When the poem takes its meaning out for its morning walk, there are several ways in which to do so. Some poems use a short leash. Some poems use a long leash. Some poems use a harness in addition to a leash. Some poems use a muzzle as well as both a harness and a leash. Although this technique keeps its meaning pretty well under control, you can still hear it growl at you. This can be very frightening no matter how much the poem may reassure you. After all, you ask, why put the muzzle on the meaning in the first place if it isn’t dangerous? Last, some poems use no leash at all. This is the poem that has total confidence and trust in its meaning. Usually the meaning of this type of poem is very friendly. The meaning will want to play with you. It might be overly friendly and slobber on you, so be a good sport. On the other hand, the type of poem that does not leash its meaning might secretly wish its meaning to run away. Chances are you will not encounter this kind of poem on a morning walk with its unwanted meaning. This kind of poem will go about its business in the dead of night.
—J. R. Solonche
Fifty Years On: Notes to a teenage me
My class picture
Seventh grade in Sweden
Was posted online
Me, with long hair,
Glasses and good grades
Insecure, but too tall for anybody to notice
You will survive
(At least long enough to write this)
There will be good times
There will be bad times
As told over and over and over
And, yes it will be worth it
That haircut should have been avoided though
I know, I know, the belt was mother’s idea
I/you/we hated it
But you will miss her
A lot
When she is gone
No, you will never kiss that girl
But others
Some will even like you
For a while
Others not at all
Occasionally you will even like yourself
I remember their names (most of the names)
I remember stories (most about myself)
To the left, in obligatory flared out jeans, me
To the right, blond and smiling, my best friend
He wanted to be a farmer
I an engineer
But his family had no land
And you only liked the drafting
Not the math
So you became a graphic designer
With a diploma
He a bus driver
You speak with him occasionally over the years
His little sister will choke to death on a slice of potato
His mother will die of cancer
On the bus he shepherded to France
His father will die of a heart attack
His child stillborn
You will move to New York City (No really!)
Working with clients of stage and fame
Names most others would recognize
But none of them will remember yours
Just as well, those things
Mean very little after a while
Amazingly, you will have two daughters
Both stirring something inside
That you never
Ever imagined
You could hold
Unconditional Love
Your parents will die of old age
Your mother at home, your father at hospice
Your brother is alive
You will have had cancer
You will retain some lifelong friends
Your oldest daughter will marry this summer
From this point forwards
You will have to experience
It all first hand (just like me)
Fifty years removed of that photo
Be kind
And don’t drink too much.
—Bo G. Eriksson
I Am the Earth, Holding the Galaxy Together
The ceiling is suspended
from the shelves,
and where are we may I ask?
I am waiting for this to happen
on the sky,
suspended from the floor.
And you,
where are you may I ask,
on a boat
holding down the water?
—Duane Anderson
Five Girls on a Hillside
One summer evening, they ran, full speed, up a hill and down, sometimes over a staircase and sometimes through the tall grass. No longer toddlers but not yet young women, maybe 4 to 6 years old.
One girl, in red rugby shorts and a jersey, exuded physical confidence. She took the long steps in single strides, hurling herself ahead of the others.
Close behind, in a black velvet dress, another fluttered step to step in double time, beguiling even gravity, which seemed to soften its pull just for her.
A third, in a nondescript t-shirt and shorts, gravitated to the middle, quietly grounding the group with no need to cry out, “Look at me! Look at me!”
A fourth, in crisp shorts and shirt, made her own path off to the side and, again and again, crossed a gravel landing the others avoided. As her bare feet hit the tiny rocks, her brow furrowed deeper as she met the challenge and held her pace.
The fifth, with cascading curls and a flowing sundress, beamed joy. The smallest and most delicate, she struggled to keep up, and in trying, sometimes outran her feet. Down a few seconds, she’d pop back up and dash ahead. All smiles, no tears.
World, be gentle with these young souls, mothers to the women and to you.
—Sue Books
Verdict for George Floyd
Truth be told,
the ultimate arbitrator
“lead us not into temptation
but deliver us
from evil”
that conspires…
you only live once
and it may be
or/unless
incarnating at unknown levels
doppelgangers, emotional & fibrous,
repeat and
this is not – or is
a type of condemnation
cycling
until we’re right & substantive
enough to assume a higher plain
in geography of reason
dictating topography
a landscape laid out
verdant/rolling
peppered with
mountains, meadows, trees, crops…
or maybe
the decision is that
put before/after
is all along
where we stand.
-C.P. Masciola
Our Species
The domesticated cat: Nature’s perfect predator…
but the miniature version.
And like any other cat, prowling
your domain, you are shocked
to be picked up by a creature
you consider your inferior, held
back by the scruff. I don’t want you
to be surprised when they close
the front door—your domain
was never really yours,
and the panicked epiphany—
you’re trapped, small, and lonely.
-Addison Jeffries
On Seeing the Dead Bird
I pause catch my breath:
fascinated by death
its beauty
its folded wing
by its fatality
its resemblance to life
its denial of life
by its finality
opaque covering over
its eye its one eye
its unmoving presence
in the green of spring
to hold onto beauty
even as it fades
wonder at the course
hope for the eternal
denial its silence
its reminder other mortalities
all those deaths
the other face of reality
reeling through our lives
expecting courage
what to do with so much suspended vitality
stillness instead of flight
blindness instead of sight
rigor instead of life
a reproach in this little circle death
outside it something else
a kind of now
—Cordelia M. Hanemann
This is The Way We Dance
All elbows and knee-knocked.
We blunder through it blindly.
A hip right and a foot left.
Jerk. Twist. Fall.
Others have murmurations, soft movements—
grace that implies comfort, coordination, communication.
We watch wistfully.
We try once more.
We lose our footing
but come together again -
ugly steps that lead us to our own rhythm.
—Penny Rifenburgh
What I Did on My Covid Vacation
I am sitting
straight up
in the middle
of Dal Lake
not because
of salt
but because
of luck
Blue Mountaintop
sits alongside me
in the valley
not because
I climbed it
but because
it is comfortable
here
adventure has
transported itself
into every meal
not because
of challenge
but because
I cook
sleep has taken on force
not because I tire
but because
I invested in it
seasons are not a problem
not because I go away
but because I stay
sense has become sheer
not because it wasn’t before
but because I noticed
again
fear has become expendable
not because it is gone
but because it is there
Love has outlasted burden
not because of passion
but because of
itself
—Peter Coco
The Future
I wonder,
in screen
full of faces,
can you know
I’m looking
only at
your eyes
as they
scan text
we are
all trying
to read?
—Alan Semerdjian
Keeping it Folded
Your finger slides across an edge,
Barely making a crease.
Keeping just for yourself
A silence on which to feast.
—Christopher Porpora
