by chris thackston

Yes, I am the odd number,

It is I, the lonely worm,

Feeling trapped in a flock of birds

They fly through the trees,

Evil eyes staring at me.

 

Yes, I am the odd number,

Alone and rare as a black rose,

The Daisies that surround me,

Are full of color and light,

My darkness, a shadow of life.

 

 

by k.g. mcabee

Back in the day

The mills dammed the rivers,

Damning them to stone cages,

Funneling their freedom

Into bolts of cotton and linen and denim.

Now we free the rivers

From their rocky chains.

But are they happier?

Or do they miss

Their occupation, clothing the world,

Hiding its nakedness

Under the colors of the stars:

Red giant, blue dwarf, black hole?

 

by m.m. griffin

I hear cackles from earlier generations

and echoes of past conversations

in the water’s thucks and bubbles.

The voices are wet branches against the sky.

 

I see images of vaguely familiar faces

and distant places in the foamy water

crashing over rocks and swirling

in the river’s spiral.

 

I want to wade in the shallow water

and revel in the current’s resistance,

but there is not enough time.

 

I watch a man toss his rod into brown water.

After three attempts, he catches a small fish.

 

I try to remember something unseen

and wonder how far the river flows.

I want to stay and play for a while,

but I must go.

 

by marjorie garrett

Rock in the Park by Ron DeKett

 

That would be a fierce hydraulic

if you took it in a kayak.

I wouldn’t recommend it.

If you do, your judgment’s slack.

You will end up on a gurney

with a spine board on your back.

It will be a lonesome journey

to the rehab place and back.

 

If you’ve been told you have two to four weeks to live, what would do you do?

My cousin told her daughter she wanted a lemon pie

so her whole family could eat together one more time.

What would you do?

I’d write all those letters I’ve put off.

I’d call my family and tell them I love them.

I’d sit outside, or watch the glories of spring through a window.

I’d listen to the birds chirp and the leaves rustle.

I’d bring back all the good memories and hold them close.

I’d banish every bad memory I have.

And I hope I’d think of the adventure I am heading toward.

No one knows what death is like. Soon I’d know.

– Jenny Munro

(Written shortly after my cousin was given a time limit for her life)

I am — a daughter, a sister, an aunt, a granddaughter, a niece, a cousin.

I am — a woman, a dreamer, an explorer, a writer, a traveler, a doer.

I am … one of a kind, one of many, a bit of star dust, a moment in time, a particle in the universe.

I am … an artist, an excavator, a beam of light, an idea, a committee member.

I am … a student, a walker, a reader, a homeowner, a graduate (of many schools and lessons).

I am …. a worker,  a flower lover,  a photographer, a poet, a reporter, a wordsmith.

I am … a collector of teapots, family letters, books, salt and pepper shakers and carved eggs.

I am … a cleaner, a creator, a decorator, a lover of all, a swimmer in oceans, lakes, rivers and words.

I am … a volunteer, a friend, a caretaker, a gift-giver, a picker up of the pieces.

I am … a mover, a shaker, an experimenter, a collector of frogs, a devotee of many things old and a some things new.

I am … a retiree, a reacher for new experiences, a tea drinker, a dieter, a cook.

I am — a nurturer without children, an animal lover without pets, a guardian without weapons.

I am … one with the world, a seer of visions, a teller of tales, a knitter of memories, a repository of hopes.

I am … ME.

– Jenny Munro

(I was trying to write a personal biography and getting nowhere. So I decided to try this.)

by: Jenny Munro

Red and yellow, green and blue, pink and white – the balloons float up to Heaven

Through rain and sunshine, clouds and wind.

They begin their journeys in Florida and Rhode Island, South Carolina and Massachusetts, even Washington, D.C. But they all end in Heaven with Mark.

Those bits of rubber, air and color each honor the youngster, showing him he had family he’d never met – sisters, aunts and uncles, cousins, even his mother (whom of course he knew) and a stepfather.

A person’s life and worth is not measured in years but in love.

Mark is rich in that.

– Jenny Munro

Click to watch Nan read this poem.

by: Nan Lundeen

They look down their noses and ask if I will
sit on the committee,
make a presentation,
take a job with the corporation.

And I want to know—
do I have to wear pantyhose?

They ask if I will teach a class,
speak to the congregation,
accept a most officious task,
and sit on yet another committee.

And I want to know—
do I have to wear pantyhose?

They ask if I will host the symposium,
teach the workshop,
sing for disadvantaged tots,
and sit on yet another committee.

And I want to know—
do I have to wear pantyhose?

They ask if I will witness the execution,
provide them with locution,
marry the candlestick maker in the finest clothes,
listen while the many unburden their woes.

And I want to know—
do I have to wear pantyhose?

Oh, give me your bare legged,
your grandmother in tennis shoes,
your gardener in old boots
your hikers
your wanderers
your dreamers
the barefooted—
grass and chicken shit
between their toes—
but do not,
oh, do not
give me pantyhose!

 

Buy Nan Lundeen’s powerful collection of poems about strong women who rip off their pantyhose, celebrate the “tao of me dancing round the poplar tree,” and find redemption in a little red bra at Amazon.com.

 

by Adamy D. Diaz

Feb. 3, 2013
Dedicated to: “Mi Gente”

The wind howls in my ears
As “The Best of Times” plays in my tunes
Memories flooding with the beat
And the rhythm of the song.

Step by step by step,
The cadence of the song
Matches the beat of my run.

Images from a distant past
Replayed with every step,
A spark of joy with every verse
Of this familiar song.

“The best of Times” always bring memories
Of friends in times long gone
And friendships that remain
Preserved through time and space.

“The best of Times” brings back memories
But the best has not yet come.

by Adamy D. Diaz

We set out to find our roots
Searching for the missing pieces
of a puzzle started long ago…

Who has the answers?

The journey has just begun!

 

Robert’s Dairy
Omaha, Nebraska
Misuse Punishable by Law

 

What’s the deal here?

An old, red plastic crate

announces it will not be misused

or the misuser shall go straight to

jail.

 

Maybe pay a fine, I think.

 

What is misuse of a red, plastic crate?

 

Does jurisprudence have

an opinion on red plastic crates?

What is the crate canon?

 

Let us apply reason:

the crate was meant only for milk

and other use constitutes misuse.

 

Now I’m worried and confused—

what about cream and cottage cheese?

My God, what about yogurt?

Does feta step over the line?

 

I strongly suspect

my scribbled poems

and ideas smudged on the backs of napkins

are violations.

 

That sets me to worrying

about the crate police.

Will they knock on my door

in the middle of the night armed with a warrant?

  

Do they have a right to search?

What constitutes probable cause?

I suspect being a poet

is cause enough.

 

But surely this is paranoia

and what counts

is that I have always been

kind to the crate

although once I made it carry a cactus.

 

……….Nan Lundeen

 

The poet is grateful to SCWW’s Horizons 2002 where “Crate” was named best of issue for poetry.

 

Not big on religion

I’m resting in poetry.

 

When D.’s dad lay dying

she read Robert

Frost to him

 

and grand white wings answered

swinging from their

own birches.

 

……………..Nan Lundeen

 

The Poet is grateful to Yemassee where “Birches” first appeared.

 

 

My little dog

keeps me company

while I brush my teeth.

Nobody else I know

will do that.

 

…….Nan Lundeen

 

The poet is grateful to Iowa Writes where “Companion” first appeared.

 

Anasazi Mother,

 

at home among

prickly pear

sagebrush

lizard

 

did you sing to Moon?

 

Anasazi Mother,

 

boulder jumble

sandy canyon

coyote yip

burr of wasp

 

did snake speak to you?

 

Anasazi Mother,

 

spires spearing dry sky

pockmarked rock

cruel sun

red rock nest

 

did you dream of cool caves?

 

Anasazi Mother,

 

some say when a new shaman’s hand

rests in a petroglyph handprint,

the shamans gone before

fill her with their spirits

 

what rock-locked wisdom do we need?

 

Anasazi Mother,

 

what knowledge lies buried

with your ancestors

under your kitchen floor?

 

Anasazi Mother,

 

when your hands failed

did you still yearn

to imprint sun-seared boulders?

when your lips burned

and your tongue swelled

did you keen at the water hole?

 

when your hearing failed

did you mourn

buzz of bee, wind stirring ricegrass?

 

when your heart failed

did you still struggle to ask Moon

why the rains no longer blessed the land

and all your children died?

 

……..Nan Lundeen

Valley of Fire, Nevada

 

The poet is grateful to The Petigru Review where “Last Mother” first appeared.

 

day wanes

slowly in Saluda

sunlight sifts air

feathers whisper

under pale lit sky

hammock becalmed

swims butterflies

 

river over rock

river over rock

 

there

 

light fades

 

tin roof glinting

trilling chameleon tail

now you see it

now you don’t

 

river over rock

river over rock

 

woods full under half moon

sliced cleaver straight

like gram cut her pumpkin pie

this world

 

the other world

 

glimpsed like fairy feet

moon cool dips frog pond

whippoorwill song

light falling into tomorrow

 

river over rock

river over rock

 

they read the tarot

that afternoon

at Betsy’s kitchen table

two friends

 

listen

 

hear that

 

baby birds

those are baby birds

 

river over rock

river over rock

 

white half moon

pale in the gloaming

 

wings flapping

owl over road

swooping low

 

river over rock

river over rock

 

cottage side yard

meadowlike

cupped in woods

 

there

 

it falls

 

the dark

 

and the lawn

fills with fireflies

fat bright fireflies

 

blink

 

blink

 

blink

and over there

 

more

 

river over rock

river over rock

 

moon bright now against black

 

owl

moon

alone

 

but for the black bear

napping in day lilies

 

river over rock

river over rock

river over rock

river over rock

 

………………Nan Lundeen

 

The poet is grateful to the College of Charleston’s Illuminations where “falling into night” first appeared.