It seeps, it creeps. Emerging, crawling, a marring of sky. Amber deepens to pumpkin, the distortion less unsettling. Soon, a blood orange supplants everything. We sit here, marveling. Not waiting, not anxious. Marveling at how the painter turns blue sky to moonlit darkness.
Yellow Streak across the windowpane, a bolt of lightning shifting left and right pursued. A goldfinch escaped from its cage.
Weeping Willow
I lay beneath her branch cover wrapped in her crocheted weave, warm and calm; I laze, eyes closed, lightly shuttered. Full lotus, lily flower perched at the roots in silence and poise. Hair swept aside my cheek with a feathered hand. Silky rose petal lashes close to gaze at me. Soft lips brush mine with moist peroxide wine, cleansing my tears. Waltz of chimes filter through, I open my eyes to the blue sky studded with cumulus clouds
Serena Agusto-Cox was one of the first featured poets of the DiVerse Gaithersburg reading series in Maryland and coordinates poetry programming for the Gaithersburg Book Festival. Poems are in Live Encounters, Halfway Down the Stairs, The Magnolia Review, Beltway Poetry Quarterly, Dissonance Magazine, and more. Work appears in The Great World of Days, This Is What America Looks Like, Mom Egg Review’s Pandemic Parenting, The Plague Papers, H.L. Hix’s Made Priceless, Love_Is_Love:An Anthology for LGBTQIA+ Teens, and Midge Raymond’s Everyday Book Marketing. She also runs the book review blog, Savvy Verse & Wit, and founded Poetic Book Tours to help poets market their books.
Editor’s Note: Two of these poems appeared in the show “Photopoetry,” alongside photographs by Gordana Gerskovic, at the Foundry Gallery, April 2022.
Image by Chris Light, CC BY-SA 4.0 <https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/4.0>, via Wikimedia Commons
Bare branches of winter trees sway in wind, like animals bobbing their heads, listening to music of breezes, telling stories to their neighbors.
Trees know who tilled the soil before this house was built. Trees know earth is warming from human pursuits.
How long have they been trying to tell us?
Sudden Downpour
Temperature and winds rise, trees shake their branches, leaves turn undersides up against the wind. Thunder reverberates for sound effects.
Rain comes straight down, then caught by winds, comes at angles like sheets whipped in frenzy. A spark of lightning, more thunder, the storm now directly overhead.
Leaves dance in the rain as if trying to rinse off dust from every surface. A few more blasts of wind, a bit more rain. Earth shudders, stills, gathers fallen rain to become greener yet.
Last Seen Wearing
a full coat of pink blossoms wrapped around every limb. Below that only rough bark exposed to spring gusts.
If you search for her now, be sure the artist offers you an updated sketch, an image of bare limbs that chill you just to look at them.
If you want to see her as she was last seen, wait until next spring when you will once again find her wearing a full coat of pink blossoms.
Fran Abrams turned to writing poetry after retiring, having spent 40 years writing legislation, regulations, memos and reports in government and nonprofit organizations. Her poems have been published online and in print in Cathexis-Northwest Press, The American Journal of Poetry, MacQueen’s Quinterly Literary Magazine, The Raven’s Perch, Gargoyle 74, and others. In 2019, she was a juried poet at Houston (TX) Poetry Fest and a featured reader at DiVerse Gaithersburg (MD) Poetry Reading. Her poems appear in eleven anthologies, including the 2021 collection titled This is What America Looks Like from Washington Writers Publishing House (WWPH). In December 2021, she won the WWPH Winter Poetry Prize for her poem titled “Waiting for Snow.” Her chapbook, titled The Poet Who Loves Pythagoras, is forthcoming from Finishing Line Press. Please visit franabramspoetry.com.
Editor’s Note: These poems appeared in the show “Photopoetry,” alongside photographs by Gordana Gerskovic, at the Foundry Gallery, April 2022.
This broad valley between two ridges holds green even when snow crusts crests where rocks break open — What dark surge shakes loose eagles from their nests, undermines foundation-stones, drains seas? Isn’t it the same pulse that raises tides and mountains, guides the stormlost petrel home and home and home again? Sickness pulls us ever-widening, only to clasp us in its grip — Yet, we must go on, breathe crisp air, and mark the wend-way under one lone star, stumble foot and mumble song until we reach shadows. Even then. Until the hills descend and sea takes all.
HOW MANY FINGERS?
”And if the party says that it is not four but five — then how many?” • George Orwell, 1984
They would close the stars in boxes, nail them shut. Let no-one see what was nor what might be.
Time will come when you will pay to paint your own coffin — pay with a smile.
Tug down the windowshade. Stuff rags around your doorsill.
Don’t mind the din — the hammer and throb. It’s nothing, and that smell? Why it’s not gas, only old flowers. Yes, they’re wilted.
A drop or two of ether should revive them.
W. Luther Jett is a native of Montgomery County, Maryland and a retired special educator. His poetry has been published in numerous journals as well as several anthologies. His poetry performance piece, Flying to America, debuted at the 2009 Capital Fringe Festival in Washington D.C. He is the author of four poetry chapbooks: Not Quite: Poems Written in Search of My Father” (Finishing Line Press, 2015), Our Situation (Prolific Press, 2018), Everyone Disappears (Finishing Line Press, 2020), and, Little Wars (Kelsay Books, 2021). Luther is also the facilitator of a monthly virtual open mike sponsored by the Hyattstown Mill Arts Project in Hyattstown, Maryland.
Image by Rosendahl, Public domain, via Wikimedia Commons
For my grandmother (Feb 2, 1956 – February 13, 2020)
I’m trying to find the right words to make sense or peace with your passing But I can’t, so I’ll make peace with remembering you laughing Smile brighter than any room you lit up My emotions run deep and sometimes get mixed up But I remember every time you fought to get up And I know I’d be selfish not to get it Because I get it But can’t grip it Trying to turn these memories, into similes But I can’t stop from crying And all you’ve instilled in me I can’t stop from trying Still it kills me to know I get to live and couldn’t stop you from dying It’s ironic I feel empty, but not toxic I carry only strength with no other option Because I know it’s what you wanted! I know you’re at peace, and I gotta be honest no matter the hurt Lol remember that time you hit me over the head with your purse Because I smacked my lips I’ll remember you as just that and act as if You right there over my shoulder, better yet my back With that look like get it together, I now think before I act They say you never know what you got til its gone You’re proof that they’re wrong I loved you since the day our hearts connected The day our souls became telepathic And my mind was dedicated To being the strongest woman I could ever be You are my hero, and I miss you Thankful for every advantage I took to kiss you Grandma, you are my angel And every time in life I feel entangled Or endangered Filled with rage or anger I’ll think of you …. And that’s the perfect peace And in this piece I hope to find peace I’m thankful for your passion to teach Your absence is showing me it’s time to SPEAK And be the best me But I don’t know what’s worse If it’s bad that I ain’t good Or if it’s good that this ain’t all bad Somedays I’m sad Most days I’m mad But all days I’m glad That your battle is won But my battle has just begun So I’ll fight just as you – How? I have no clue But one thing for certain Two things for sure Your pain is no more So ashes to ashes Dust to dust In God I must trust I miss you more and more I think But I’ll let you live in peace…. It’s the only way it’ll sink
I love you grandma!!!
AMEN!
I Remember
I remember when all that was all that Remember falling in love with orange soda Keenan and Kel never got older A love for Nickelodeon and Disney channel in that order Dexter had me plotting against my siblings Ravens visions were so vivid Used to have the blues Looking for clues
I remember Hide and go get it gave first rush of breaking the rule The smart guy really had twin sisters The meanest guy was Mister…. Remember? “Me and you shall never part…” I remember those hand pats with my sisters I remember when growing up just being a kid was okay
But I could never fathom how to be a kid today Went from hopscotch To hand on hips I remember “boom boom ticks” You know, telephone, telephone Now all that’s known are telephones And technology
Am I the only one noticing How its damaging By just focusing On what today’s youth focus is? I remember having no problems focusing Once momma gave that one look You knew what the focus is…. FIX IT!
I remember double dutch with skipped rocks OGs on every block Had eyes watching even when mommas not I remember, but somehow losing sight As these new wings take flight Clear curse words by the age of four Cartoon networks don’t play cartoons anymore Babies got Facebook accounts Get rewarded for acting out
Ipods, Ipads, Iphones No eyes in homes Home of the brave Turnt to land of the lost These kids are the cost And we are the cause
I remember you couldn’t tell my mother nothing about her kids She knew exactly what it is Cause she knew her kids I remember when parents were parents With no room to be your friend I remember you needed permission for your circle of friends I remember when knowledge was instilled by simply what you saw Disrespect was not of an option Now a days its toxic No missions and no morals Because there’s no motivation Just process of elimination Throw these kids our cellular devices Stick them in corners to keep them quiet Create a crisis Where their attention won’t span No further than the device in their hands
So we ain’t got to deal with it These kids already lost We swear it ain’t our fault Blame it on the system Until we fall victim But we ain’t got to deal with it I remember when we had hearts of gold And could kill with it They say it takes a village? Well it’s time to deal with it! Stop reminiscing take those thoughts and build with it
What I want to remember is a generation Built on demonstration And a community fighting with motivation JUST AS I REMEMBER!!!
Shaquetta Nelson, who publishes and performs under the name R.E.I.L. (real), is the author of the book Ashes to Justice (published February 2022.) In her debut collection the DC-area spoken word performer and poet educator releases the demons of this world while holding onto love for her family of birth, and the family she’s found. Kim B Miller, Poet Laureate of Prince William County, Virginia described Ashes to Justice as, “Written with a whisper and a hammer.” And Joseph Ross wrote, “The sorrow of abuse pulses under these poems. But so does the joy of double-dutch, a grandmother’s love, and the truth of rebirth.”R.E.I.L. started her poetry career at open mics in the D.C. area and at 16 competed in the Brave New Voices slam in New York City. A poetic performer, visual artist, and arts educator teaching in D.C. schools, R.E.I.L. seeks inspiration from past and present life experiences to help the lives of other unsung souls. R.E.I.L. not only found a passion in writing, but also in art. R.E.I.L. uses wood burning and pyrography to design art beyond the words she can display in her poetry. R.E.I.L realized her new found passion in 2018 branding her collections by Harmony’s Harmony by R.E.I.L. She now wishes to someday have a studio as an outlet for teens where she can use her poetry and arts to create that creative space.
Image by Eric T Gunther, CC BY 3.0 <https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/3.0>, via Wikimedia Commons
Projected onto shale but rooted in this planet, we long to countervail the weight of sandstone, granite, and metamorphic rocks. We welcome paradox.
Our presence is a mask against the radiant late sun in which we bask, but nothing can prevent our shades from holding hands there on the bridge, suspended from gravity’s demands. They float unapprehended—
no faces, no expressions, no good deeds, no transgressions. We’ve summoned them to cleave our image to these cliffed surroundings. Take or leave our longing as a gift.
The Present Moment
A cumulus that drifts away leaves room for those that follow it, replace it, in a cotton stream of fractals. Here the cloud-forms seem anthropomorphic, intimate but mute. I write them as they play.
Lover’s Memo
On site or off you did put in the hours to make me dream of you.
You took no breaks, at least not long enough to warrant your dismissal.
Re: tonight’s dream, are you still on the job? I thought you had clocked out.
Claudia Gary lives near Washington, D.C., and teaches workshops on Villanelle, Sonnet, Natural Meter, Poetry vs. Trauma, etc., at The Writer’s Center (writer.org), currently via Zoom. Author of Humor Me (2006) and several chapbooks, most recently Genetic Revisionism (2019), she is also a health science writer, visual artist, and composer of tonal chamber music and art songs. See pw.org/content/claudia_gary; follow her on Twitter at @claudiagary.
Photo (c) 2017 by Claudia Gary. This was taken on an autumn afternoon at the C&O Canal National Park in Maryland. Author photo by John P. Flannery.
