Steeped sage massing at the bottom of a cup
Moves as seaweed moves in the brothy sea
My child’s tears as salty as the sea
Deprived of the comfort I withhold
Her comfort dried up like a potsherd
Unearthed from beneath red desert sands
The sand empty-handed but for heat
Burning as this mug burns in my hands
I hold a mug that promises remedy
Passed down to me by ancient mothers
Sometimes a mother must dry up quickly
However bitterly she cries for milk
I swallow and it’s bitter on my tongue
Steeped sage massing at the bottom of a cup
– Christine Pennylegion…
...continue reading
December 31st 1999: We all stayed the night at a mid-range hotel in the town next to our own just outside of Boston. The boys and I had spent the past few days sliding around unfinished hardwood panels in our socks, and eating off our family room couch we’d crammed into the kitchen to make space for the new floors. We knew nothing of Y2K, or what was to come, nor did we care for anything but that our parents had turned our house into an empty playground. Laughing into the cold Massachusetts air, we ran to the Jeep and our mother, smiling, said “hold on” as she tried to unlock the car fast enough for her eager children and their father. So we wore sunglasses in the shape of “2000” into the night of the new year while big men turned our house back into a home.…
...continue reading
My grandmother’s wringer
washer, stolid on
their porch. We told her how
washing machines now
made life easier. No,
she used the wringer washer
until the end. Decades
of water pressed out
to hang clothes in the back yard
before watching
As The World Turns
on a black-and-white set,
problems of the Hughes
and Stewart families, what
she referred to as
“My story.”
– Kenneth Pobo…
...continue reading
Some say that it is possible to dry a spirit from the cold
if you bring it by a flame, urging here, with a warm mug
urging hold and stay awhile, but child, I don’t know.
When it comes to what it’s really like, we are left
bereft with feeble words, and there are limits, too,
when it comes; to what any one of these may hold,
what any constellation untold may know, at any time, no
matter how vast the reach of your intention, the spirit
in space grows cold until it coalesces restless among
others with enough mass and time to collapse into
matter hot enough to burn the birth of the last new
star, the one that looks like nothing now, and will…
...continue reading
Slowly
savoring each bite,
each page,
each chapter,
each paragraph.
Chew it thoughtfully,
carefully,
let the words sink,
deeply,
treasure them,
they are priceless,
and be grateful
for such contact
with another mind –
communion
with a kindred soul;
you are enriched
and continue on.
– Duane L. Herrmann…
...continue reading
Mom grows stalagmites.
They’re made of toothpaste.
Drips from her cavern each morning
landing not quite into the bowl.
The basin isn’t out of reach,
but she’s forgotten to extend.
Or to spit. Just drip.
Mom used to be the neat one.
I was the messy one.
The eggshell stalagmite
matches the eggshell counter,
her myopic eyes seldom notices
the heightening mound.
It repulses my senses.
I don’t rush its removal
knowing it’ll eventually be missed.
– Dara Kalima…
...continue reading
A title:
when it comes
the poem will come too.
Where does he look?
Inside?
Outside?
All the world around?
Searching
for a title,
for a theme.
Desire is present
but no direction.
A poet in search of a title
is a sad, pathetic thing.
Does he search
through ancient tomes?
Or current fads?
Or some time in between?
dlh…
– Duane L. Herrmann…
...continue reading
