Birds – A Poem by Ananya S. Guha
Leave me alone in this
seascape
of wilderness, crouching wind
blues, little ragamuffin of a boy, entering sleepless
in corridors of home, pine hills and summertime of
frisky birds.
Last Link – A Poem by Rozann Kraus
I wanted half
would settle for a third
was unprepared for such bypass
cardiac surgery with complications
mea culpa could not resuscitate
but years of talk chemistry helped
really?
Define real
ly
cancel the controls
ignore the meetings
return the keys
erase the memories
forget the victories
empty your pockets
hang your head
or it will be removed
along with the contents of your locker.
Astaire and Ginger Dancing – A Poem by Donal Mahoney
Old Tim writes poetry now
in his heaven of retirement.
He’s had nice jobs
over the years but swears
retirement is better.
He’s forgetful now but never
suffers from writer’s block.
The words come so fast
his fingers fly like eagles
across his IBM Selectric.
The sound of a typewriter
is a concert for Old Tim.
When he types he swears he sees
Astaire dancing with Ginger Rogers
on a small black and white TV.
Says colored sets are a fad.
He would never own one.
He’d rather type and watch
Fred and Ginger dancing.
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In Memoriam – A Poem by Ian Fletcher
Many a day I pause to think
of those who have passed away
to become nothing but ashes
as insubstantial as a handful
of sand or dull clumps of clay,
with even the humblest creatures
that animate the world around me
like the ants, butterflies and bees
possessed of more life than they.
Oh, that the deceased left ghosts
at least there would thus remain
some vestige of them to be seen
or that there were a high heaven
where their souls dwelt eternally,
not this complete annihilation
with no salvation or damnation
for these who have ceased to be
that now haunt only my memory.
What They Didn't Tell You – A Poem by Megan Jamie
They didn’t tell you it would be like this
They promised you
It’s safe out there –
Just give it a shot
So you left the warmth and protection of your birthplace
They didn’t tell you it would hurt like hell
That you can slap a smile on all you like
Go about your day
Chopping carrots, reading textbooks, coffee dates with friends
But there will still be that tugging deep inside you
They said
You are strong
You can defeat it
You can manage it
They said
It doesn’t make you weaker
Maybe, but you will be tested every day,
Torn down just a little every time something goes wrong
“Think happy thoughts”
“Happiness is a choice”
“Be grateful, you have a roof over your head”
“What is your problem?”
You cower in your own shame
Disgusted
You know the blackness surrounding you is a product of none other than
Yourself
You reach for contentment
Grasp at serenity
Hands peeling open
Fingers ache from
Reaching so far
They didn’t tell you that one kind word could turn your day around,
While a mean look could ruin you for months.
They didn’t tell you that others would claim to understand you,
To relate to you,
And then give neither warmth nor kindness when you inevitably slip
up.
You didn’t realize how accurate the clichés could be:
Standing in a room full of people, but never having felt so alone.
And you fear being alone for
You think the loneliness could engulf you,
Entrench you.
Pin you to the floor and sit on your chest.
But you’re aware now.
You know the feeling
And can feel it coming.
Over the years you’ve built up your defenses,
Prepared to attack when needed.
You’re hurt?
Not anymore – you feel nothing.
You’re sad?
Not anymore – you are numb.
You’re lonely?
Not anymore – you’ve drowned out the silence.
They didn’t tell you how cruel life is to those who
Are cruel to themselves.
There is no outside force.
You are your own killer
You are strangling yourself
You are spiraling down
You are defenseless
Most importantly,
You are not to blame.
But nobody tells you this.
Only,
“What the hell is your problem?”
Asthma – A Poem by Ananya S. Guha
Now that autumn’s spirit is
languishing, in winter’s scent
progenitors of time.
I breathe heavily as the smell
of husk weaves into this
small asthmatic body.
Autumn – A Poem by Marie MacSweeney
September creeps along anarchic grass.
In our garden plum trees bend
to the earth, each branch
a frail skirmish
across briars and barriers,
naked warriors
accepting no natural defeat.
It is autumn
and we have come
to gather in the fruit,
eat in our orchard,
think God is good,
but there are wasps and worms
feeding, and we have our own wars.
Swirl – A Poem by Ananya S. Guha
Swirl
in the whirl
rabbit is coming,
hop stars and all
hop the jump,
there are little stars in your
eyes, the benighted dog howls, addressing the full moon
rabbit is arriving, this man is ploughing land,
another is raking blood.
61 Is Fine By Me – A Poem by David Lohrey
Is 61 old?
It is my birthday and I called my mother.
She said how are you? And was disappointed when I replied just fine.
“Are you happy to be getting older?”
Happy?
Does one have a choice?
Is it getting older or getting younger?
If one is 60, one becomes 61 or 59?
No, it’s 61 or dying.
Getting older is fine by me.
I’m happy with another day.
When you’re 11, you can think getting older
Is not for me. I’ll marry mommy and be young forever.
I’d prefer older and tomorrow to
Staying young today and tomorrow.
Getting older and older is fine by me.
The alternative is dying, not getting finer.