

   to the çiftetelli cadence

a swirl of intoxicating motion

   reviving memories of old Pera.

Shoulders rolling

head thrown back

rivulets of sweat matted her hair

   belly shimmying

ud and saz urging her on

in a rapturous dance

   of supple movement.

She swept past me

a blur of veiled movements

dark cavernous eyes

   mocking me

thighs and stomach undulating

the zurna wailing

finger cymbals clinking

   chink, chink-a chink

   chink-a chink.

As suddenly as she arrived

   she exited

rose petals strewn before her

a hint of anise and lemon water

   in the air

Roxelana’s daughter

a caïque gliding on the Bosphorous

   in the Levantine night. 

{John K. Graham, jgraham50@satx.rr.com}

Kemar Cummings

Prometheus 

His mind is lost like floating cliffs of ice

While beneath his pen yawns a sheer abyss.

The crunch of ages makes his sacrifice

Of bleeding voices into flesh a bliss. 

Since writing seems padlocked in a hell of chains,

His fingers lock themselves into frozen links.

His eyes follow the black tip-toe of ink-stains

Down the page's edge, down the hand that slinks

Across the nights. Ellipses await the script

Inviting space to write its lyric humanity,

Although his mind is naked, starkly bare, stripped

By gods who sleep the sky's immortality.

These spirits prey, like vultures, on his tongue

(Circling sanity round his head) to acquire

The taste of his bony ambrosial song.

He spiced the wine of mortal words with fire.

{Kemar Cummings, kempoet@icloud.com}

Stefanie P. Buckner

Many More Mornings 

Snow today, a Saturday morning
wearing winter.  It started off

slight & sparse.  My eyes
strained to see a small flake

here, another one way over
there.  Somehow I knew—

hoped really—that
if I looked hard and close—

insisted—sought—through cold,
otherwise empty air, I would find. 
Sure enough, two flakes became

four, & four became, both
slow & sudden, more: so numerous
that now the bare cherry blossom
tree is outlined with white, the vacant

roads full & still, doubts,
dry brown, forgotten.
I don’t know how many more mornings we have
left of snow this season.  I don’t know
how many more mornings we will watch
white fall from sky like love from this
bay window. But we have this many more

morning to survey, & savor, & save.

{Stefanie P. Buckner, sbuckner14@gmail.com}

Robert L. Martin

Dancer on a Cloud 

Step by step as
Light as a feather
Suspended by air
The highway to outer space

Gesturing in the beauty
Of the dawn
And the glory of
Mother nature
As she kisses the
Dew on the morning lily

She holds it to her breast
Her palpitating heart
Her rejuvenated spirit
Her feet free of bondage
Free to dance and
Roam among the skies

{Robert L. Martin, Narbig65@yahoo.com}

Roger G. Singer

Storm Winds 

A heavy wind forced telephone wires to sing.

High topped milk weeds bowed leeward 

from the storm, spreading their bounty into random space.

Lifting sand tapped the front porch.  Shutters twitched

like cats sprayed with water.

An empty bucket tipped, rolling against a picket fence.

A weather vane turned hard into the fury.  Thunder

slapped the sides of valleys and buildings.

Overhead, lightening advanced like armies attacking.

Rain began.  Washing dust from poles and fences.

Shining the old and polishing the green on leaves.

{Roger G. Singer, cabanaph424@verizon.net}

Llyn Clague

Dead of Winter 

An old oak, black
against an eider sky 
A thousand stark twigs
stab the sodden cloud
Skeletal bones of wood
await the far tomorrow
The sun’s drenching tide
and fresh amber marrow

Against Despair 

I awake
with an ache in my heart

I seek
to break out in poetry

to escape
the sorrow at my core

to create
the joy so hard to embrace 
awake

    
{Llyn Clague, llynclague@aol.com, www.llynclague.com}

Donna Donzella

Violet's Sunshine 

She walks in the meadow and feels the warmth of the sunshine! 

It makes her feel so wonderful! 

Only God could make such a beautiful day... 

She smiles and thinks wonderful thoughts... 

I might just walk to the pond and take a dip... 

With dainty little steps she heads toward the pond... 

She feels as if she is living a dream... 

The view near the pond was breathtaking... 

She just stared and smiled... 

She realized she did not have a towel so she just sat by the edge... 

Violet lifted her dress and put her feet in the warm water... 

This is too good to be true! 

Violet loved it so much the time just seemed to slip away... 

The sun was beginning to set so she knew she had to head home... 

What an awesome ending to an awesome day!

{Donna Donzella, Raindrop11@aol.com}