Note Posted . . .

artwork: vincent van gogh (from old postcard reproduction)

Note Posted Under the Lost Pet Notices

by Joan Wiese Johannes

You probably don’t remember me, but I am wondering

why you no longer do your laundry on Friday nights.

You are the guy in your thirties who wore nice shirts,

usually plaid, suggesting that you came here from work,

which is good because I like men who work.

Your shirts were wrinkled, so I figured you were single.

And since you didn’t wash your sheets every week,

I surmised that you weren’t getting a lot, which is good

because a girl can’t be too careful these days.

Your underwear impressed me; briefs are unpretentious,

and you replace them before they go gray or the elastic dies.

I also liked the way you rolled your socks into little balls

before tossing them into your bag.  You never missed,

which is good because I like men who athletic.

I didn’t speak to you the first time I saw you because

I was wearing old, green sweatpants.

The next week, not expecting to see you again,

I wore my glasses and my hair was dirty.

Once I introduced you to Bounce when your towel stuck

to your tee shirt but was too shy to introduce myself.

Now I miss our meetings and hope you have just changed

your laundry schedule and haven’t lost your job, moved,

or found someone to iron your shirts.

~ first published in Free Verse

Pumpernickel

artwork: vincent van gogh

Pumpernickel

by M.J. Iuppa

If the color yellow runs out

with what will we make bread?

                      ~ Neruda

Without sun’s warm buttery light

spilling onto the kitchen’s table–

without lemons resting side by side

in our mother of pearl bowl–

without candlelight sputtering

surprise– yelp of the yellow dog

lying across the threshold, listening

for slow footsteps returning

to an hour that’s groundless

in its long wait– the clock’s tick

unlocks the world mimicking

other worldliness– when all we wanted

was to break bread. Forgetfulness

sounds like forgiveness when yellow

runs out in the way  fields of winter

wheat sway in question . . .

   

See how dark mahogany rises–

coarse swell of sourdough–

this steaming loaf found

in the hands of strangers.

~ first published in Tar River Poetry.

Where Water Might Be Blue

artwork: vincent van gogh

Where Water Might Be Blue

-after Van Gogh’s Rhônebarques, 1888

     by Kristin Alberts

Boats float easy in the thick river.

Ropes are heavy and hand-twisted,

made by some old man with leather palms,

half-blind from gazing at rising suns and

braiding frayed string ends

that bind the floating to the steady,

boat to shore, man to land.

Planks lay crossways flat, paths

between boats and docks, waving walkways

where sea-legged men stagger under

piles of supplies, filling the vessel

with all the land can offer the sea as sacrifice--

armfuls of wood for fires at night,

trunks of dried meat, drinking water kegs,

and heavier loads of dreams and wishes

for where waves would take them,

only the ropes holding them back

from finding days and places

where water might be blue.

~ previously published in Where Water Might Be Blue

   (Wm Caxton Ltd)