Diving for Pearls

I drove through
three states,
sun in my eyes,
morning heat
on my cheek,
to get there
but one wish
wasn’t granted.

Jewels on the road
paved my way,
one to one
I followed,
dutiful, obedient,
in no rush
because there was time.

It was for me,
no one else,
noise surrounded me,
people stared, glared,
wondered aloud,
but my perfume
was condensed
to a single bottle.

Differences
took shape
in the clouds,
a Spanish armada
sailing for England,
guns loaded
for king and queen.
I had my own
ammunition,
questions and concerns
too numerous to ask.

In the blue sky
there is peace,
in the summer breeze
there is comfort,
in the soul of man
there are questions.

-- Christopher Hivner

November

The calendar blocks
stared back at me
like five rows of teeth
chattering in my ears
about days I’ve lost,
time I’ve wasted.
The “O” in October
snaked out to me
like an accusing tongue
and the other letters
shook their heads.
Only one day remains
in the tenth month,
then I can turn the page.
Maybe November
won’t be so judgmental.

-- Christopher Hivner

What is Left

At first it hurts:  there is
a sound as if of fabric ripping -
drapes being torn to rags
for a quilt

on a Sunday afternoon while
the cicada string section screams
sleepily from the willows, and

cats sprawl on the grass
in the shade.
Supper seems days away

almost like love.  The pain
tugs at the heart, and
suddenly you know
what was ripping. 

A dull, absent ache
ensues, yet like a wound is
cooled by the air of exposure
somehow soothed as

shadows lengthen
across the green, green grass. 
Bees, done with chores,
buzz slowly homeward, laden.

Supper is placed before you
with love, but
neither it nor anything
can fill you. 

Later as you lay in the grass
the universe tucks you in
using the Milky Way as a blanket
that is as cold as your emptiness;

yet eventually the sun bleeds
pink into the dawn sky, and
though you may persist,
fills you with warmth
almost against your will.

-- Tom Rubenoff

Taleless path…

The tailless squirrel is in the barren apple tree again. I keep thinking it is time to prune. I should have removed the remaining rotting apples from the branches months ago. Too much family drama kept me away. Mister Tailless Squirrel appears content munching on the thawing mushy husks. This winter feels never ending. Perhaps spring's renewal will charge the world with regeneration. Restoration of energy for one. Revival of hope for another. A life anew without need for worry, regret, sadness. Perhaps love. Can the mushy husk of a frozen heart thaw? Spring's rebirth cannot reverse years of rot. Nature takes over and rot composts to feed change.

-- Nina Longfield

Wish you were here…

Good-bye… Good-bye, I said
Send me a post card
Something sunny and fun
An image evocative
Of wanderlust
Maybe sepia in tone
In remembrance of great exploration
Send it to me in the dreary cold north
Stamped with postage from far away

But you won't
There may be an email with pictures attached
But it's not the same
Travel no longer is the same
Too much is known before the destination is reached
It leads to disappointment
Things don't work out the way we imagine…
There is no mystery
No romance in discovery
We expect too much
And achieve nothing

-- Nina Longfield

Gripped in grayness…

There is a man in the clouds
See him watching
scowls often
fades to gray
Disintegrating with the west wind
he is no more, yet everywhere
scatters hither and thither
with showers
neither caring nor callous
just existing
coming back around
to Watch
no judgment
then dissipating again

And the sun is covered by darkening clouds
a chill has set in
all is quiet
no breeze rouses the majestic evergreens
a Storm is coming…
to scour the land and air
Washing
Sometimes too much
creating and recreating the earth anew

-- Nina Longfield

Old Man, Erased

When I am old
and have become
just another

undone widower
drowning on page
where, wedged

between other
poorly-drawn people,

I have ceased
in my ability
to endure either
 
of my two dimensions,
do me a kindness
and erase me—

-- M. Drew Williams

My Heart

It is no one’s
fault that frost

stains its surfaces
inside and out—

no one’s fault
that my heart

is as lifeless
as a nest of stones.

-- M. Drew Williams

An Incorrigible Night

Having unconsciously soldiered
through an incorrigible night,
I was jarred awake by birds

indulging in a range of dirge-like
melodies. That morning had been
engineered with ease; the sun’s

dimmed-halogen glow had merged
seamlessly with the misty foliage
of surrounding woodlands. I drifted

through the day lethargically—
I passed through doors with rusted
hinges. The wars I waged against

my urge to sleep were savage
and drudged on and on until
the rigidity of night arrived once again.

-- M. Drew Williams

Word Games

There were words
For specific light
Sound
And the surfaces
Reflecting them

We played all day
With phrases
Syntax
And the minds
Reading

We caught a glimpse of ourselves
In the reflections and
Although
We were scared to death
We could not turn away

In sleep
The words come out to
Play

We made magic
With imagined sounds
Meaning
We did not fully understand
Yet felt

The soldier returns from
The nightmare
Wounded

Within the games
Sometimes the heart
Healed
Can love
Life again

-- Tom Rubenoff
 

Becoming

She is learning to breathe underwater.
Second by swallowed second,
her sponge lungs are hardening.
Drying out inside her rib cage.
She’s already chosen the knife
to carve the anemone gills she’ll need.
One of these mornings
she’ll dip the blade in
and slash herself into
a deep-sea creature.

-- Valentina Cano

A Childhood Jigsaw Puzzle

I worked from the outside in.
Pieces of yellow sand
slashed to a sudden drop,
eggshell blue scorched by a paper sun.
Inside pieces next,
the one with the eyelash drawn
like an accent,
a lilting pause
as her hands weighed an apple.
A picture pulsing in the heat
of what came next.

-- Valentina Cano

Observation

The people around her
were as blank as her feet,
leaving faceless impressions
in the air she breathed.

-- Valentina Cano 

For Two, Gone

—for S. and D.

Your weight is a
phantom pulse against my side.
The two of you translucent,
like dried flowers pressed in a book
and the more I touch you,
the more pieces that crumble away.

-- Valentia Cano 

Anorexia and I Shake Hands

I woke up dead that morning.
Skin peeling in strips like wet paper,
spider clumps of hair strewn
throughout my bed.
I felt my bones crumble like antacids,
my organs turning to pulp.
A mind careening toward a blank wall.

I woke up dead that morning.

-- Valentina Cano

gladness

It’s all about gladness
while the stinkweed
keeps right on stinkin’
and being stinkweed
and the skunk cabbage
trundles on and on
as skunk cabbage

We have always held
the pathways of earth
in our cupped palms,
passed from one
magician and acolyte
to the next without 
a drop of being lost.

-- Ayaz Daryl Nielsen 

cat fed

cat fed

belly rubbed

purring
the poetry
of us

-- Ayaz Daryl Nielsen 

Norman Doesn't Go to Ferguson, Missouri

Not far from Ferguson aflame
are quiet leafy neighborhoods
Norman Rockwell might have painted
when subdivisions first appeared.

These neighborhoods are beautiful
because Norman still comes back
four times a year, some say,
for touch-up work here and there

during the changing of the seasons.
He paints russets on the leaves in fall,
crystals on the snow in winter,
yellow on the daffodils in spring,

red and pink on roses in the summer.
But Norman doesn't paint in Ferguson  
because Ferguson he says is Watts
raging down the road to resurrection.

-- Donal Mahoney

The Drought

You drive down
the same country road
every day at dawn

and see through
plumes of dust
this tall thin woman

straight as a scarecrow
in front of a field of corn
holding a hoe like a flag

tugging at a straw hat
and staring at the corn
till she goes in the house

and sits at the table
looks through the window
past ancient curtains

and prays for the deluge
she and Elmer will need
for the slightest harvest

Donal Mahoney

FAMILY TREE

The snake-skinned man
died three years ago, alone, in Bellevue ~
the heroes, for years, our neighbors,
died in great numbers
and it took four decades
to comfort those left behind -
there are spinsters from up the river, I hear,
who are full of worms,
who talk garbage even when it's not garbage day,
and there are some women who pray
to their holy beads -
there are families as distant
as that hawk over the highway
and a farmer tossed from his land
who's gone a little crazy,
imagines himself in short pants
and tucked in nightly by his mother -
let's not forget the mayor of a small town
who created nothing
but took what he could -
and the grandmother who sewed
and was bewildered by the buzz of flies
constantly about her ears,
who lived with grandfather,
the would-be artist
who splashed more paint over himself
than on the canvas -
the long suffering man
went about with holes in his pockets -
the old child rocked herself to death -
and there was the tongue twister
who believed that he could think
and the maid who broke things -
tired fathers, bantering children,
drunken cops striving not to arrest themselves,
crumbling saints rubbing balm on their hands,
discreet lovers with words
for someone we can never know,
kids like highways running into the night,
debt and pregnancy, ghosts of long lost fortunes,
one or two with their hearts cut out
and pushing them through the park in prams.

-- John Grey