How are you ? / Luisa Berne
My friend asks me how I am doing
I don’t know how to explain to her
The chaos of life, of birth and death
That I nursed my infant son sitting next to my fathers death bead
How my sons gental coos became part of my father’s death song
Book ends of a family my father and my son
My son came into this world easily
And my father in his bed raged against death refusing to let go of this life
So I tell her I am trying to learn to swim with the waves of grief and joy and not fight the current – to trust I won’t drowned
The Path of Water / Scott Burnam
when each drop hits the ground
rain shatters; obliterates
into smaller parts of self
then gathers what it can
of its own pieces
and pieces of others
in an overlooked cycle of
birth, growth, death, and rebirth
when the rain is reborn
the gentle guide of gravity
pulls it toward toward some end destination
always out of our sight
where, even when the rain
doubts the game of its own life, it
never ruins the improvisation of being with defiance
even lacking control and with no knowledge
of its eventual endpoint
from stagnant puddle and evaporation
to a reunion with its source in the closest sea
it never says no
let’s be rain-like:
move in always
momentary circumstances
let the breeze
each pebble
any whim of fortune
chart our path with the ground
in full release of expectation
Anatomy of a Poet, or This Ol’ House / David Estringel
roof tiles gray and thin
falling away in the sun
like ash ‘round my feet
windows cloud and warp
with the long passing of one
too many hot house summers
the paint outside cracks
and flakes – bare patch betrayals
ebbing pulse lull
the kitchen screen door
sticks—hinges in need of grease—
in its ever-shrinking frame
floorboards ‘round the stove
creak and sink underfoot, it’ll
need a cleaning soon
pictures on the wall
faded, some slipped from the hook,
crash down in silent thuds
dust storms in dark corners,
settles ‘round pillows and teacups
I write “Wash me, please”
but
the studs are solid,
foundation holding strong. Ghosts
seem to know their place
and
the morning cock still
crows in the yard, pecking at
its lil yellow stones
no attachments / Catherine Forest
Cracked palms skyward
Buddha smiles, reminding me—
Just let that shit go.
After the Fire || We Are Free / Erika Seshadri
Erika-fire
Glories We Have Missed / Arthur Turfa
Around the corner from us a gardenia
bush blossoms for a few short weeks
each springtime.
While our dog smells the fragrance
I carefully touch the soft petals
with a single finger.
Last week planting flowers in
the front yard, I saw a gardenia behind
the gate we rarely use.
I showed my wife, then resumed
what we were doing. Next morning
I took at longer look.
Now that brown creeps into the
flowers, I wonder what other glories
I have missed.
