from Selected Haiku
rain pelts the meadow
driving all the birds to nest--
trees' outstretched arms
adept at silence
sounds ring hollow in my ears
a shattered bell
gently flowing brook
the mistress of sudden storms
rampage with anger
life should be easy
effortless words in a song
yet it always ends.
Read the poetry of Thomas Canull
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Beyond the Milkweed
It was her birthday.
She was only five
the dawn we went out
to look at roses
in Grandma's garden
while everyone else
She loved them all
but stooped the way
little girls do
and pointed to
wings of a Monarch
on the ground
splayed by death
fresh with dew
just last Spring
to lay their eggs.
She asked if
it would fly away
and I said no.
lay their eggs
and then sleep.
she and I
must be careful
not to make a sound
as we tip-toe
over there to the roses
beyond the milkweed
just last Spring
just for her.
Read the poetry of Donal Mahoney
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roofless cubes, spidery with wire
cakes of azure and enzian;
above at the Villa San Michele
Rilke smiles down at the broken beaches,
at coves of defiant waves, compacted sea
a chessboard of honest stones
open to a sky of hushed shouts;
we huddle in a boned frame
of another life, a stopped day
warm and secret, olive-eyed,
an infinite beauty makes a new face
as the gaze ape-like from our bus;
an act of moment
Read the poetry of Leslie Philibert
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The Place Where The
Stars Are Buried
I’m on my way to the place
where the stars are buried
under a roof of rain.
I won’t get lost.
I’m following the silver snail
trails and the muddy pools
with the little shimmers of spangles.
When I get there - to the place
where the stars are buried.
I shall dig a little, dig
just enough to let
a glimmer of light out.
Just enough to let
the love sparkle and
sizzle in the light
before it burns.
After the End
The sideboard was full of magazines.
Not whole magazines but
pages torn from them.
Pages of recipes.
Meals never eaten.
Exotic desserts never attempted.
Guest never invited or entertained.
At least the furniture had been used,
had had many years of use.
The clothes had been worn,
the pictures admired and enjoyed.
But the recipes were the saddest thing.
So many of them
for so many people
who never came.
Read the poetry of Lynn White
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Let’s talk it out, I said, and we went on talking
until the words became honey
dripping down a face being murdered by bees.
And from there we rolled
down a bloodstained road,
entwined in each other’s forgetting.
Day after day we rolled and rolled
until we went over the edge.
We married and bore children to divert our attention
until the days ran dry.
And now no one remembers the stones we swallowed,
or the times we collided in the graveyard of shadows
hanging from the trees.
Kneeling over the water I reflected on my own reflection,
but unlike Narcissus I did not fall in love with myself,
but asked how and why I’d made it this far with so little
understanding. And when I rose to my feet knowing that
eventually I would be hungry again and want to maintain
a roof over my head, I realized there would be certain things
I’d have to keep doing and continue to say to those of my kind.
And so I went on my way with a little perspective of how it
would be for the rest of my days...
Read the poetry of Jeffrey Zable
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I breathed-in the lines of your face,
Left drops of who you were on the arm of the chair,
wrapped my fingers around unspoken, hushed,
I stared down your scars—your hollow eyes,
guilty that they made me squirm.
Small round math lines /tunnels, knives.
I know blood was pushed in a mad dash.
They spun your stuff around tricking it into clean.
But nothing was new on you.
Soon you would be all that's left of nothing.
Short hair in spiked-up gray,
snipped slick down at the sides
so you could be less sick in a smaller space.
You swallowed up those voiceless screams--
brave rock-climber folded into last year's size.
I was screaming for you
and you just wanted to live.
You asked for nail polish in deep blues--
velvet blues you called them.
You wanted to face the next stretch
of your journey with your nails
shaped into neat half moons.
You cupped your hands around the tea cup
sipping it like you had all the time in the world.
But you were already gone by then.
I was just borrowing you.
Read the poetry of Amy Soricelli
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My eyes telegramming
My heart STOP
My mouth tasting
Ears cradling wave upon wave
of air breaking on
of tiny bone
Looking down into hands
which I no longer possess
I somehow morning-catch
the letter carried by moths from
that is my pocket,
And bend my knees
closer to the
to be my bed.
I try to make out vitality
into the green of the grass
but light leaches from the booming sky,
Rendering colour to spirit shades.
I collapse into
The smallest shape possible
Like a broken heart.
My heart -An Anemone in a tidal rock pool,
Somehow I must read your words.
And there it is
A glow worm
In the tarry night
Hanging onto the blade of grass before me-
One of many across
the dwindling horizon-
Changing the scene to a love story,
Stars for the Fallen,
Twinkling like childhood past,
a rabbit tunnel
back to Hope.
My hands become my own
again and softly I grasp
I hold it up gently between
Forefinger and thumb
Revealing words from you-
Crawling to rescue mine
in these last minutes,
lit by glow worm light,
Luciferin and Luciferase...
In this stage of the life cycle
The glow worm
Exists only to consummate
It cannot eat and will
Die after a few days.
The light flickers in the cavern
Of my hands.
Around me -a furred halo.
Read the poetry of Rushika Wick
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Old Horse Barn
Twenty-six daily mucked stalls
for a bevy of broken down thoroughbreds
still hoping for the dreams their thin legs rest on.
A water trough, a feed box,
old hoses that crack in winter,
harbinger of flies in summer,
clouds of DDT.
A teen ripped from my city
neighborhood, home, friends, school
by my gambling father.
Isolated now, listening to Hambone,
an older black farmhand,
stroking one of his thirty-nine cats,
stroking my pain.
He urged me not to run away.
Read the poetry of vern Fein
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