By Fritz Eifrig
Posted on
if there were ears
to hear
there is no sign,
only ebbing ripples show
where I threw that stone.
no sounds
no flecks of color
no cheerful splashes
mark the site.
that missile
plucked carefully
from fertile dirt,
smooth
and true within my hand.
lofted with a shout
then turning,
shining
briefly in the air.
now sunken, dark
and out of sight.…
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By Ivis Westheimer
Posted on
I hadn’t been there in decades and planned to speak
to the people who lived in it now.
A neighbor said it was vacant, sale pending.
A peaceful home full of the past,
set back from the road several hundred feet behind a serene lake.
I drove in beyond the tall trees, ones I helped plant as tiny seedlings, parked,
and walked around the outside.
My window was unlocked, close to the ground.
I climbed in.
Inside, memories crowded around me.
Long ago, seated comfortably on a deep, red, sectional sofa
in front of a window, as an only child,…
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By Donia Mounsef
Posted on
The best love poems are
about the possibility of flight,
the phases of the moon
the endless Arctic night, a ring found
in the melting snow in spring.
They are about a
chimera of lust,
the dust train tracks make
carrying refugees
to an uncertain future.…
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By Seth Jani
Posted on
After the annulment of light
In the stubborn kiln of winter
There is a beginning that hurts.
You hear it in the troubled cry
Spun from treetops,
In the muffled bending of trees
Cracking off the frost.
When you wander through the streets
Stunned by the bright emergence,
The wakened sunshine,
You start to remember
The endless colors of the world:
The Adriatic with its whitened dazzle,
Michelangelo’s angel-bitten blue,
All the faded shades of longing
In the remnants of the Roman Forum.…
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By Penney Knightly
Posted on
I. Then & Foreshadow
Blank page, dredged out fish bone
not so different, containers of what will be
and was.
Fossils. Left impressions, vestiges
in sand and smoke, crumbs of old
mixed with new light and sound.
II. Now, with Breathing
The living telephone wire. A laugh
I just had with you
ran over by the impulse of a cycling dryer.
Back to bleach and white,
penciled spheres around words
from a Yellow Pages. I see Psychotherapy,
there is only one name.…
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By Joseph Dahut
Posted on
for Lucy
our hands extend,
these palms are wading pools –
the waters of God’s love. let
your spirit wade into our hands.
allow the still surface to flood
your soul. allow yourself
to bask in these holy shallows.
you are crying, and lovely.
you are smiling, and beautiful.
we look unto you, and love you,
as you shower in God’s graces.
By Devon Balwit
Posted on
Yet another storm shivers the trees,
reeling even the towering
sequoia. While walking the dog, I weep,
forced by icy wind
to abandon stoicism, your plane not yet
airborne. Once again,
I strip your sheets, reshelve books you never
opened, find, on the sill,…
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