Think Ice Fields

photo: ralph murre

Think Ice Fields                                                        by Bobbie Krinsky

  Howling wind   wild waters                                                                       slamming wild waters                                                                                        flash freeze                                                                                                         Saw tooth slabs                                                                                              bathed in sunset’s fading fire                                                                                jag through black nights

 endless days

                                     white-on-white

  till Earth tilts back                                                                                                 towards the sun                                                                                                   and blue ice                                                                                                          moaning for midnight’s moon                                                                     shudders and shifts                                                                                     tumbling blocks                                                                                                    big as rooms

                      over and under                                                                                                         slabs splitting into chunks                                                                                                           and chips so thin                                                                                                                      they crackle                                                                                                                                like shattering glass                                                                                               as they bump and bob past                                                                              black-banked willows  

  branches plumped                                                                                                so yellow with sap                                                                                        everywhere I turn  I hear                                                                                    wind chimes                                                                                                             and the red wings’ spring songs                                                                         ringing across   open waters

~ first published in A Slender Thread (Little Eagle Press)

Austerity

photoart: ralph murre

Austerity

by Ed Werstein

The text of this poem has been appropriated as a payment of debts owed.

What if, like other states, the state of poetry were in default?

Poets everywhere would be in debt.

A word lifted here, a phrase there,

a borrowed reference

and pretty soon it would start to add up.

The lenders,

wildly rich with words

piled high in library vaults

(words like money, gold,  jewelry,

estates, off-shore bank accounts,

portfolios and Porsches),

would lend to us

at ever-increasing interest rates.

We would continue to write,

but eventually our words would

disappear as we wrote them,

repossessed.

We would be left with only titles,

signifying not our ownership

but our mounting debts,

and these few words:

austerity, crisis,

foreclosure, unemployment,

hunger, poverty, war.

Words that would never be taken from us.

~ first published in New Verse News

December, Wisconsin 1988

photo: ralph murre

December, Wisconsin 1988

by Cathryn Cofell

(1)

The village turned the landfill last

week, but we barely notice the stench. 

The air feels bicycle and basketball,

the last chunks of leaves

still clinging like ex-lovers.

Bare feet against the porch window,

we sip Greek wine, listen

with wicked grins to our sweaters

pound against the locked

cedar chest in the hall.

(2)

In the chapel, a girls’ choir so clear

the ceiling tiles weep.  One possum girl

on the end, all pigtails and glasses,

faints a little. She is so out

of place she could be ours

if we had one.  Midnight,

the cats fight over the manger

and Mary is lost.  We pick up pieces,

check for cuts in dark places.

(3)

Donation boxes cringe half empty;

can you hear their bellies rumble? 

The mall overflows and the streets

overflow and the hospitals overflow,

but tomorrow the phone could ring,

a sister or cousin with news. 

Gifts wrapped in silver and cinnamon,

cookies bundled in cellophane, 

possibility like the touch of a small hand,

certain to take hold before snow.

~ first published in the Wisconsin Poets’ Calendar

Thin Ice

photo: linda aschbrenner

Thin Ice

by Linda Aschbrenner

The skating raccoon with the red scarf

hangs on our Christmas tree every year.

He glides on fumes of herring

when we’re all gathered.

I’ve watched him count us—

seeing who is new in the crowd,

who is gone. He spins and turns

when the cat bats at him,

pretending to be in the Olympics.

And in mid-January,

when I return him to a heap

of boxed ornaments,

he kicks me with a sharp blade

and asks what’s the guarantee

either of us will be back

next Christmas.

~ first published in Wisconsin Poets’ Calendar

The Man Who Lives in the Gym

The Man Who Lives in the Gym

by Donal Mahoney

                        St. Procopius College

                        Lisle, Illinois

                        after World War II

The man who lives in the gym

sleeps in a nook up the stairs

to the rear. Since Poland 

he's slept there, his tools

bright in a box locked 

under his bed. At noon bells

call him down to the stones

that weave under oaks to the abbey

where he at long table takes 

meals with the others 

the monks have let in 

for a week, or a month, or a year

or forever, whatever 

the need. The others all know

that in Poland his wife

had been skewered, his children

partitioned, that he had escaped

in a freight car of hams.

So when Brother brings in, on a gun

metal tray, orange sherbet for all

in little green dishes,

they blink at his smile,

they join in his laughter. 

~ first published in  The Davidson Miscellany

On Such a Night

artwork: ralph murre

On Such a Night     

 by Patricia Wellingham-Jones

On this night frost shivers beneath the stars,

the planet tilts a small breath closer to warmth.

The seam between worlds eases apart for a few hours

and souls from other places, other times, slip through.

People spanning the ages gather at their sacred sites.

Magic rides the heavens on such a night.

~ first published in East Valley Times

In Dark December

artwork: ralph murre

In Dark December

by Ralph Murre

Whatever you believe,

whatever you do not,

there are sacred rites

you must perform

in dark December.

Do this for me:

Pull together

the kitchen table,

the folding table,

and that odd half-oval

usually covered

with bills and broken pencils

and red ink.

Pull together family and friends,

cool cats and stray dogs alike.

Turn off everything

except colored lights,

the roaster,

the toaster, the stove.

Cook.  Bake.  Eat.

Yes, even the fruitcake.

Eat, crowded around

those assembled tables

with mismatched chairs.

Reach so far

in your sharing

that you hold the sun

in one hand,

the stars in the other,

and no one between is hungry.

Now walk together,

talk together,

be together

on these darkest nights.

Give and forgive.

Light candles and ring bells.

Sing the old songs.

Tell the old stories

one more time,

leaving nothing out,

leaving no one out

in the long night,

leaving nothing wrong

that you can make right.

                        ~ first published in Peninsula Pulse       

Girl

artwork: ralph murre

Girl

by Stella Pierides

She rarely smiles. A thick, white veil

frames her face, stops her innocence

from straying too far;

remembering the world outside.

Here she lives, here she is

and here she stays: four walls,

bench, Bible, rosary, Cross,

pair of clogs, glass, pebble,

compass, chair, table.

She would be lost, but

for her little pleasure:

a bowl of coconut ice

refectory Sister leaves

on her windowsill.

~ previously published in Off the Coast

Basilica . . .

sketch: ralph murre

Basilica circa AD 2000

by Stephen Anderson

A tarnished copper dome, expertly fitted

Over steel and concrete shell sheltering

Inside the ornate masterpiece of

The finest carved marble,

Exquisitely crafted wooden pews,

Polished sandstone and chiseled granite,

Richly colored murals with

Golden trim from the gilded strokes

Of master painters,

Saintly stories in stained glass

Painstakingly cut and welded with

Lead frame into whole form

By yet other Old World artisans whose

Creation, nourished by decades of

Pious devotion and religion-inspired generosity,

Rises defiantly into the new millennium

Above urban decay, gangbangers

And people searching for their

Next food pantry.

~ first published in Wisconsin Poets’ Calendar

Two for the Tragedy

Editor's note:  It seems an especially sad note that when great tragedies strike, we already have previously-published poems which fit the circumstances of the day all too well. Here are a couple submitted this weekend, one from 2003, the other from 2006:

collage: daniel abdal-hayy moore

ALL THE DEAD CHILDREN

 by Daniel Abdal-Hayy Moore

Angels are learning new tricks to entertain all the

dead children

just bringing them to a quiet place used to be enough

blue panels sonorous as cool winds rising to

infinite heights and

luminous rivers tasting of fresh milk and

passionflower honey

But now they are more restless and want something

lively such as fabulous displays and real

stellar extravaganzas to shut out the memories

All the wingéd horses have been brought in

and every banner from every battle ever waged

transformed into aurora borealis brightness is

planted on either side of the great arena which is

actually nowhere you can put your finger on and may be as

big as a sparkle or light years across

The angels begin conventionally enough and since they’re

anti-gravitational they are capable of some

pretty amazing feats their specialty being a

spinning array of a few billion shimmering their wings and

turning slowly at first in a

cone that goes up through so many dimensions the

children have to stop counting with

each dimension demarcated by another

color no one on earth’s spectrum has

ever seen before

Then the cone begins

turning faster and faster and shoots higher and higher

finally sweeping their astonished souls wide-eyed into a

vortex so swift they barely notice that they’re

arcing across fields of unearthly green and seas of

unoceanic turquoise

Each shroud has been made into a tent filled with

fabulous fruits and unidentifiable edibles of

uttermost succulence

Each soul has been given the Ultimate Glimpse

and the Accurate Portrayal

the Perfect Sustenance and the Infinite Intensity

Each time they clap their hands a new

universe appears

more fabulous than the last

And when they tire of such delights

William Blake reads to them from his new work

and Mozart comes in and plays them a tune

on a million pianos

~ Previously published in Psalms for the Brokenhearted

   (Ecstatic Exchange)

photo: charlotte ferrell

LORD PLEASE HUG THE CHILDREN

by Charlotte Sista C Ferrell  

Lord please hug the children tonight

Lead them from their struggle and strife

Lord please hug the children tonight

Guide them through any neglect or blight

Lord, help us hug our children tonight

Reflect on their struggle in a new light

Teach them to love instead of fight

Show us ways to lead the children away

From the horrors of the day

Block them from stray bullets and prevent 

Fresh, innocent lives from being spent

Strengthen all those who work with youth

Gird us with YOUR love and truth

To lead away from ac’qui’escence

That short- circuits adolescence

Lord lay hands on the City of Angels today

In fact, please lay hands on the world today

There's hardly any place to play!

Give us back a reverent nature

Help us to stop saying, " I hate ya.”

Let us catch the vision of a new reality

Where childhood is enjoyed in its totality

Energize us to use our voices

So youth everywhere have more choices

Bolden us to take a stand for justice and truth

That makes life a joy for children and youth

~ previously published in From Pillows to Pillars

   (AuthorHouse)

Sister of Narcissus

from a photo by sienna brown

Sister of Narcissus

by Ellaraine Lockie

          After Echo and Narcissus in Greek Mythology

As she freed water from the bathtub

there clinked six times a knock of metal

She rose, wrapped a towel around her

and looked through the peephole

in the hotel room door

Seeing nothing she said Who's there

Who's there repeated a voice

heavy with the weight of an octave

Show yourself so I may decide she said

The deep echo in the hall said the same

She, having little interest in imitation

and being a modern woman wet with desire

opened the door and dropped the towel

He being an age-old fool of a man

stepped from the wall in a pool of drool 

She smacked him in the face with the door

Retired to her king-sized waterbed

Listened to a litany of rejected voices

And laughed

~ first published in Shakespeare’s Monkey Review