In the First Years

artwork: ralph murre

In the First Years

by Donna Hilbert

I don’t know exactly what he does all day,

my fresh-pressed engineer

how his slide-rule calculates

movement buried in the passageways

of pipes and tanks.

He uses words like

volatile, effluent, pressure.

But, I know what I do

rumpled mommy of two,

in a neighborhood so strange

I think it dangerous to stroll them to the park

alone. Mostly, I stay home

and wash piles of laundry

I never sort or fold,

cook food that doesn’t taste quite right,

although I won’t admit

nothing’s ever really good.

Sometimes I drive him to work

when I want the car to visit

my mother in the valley.

The refinery air is sulfurous

and thick, it makes the babies

in the back-seat gag, get sick,

vomit with such force they splatter my back

with flecks of puke, so I never

come entirely clean.

We go back after dusk

to pick him up.

The air still stinks, but the tanks

light up like Christmas.

In a couple of years the plant explodes

leaving a co-worker dead.

And, I will throw a plate of spaghetti

a whisper from my husband’s head.

But in the first years, no notion

of what comes after—

the fragile welds that held us

a match strike from disaster.

~ first published in 5 A.M.

A Discovery

photo: ralph murre

A Discovery

by Stephen Anderson

           

Last spring, the old bay window over the back deck was

Done in by ripsaw, crowbar and sledgehammer—

Smashed into a pile of scattered debris on the deck.

Among the leftovers, in the middle of a boxed-in section,

A hornets’ nest rose up, a Taj Mahal dome in miniature, some ten

Inches in diameter, a delicate looking carp scale pattern of maple

Seed and other unknown matter, home, the carpenter said,

To scores of yellow jackets, many of which terrorized us in

Seasons past while we entertained on the deck.

When the nest was torn open, its interior was empty like

Some lost, ancient civilization once sheltered so well by its

intricate design. Now gone forever from our property, a sacrifice

To our sliding deck door, a weatherproof invention—

Man-made technology of high order, lacking, though, the

Miracle that preceded it in that spot.

~ first published on Your Daily Poem

RIVER PRAYER

photoart: ralph murre

RIVER PRAYER

by Linda Back McKay

The old man was not really in a rowboat

under the Mississippi River bridge.

He was in the process of turning

inside himself, as we all will do one day.

Inside, he was finalizing the finished

and unfinished business of his life.

I just made up the part about him in a rowboat,

fishing being some of his best times.

In the rowboat, he tied a hook on a line,

fashioned a slab of plywood into an oar,

nailed, plugged, chopped and welded

all the materials of his backbreaking years.

This was great work for him and his face

was pinched with effort. Beads of sweat

glinted on his forehead as he gently laid

each of the items back into the water

from which they came, I imagine. The river

was grateful and in return rocked him

in its faithful current downstream

toward home,

which was a warm house filled with sisters

and all his old friends and Ma right there,

there, baking bread in the wood stove

from a recipe in her head.

~ previously appeared in the Saint Paul Almanac

RED SKY IN THE MORNING

photoart: ralph murre

RED SKY IN THE MORNING

by Jude Genereaux

The red negligee

hangs abandoned, sagging

from a hook

behind the waterbed.

My eyes sweep the morning sky for a sign

are drawn to the red cascade;

liquid lush satin screams your absence

clinging by one strap

fabric that held life in our nights

testament to city lights

spring serenades and driving

I Love You’s rich

as the red glow of tomorrow’s promise.

Our hearts hang suspended, sag

longing for the sailor’s delight

Red sky at night.

~ first published in Trains and Rain –

Poems of Lust, Dust, Rust, and Obsession

Bird and Tree

artwork: ralph murre

Bird and Tree

by Morgan Harlow

Today a bird flew into the yard and landed on the tree we almost

cut down, the one that is thin with one dead branch arching over

the fence.

A scrawny kind of bird, a wren or sparrow, or a chickadee perhaps,

common and cheerful. Look, you can see it now.

~ first published in The Cortland Review

Those Good Tomatoes

artwork: ralph murre

Those Good Tomatoes

by Donal Mahoney

          Chicago, South Side

Late July and I am waiting

for those good tomatoes

brought to the city from farms

on trucks with a swinging scale,

brought to the city

and into the alleys

by Greeks and sons

in late July

and early August,

tomatoes so red they reign

on the sills of my mind all winter

too perfect to eat.

~ first published in The Christian Science Monitor

Hibiscus Blooming

artwork: giuseppe de nittis

Hibiscus Blooming

by Hope McLeod

Having not bloomed for three years

my hibiscus burst forth

with a single, kimono-orange plume

a sign perhaps that our dog's passing

would be a smooth one.

As we held her she sang three fetching notes

like a Tibetan monk chanting

or a conch shell blowing

to warn us of a fast approaching vessel.

As the day darkened

as the flower shriveled

we wrapped our old puppy in bed sheets

and wondered

will we be that lucky

to have the other nearby

to stroke our soft ears

as we birth into death

to give each other room to sing

whatever needs to be sung

whatever needs to be done

to close up our lives

like a summer cabin for winter

like a gentle flower

bending its petals inward

after a long day of blooming.

~ previously published in The Place We Begin

   (Herd a Word)

Butterfly

photoart: sharon auberle

Butterfly                                                              

by Jeannie E. Roberts

Your order flew

through my door,

a class act

of Insecta —

full-blown,

four wings

fully grown,

a feast

for furtive eyes.

But before

you fluttered,

time was spent

unfolding,

inflating,

producing juice

for the journey.

There you waited,

defenseless,

tender to attack,

drying, until

your wide-eyed

wings let loose

on waves of air.  

Lepidoptera:

you've lived

fourfold,

been altered,

reshaped, reborn

and now,

you've shown me,

through my door,

you're my life

in metaphor.

                                                                                                 

~ previously published in Nature of it All                          

   (Finishing Line Press ) 

At the Dentist

At the Dentist

by Robert Nordstrom

Stretched out in this space-age La-Z-Boy

a high-speed Swedish-steel factory

whining inside my head

this guy cradles my head against his belly

like maybe he thinks it's me who's whining

and tells me he had a bad day

Dow Jones dropped 500 plus

but that's not his problem

and even if it were

these high-rise windows don't open

my palms are sweaty

but it's his bad day

and my bad luck

to be listening to this shit

my whole life it seems

just can't get a word in edgewise

what with this noise inside my head

and these people who make their point

despite the din

leaving me no recourse

but to wish I were a bald toothless monk

with the wisdom to understand

why these two skinny boys

and sullen little fat girl

are hanging in a frame

on a wall

next to a plant noose

in front of a window

that won't open

~ first published in Main Street Rag

Shells of Pink and Beige

photo: ralph murre

Shells of Pink and Beige

by Carol Louise Moon

A constellation, found in the hazel specks of

the eye’s iris, has rearranged and taken hold.

By September I could remember only that my father

lay dying, no other thoughts between us held.

I watch the old captain, his vessel sinking, water

of our tears collecting in our great ship’s hold.

Tiny shells of pink, beige and ecru in a small

lidded dish, as in a bank vault securely held.

Even his name, seen on this cracked mug,

grips my heart—has its own way of taking hold.

This hour’s dandelion fluff, blown by wind or

will across this barren plain, is a sight to behold.

In these last days I feel useless in this angled light—

a sweater, button-less yet button-holed.

And this name, my name whispered on his

dying lips, has a way of taking root… taking hold.

~ previously published in

   Late Peaches, Poems by Sacramento Poets

Memo on a Parable

Memo on a Parable

by Ed Werstein

To:       The Shepherd
Re:       Your Lost Sheep

Let’s consider this from his perspective.

Maybe he had a mind of his own.

Maybe he was tired of conforming,

of every time his eyes wandered

feeling the crook of your staff

round his neck.

Maybe he just wanted to be

alone for awhile,

to not be a part of the fucking

flock any more.

Maybe he was sick and tired

of your mid-night advances.

Maybe he was an artist

searching for a tar pit

to dye in,

the original black sheep.

Maybe he didn’t want to be found.

Maybe you were just afraid

of what songs he’d sing to your flock

across the hills at night.

~ first appeared on The Camel Saloon

Father Goose

photoart: ralph murre

 Father Goose

by Marilyn L. Taylor

Mel, Mel, the Dad from Hell

         Raised your kids in a padded cell.

Not one soul cried the night you died,

         But Mother giggled like a bride.

~ first published in Free Verse

Having It Out With Baseball

artwork: ralph murre

Having It Out With Baseball

by Mariann Ritzer

First of all, your balls are too small

(even as a kid I sensed this)

and your bats are either skinny as swamp

reeds or heavy and thick like a leg

that’s fallen asleep.

Through adolescence I tried to play

your game.  From left field I swatted

at flies and mosquitoes, daydreamed

about the perfect catch, holding on

while summers simply wilted away.

When that small ball finally did come,

it fell into the path of the blinding sun

and landed behind me instead of placing

itself into the oiled softness

of my waiting glove.

At the batter’s box I waited too,

my legs spread, straddling home plate,

my hands holding the bat just so.

But even then we couldn’t meet each other

halfway.  Either I was too early or it

was too late.  And like Miss Havisham’s

Estella, the years haven’t softened my heart

towards you.  There are no great expectations.

Sure, your plump hotdogs are as close

to heaven as I’ll ever get –

but they cost me

too much.

And, yes, when it’s finally time

for your seventh inning stretch, it feels

as good as a full body massage,

but it doesn’t make up for your one

fatal flaw – it simply takes you too long

to get the job done.

~ first published in Page 5

ASTRONOMY

digital art: ralph murre

ASTRONOMY

by Thomas R. Smith

The unaided eye sees only six thousand stars.

With our best instruments we can, perhaps,

take six thousand galaxies in one gulp of light.

They say the visual frontier of our universe

is now forty-two billion light years.

Are there universes beyond our universe?

At what point do we close the astronomy book

and ask, What have these nebulae and globular clusters,

these star-making dusts of the inconceivable distances

to do with us?  The heart wanders lost

on the white beach of suns in search of

the grain of sand that it calls home.

Breathe deeply.  Step back from the night window

against which galaxies’ moth-wings flutter.

Let God splash day-glo about that vast canvas.

In your own room, with the things you love,

stand among the “pillars of creation.”

You are the place where infinity begins.

  

~ first published in Poetry Ireland Review

photoart: ralph murre

Given

by Jeanie Tomasko

                       

For Jon           

                       

Now is a worn street on the east

side of town, now is

its sidewalk, its cracks                              

its dogs and women walking. Now is

its talking yard to yard, its front

porches, yawn-faced cats.

Now is a day of luscious light,

             the Sunday night of it,

fifth day into summer,

the fried-chicken-potato-salad of it,

            the friends, the table’s easy

laughter. Now is how

a body returns from darkness, how

a heart, how a thought, 

now is how to say given.

And this, the simplest grace: a wood floor 

shining with given, the garden

gate, repaired.

Every blade of grass is green with it.

Now is a plate heaped high

with it, and now, 

now is the whole blue onrushing world.

~ first published in The Midwest Quarterly

Fulcrum

from film: Two for the Seesaw

Fulcrum

by Albert DeGenova

The clock above the kitchen sink

ticks the distance between us –

motionless black coffee

reflects nothing

the table is too wide

to reach the sugar

myself, it is

disappointment

the black hour, the negative

end of

balanced, this dark weight

is too heavy, pass

the sugar over the fulcrum

of this moment, a hand

on a knee, lean in

and out, we are

the up and down

the tick the tock

and all the hours in between.

~ previously published in The Blueing Hours

   (Virtual Artists Collective)