| 2021 Fall/2022 Winter - Poet's Choice |
For the 2021 Fall/2022 Winter Muses’ Gallery, Highland Park Poetry asked poets and artists to send us their best work. No themes, no required forms - purely Poet's (and Artist's) Choice. There is a rich assortment - a real feast for the brain!
Many thanks to all of the poets who shared their writing with us.
Enjoy!
Jennifer Dotson
Editor & Founder
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| Ellen Blum Barish, Photographer |
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Wilda Morris
Bolingbrook, Illinois
If Life....
If life were a still life,
the pear in the bowl would keep
its golden color, the apple
would not bruise, the cherries
would maintain their crimson
and not spoil.
If life were a still life
the squirrel I saw through the window
would still be standing
on its haunches, poised to climb
the maple, whose branches
would not sway in the breeze.
If life were a still life,
my hand would lie on the desk,
penning no lines on the blank sheet
which would not be picked up
and read by another while the cat
patted her ankle.
If life were a still life,
the door would remain closed.
No one would come or go.
I’m grateful for the videographic
quality of life, the door that opens
letting me escape into a broader world,
that lets me let you into mine.
| Lori Wall-Holloway
Pasadena, California
Scrapbook Weather
Stormy weather
outside
lets rain fall
and wash
the sidewalks
Inside, a pot
of coffee
complements
sweet smelling
candles
with praise music
reverberating
throughout the room
Great scrapbook weather
inspires me to pull out
a linen coral album
from my closet
along with paper
pens, glue and tape
allowing creativity
to explode on a white
empty page with old
photos to tell a story
of a time now past
First published in San Gabriel Valley Poetry Quarterly (Issue 57, Winter 2013)
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| Charlotte Digregorio, Photographer |
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Charlotte Digregorio
Winnetka, Illinois
Tanka*
at the mailbox
the frigid air
nips my fingers
reading the editor's
snippy letter
* Tanka is a five-line, lyrical Japanese-style poem.
Tanka doesn't have titles and they have a
maximum of 31 syllables. The word "tanka" is
both singular and plural.
| Carl "Papa" Palmer
University Place, Washington
Typing Lesson
“TYPEWRITER” is typed using only the top row of keys on a typewriter
The quick brown fox jumps over the lazy dog
"All the letters in the alphabet are used,"
Mom explains as she checks the printed
results for clarity, spacing and alignment
on each typewriter in the office supply
section of the Salvation Army Thrift Store
before buying hers.
"It's called a pangram,
however the word “THE” is used twice.
This sentence can be shortened
by replacing one of them with an A."
"Pack my box with five dozen liquor jugs
is an even shorter pangram", she smiles,
"however not something an upstanding
church secretary like me would type."
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| Pamela Larson, Photographer |
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Candace Kubinec
Greenburg, Pennsylvania
I Heard the Owl Call My Name
I watched the moon rise slowly,
majestically, over the tops of the pines -
the Harvest moon, shining
brightly in a clear Autumn sky.
The air was crisp in that special
Fall way and the scent of fallen
apples filled the empty night.
Loneliness covered me like a
shawl and I shivered in sadness
until I heard the owl call my name.
* Title taken from a book by Margaret Craven
| Idella Pearl Edwards
Marian, Illinois
The Owl
While other birds fly with noisy flapping,
The owl has a silent flight.
It softly glides its way through the air
Into the still of the night.
This silent flight is a symbol of peace,
The absence of turmoil and strife.
It gives us hope for graceful passage
Through the trials and troubles of life.
The owl’s listening skills are finely tuned
Its sensitive ears hear all.
We too can master the art of listening,
As we strive to hear God’s call.
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| Image from creative commons |
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| Howard Nemeroff
Chicago, Illinois
Detour
Changing tires in a small Indiana town
Where yesterday meets today
A zealous air conditioner
In a user friendly waiting room
Busy with patrons clad in
Work boots, sandals and crocs
A barefoot girl bent on
Giving big sis chase
And an Amish boy pumping hand sanitizer
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Bonnie J. Manion
Belleville, Illinois
Sandwich Construction
The foundation is meaty wheat
punctuated with spicy fennel seeds,
heavy and dark, loaded with nutrition.
Layer on thinnest whiffs of beef,
smoked ham or mesquite turkey,
some lacey swiss or the bite of
barrel-aged cheddar.
Top with a ruffled lettuce leaf, rosy
wheel of tomato, and a tangle
of alfalfa sprouts, then drizzle on
creamy, savory horseradish.
Slice if you can.
Grab with two hands.
Eat with relish.
| Caroline Johnson
Willow Springs, Illinois
Divide
We were the best of friends.
She had my back, I had hers.
We never wore masks--
shared all, bared all secrets,
until the day the glass cracked
and she crept up and attacked
me from behind. The window
broke and she never looked back.
Now she’s not even a distant friend.
We each wear armor, declaring
the end. We can’t reach across
the hole left behind--too small
of a divide, too large of a lie.
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| "Ham and Salami Sandwich" painting by Kenneth Cobb |
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Jackie Chou
Pico Rivera, California
What Happens to
Unrealized Dreams
Do they get wrinkles, strokes,
become misshapen?
Do they rise up
from the abyss where they dwell,
hunchbacked and shrinking?
Do they expire,
and if they do, where do they go?
Are they left to rot in the garbage,
or neatly placed into a grave?
Do they get resurrected?
Maybe they're just like you and me,
waving their gnarled arms in the air
until the very end.
| Dan Boyd
Bogart, Georgia
Living in the Past
Did you peak in your career or mission
Early in life?
Did we surpass our expectations as a young, energetic, passionate person?
Have we failed to follow up or pass the last milestone we set?
Can we find another direction, passion, calling to get
Recommitted to?
Do all of our conversations start with an old memory?
Is it too late to start new ones?
The majority of seniors truly live only a small percentage of their lives
The average citizens just survive after a dedicated employment, military service
Or single accomplishment of any value
Is that you?
Some call them “Glory days”, as Bruce would say
But live past your past in other ways
Life means more if the spark of life through every new day is
Lit
Don’t be content to put your photos on the wall and say you
Are done
Stay connected with the world and your creative genius
We all have one
Originally published in View from the Back Window: Blue Collar Poetry on Life (North Orchard Press, 2021)
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Cynthia T. Hahn
Libertyville, Illinois
Le café libanais dans un studio à Paris, XVIIIe, avec vue sur le cimetière de Montmartre
Le parfum âcre-doux du café libanais bouilli au parfum de cardamom
remplit ma petite tasse ; nous sirotons, savourons, prudemment y laissant quelques gouttes.
Une brise s'aventurant de la fenêtre ouverte transforme notre conversation en chanson.
Mon amie retourne la tasse et la laisse, le marc suintant, coulant, descendant.
Elle lit mon avenir au fond de la tasse : des yeux jaloux, boueux, marron.
* * *
Lebanese coffee in a Paris studio overlooking Montmartre cemetery, 18th arrondissement
The darkly sweet aroma of boiled Lebanese coffee with cardamom
fills my short cup; we sip and savor, careful to leave the grounds.
A breeze from the open window stirs our conversation into song.
My friend turns the cup over and lets it sit, dregs oozing out and down.
She reads my fortune in the cup's bottom: jealous, muddy eyes in brown.
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| Marina Angione, Photographer |
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| Jennifer Dotson, Photographer |
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| R.M. Yager
Deerfield, Illinois
Forest Bathing
I wear a mohair scarf
not a fluffy towel
slather bee balm
onto my hands
before I pull them
into my woolen mittens
I have no pedestal bathtub
I have no use for
French lavender soap
I am sans pillow
to rest my head on,
an aviator’s hat is
snugly fastened at my chin
I’m not surrounded by
warmth of glowing candles
I pull the belt
on my down coat tighter
there are no warm faucets
to rest my toes upon
only the heavy weight
of my sturdy hiking boots
I slowly make my way
down an icy path
instead of white foamy bubbles
in steamy hot water
I kick newly fallen snow
into the air
exiting through a clearing
I exhale my frosty breath
emerge clean, feel fresh
my mind serene,
body calm
worries gone
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Lakshmy M. Nair
Vernon Hills, Illinois
My Flaws
As clear as the daylight
they shine
The veins snaked around
my limbs
the stains tattooed on
my soul
the marks stretched over
my skin
the darks etched under
my eyes
Without them, what would you
call me?
Would you call the moon a moon
without its craters?
As clear as the daylight
they shine.
| William Marr
Downers Grove, Illinois
Writing Poetry
knowing
the small eddy in the pond
the gentle ripples on the lake
the gurgling stream
the torrential river
the billowing sea
all start with a drop
of water
with a smile on his face
the poet
puts down on the paper
his very first
word
First appeared in Poems of the World (Summer 2016)
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| Joan Luther, Photographer |
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Joan Luther
Lexington, Illinois
Out Standing
Charles and his friend, elegant in stance,
Spoke volumes about the subject
With ebullience to row after row,
As the president of the organization
Gave them quite an ovation
That seeded the audience,
Who applauded these two as they
Grinned ear to ear with much
Satisfaction, as they were very
Outstanding in their field.
| Richard V. Kaufman
Highland Park, Illinois
Death
You won't be aware
that you're not there.
There will be no you
to have a view.
It won't appear
that you are here.
When you're not alive,
you can't survive.
The theologians
won't be around.
They're dead
and buried
underground.
Too late for them
to realize
they spent their lives
debating lies.
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Michael Minassian
Edgewater, New Jersey
The Hard Edge of Nature
My father once told me
we could learn a lot from nature,
though he avoided the outdoors,
preferring the cold light
of a television set
or smoky basements
in suburban New Jersey,
playing poker and listening
to the Yankee games.
Three weeks after we moved
into the house on Linden Avenue,
I helped my father tear down
the chicken coop in the back yard.
My contribution mainly
to hand him his tools,
listening to the banging
of the hammer, not understanding
my father’s tight-lipped
anger or why my mother stood
at the kitchen window
with arms folded across her chest.
Later we burned the wood
in the stone fireplace, piece by piece,
and I picked up the rusted nails
out of the barely cooled ash
feeling the hard edge of metal
in the glare of my mother’s eyes
just before she turned away.
| Renee Butner
Winston-Salem, North Carolina
Barn Door
What a mess
sloppy grimy
bruised emotions
now held in check,
an empty wine glass
drained of jewel toned nectar.
A heavy barn door
is pulled tight
against the storm's onslought.
Sharp shining rays
pierce the dingy
dusty interior.
Words to live by
to take to heart
to contemplate
once the door is flung wide.
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| Pat St. Pierre, Photographer |
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Lennart Lundh
Orland Hills, Illinois
Rereading Sandburg
There are stories born to be remembered
and young men read them on the train in the early morning
while old men rock next to them dreaming of youth
There are stories that lose their way early or late
and no matter how they're called for in the middle of the night
never quite find their way back from the forest
never quite grow up
There are stories that are rewritten years later
when the language they speak is extinct
and mean as much as when they were born
There are stories set to paper for one special woman
and maybe she keeps them in a drawer with old photos
and maybe she spills the morning coffee on them
and throws them away already forgotten
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first published in Four Poems (Writing Knights Press, 2012)
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| Ellen Blum Barish, Photographer |
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Janea D. Harris
Highland Park, Illinois
Photograph
Tell me I am beautiful,
Promise me that I look good,
Drop a heart on this photograph,
I had hoped millions of you would.
Developed to share stunning visuals,
To boost my social network is what they said.
Instead, I have spiraled into self-torment,
Lack of adequate likes is causing me internal dread.
| Christine Kierstead Sheeter
Green River, Utah
Standing Tall
I don’t want to be contacted on the whim of anyone
or anything at anytime
the time that is mine
I’m dancing
I’m driving
I’m gardening, writing, painting, playing
I’m cooking
I’m eating
I’m sleeping and dreaming
I’m walking my dog
I’m hiking
Contemplating
Working
I’m sharing time with a friend
a child
an elder
another human
I will not be pinged, dinged, poked and prodded
That Pawing Gadget Demanding Attention
Distracting me from Me
Creating a false Reality
or forcing that of others onto me
I’m taking back my space
In Honor of the Human Race
I’m Standing Tall
Is this the way we want to be?
Automated and Controlled
The Dumbing Down of Humanity
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| Lynn West, Photographer |
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Arlene Gay Levine
Forest Hills, New York
Christmas Wish List
What I wish for you this Christmas won’t come in a box
or be tied with ribbon, doesn’t arrive by mail or cost a cent.
Yet the list is long and sent from my heart
as it opens to yours.
I wish for you:
the joy that gratitude bestows,
the splendor of a rose from bud to full bloom,
the energy of authentic passions honored
without concern over worldly success,
the freedom of never judging anyone including yourself,
the contentment of knowing yourself as your own best friend,
the wisdom to appreciate your mistakes
and forgive the missteps of others,
the compassion required to embrace the world as it is
rather than as you would remake it,
the surprising delights of solitude,
the power to let go of regrets as well as anxiety
in order to live gently in the moment,
the vision to see yourself and everyone else
with the eyes of the heart
whose only reality is Love.
Lastly I wish you Light to reveal
these gifts as yours
waiting only to be
unwrapped.
First published in Christmas Blessings; Prayers and Poems to Celebrate the Season (Warner Books)
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| Dotson Family Archive |
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| Ann Privateer, Photographer |
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J. K. Durick
South Burlington, Vermont
The Flowers
All summer she’s tended them
Early mornings arranging and
Timing the sprinkler
Tended them, weeded them
Supervised their beauty
If such a thing is possible
Talked to them, talked about them
Too dry, too much sun
And like well-tended children
They obeyed, did their best
Forgave lapses and grew to match
Her intentions for them
And now, as summer is leaving
She brings them in, arranges them
In vases, one for the kitchen and
One for the dining room table
And for a day, sometimes two
They show off their beauty
Speak volumes about patience
And a person’s tending to
Their beauty –
A beauty that is this possible.
| Joan Leotta
Calabash, North Carolina
Gardenia After the Storm
Wind’s howling
anger ripped
once fragrant
garden blooms
from stems.
Petals, leaves,
pine needles now
lie mounded,
upon the ground.
Night’s heavy rain
muddied flower beds.
Yet, still standing is
our gardenia bush.
Looking closely, I
see some blooms
remain--whole, soft,
strong with the
fragrance of hope.
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| Bruce Whitaker, Photographer |
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Sue Roupp
Shelbourne, Vermont
Landscape Painting
I move within
a landscape painting
the fields a
green so deep, it
is as if someone
turned emerald
paint upside down,
fields so many
shades of green
the rolled
hay becomes
a pale-yellow pillow,
in the distance
a ruby red barn
and silver silo
are rural jewels resting
on a gentle
roll of the hills
and I fully expect
to be dipped in
another shade
of green or gold
capturing another
blade of grass,
or
maybe white
or black reflecting
the
cow chewing its
cud as it ambles
over the hill.
It has just been
that kind of summer.
| Marjorie Rissman
Highland Park, Illinois
Bugs and More Bugs
All summer long we heard the choral arrangement
of thousands of cicadas practicing their mating call
from late afternoon until prime time television
lulled them to sleep. Sometimes they waited up for
the ten o’clock news and weather report but rarely
for monologue of late night comedian, just like me.
No sooner had they ended their summer escapades
when a new bug appeared, without song or noise, but
with a scary size and speedy gait that liked to crawl or
fly or scamper up screens and windows looking for a
an opening to make my home their winter vacation
spot. Definitely uninvited house guests. If you crush
one of these suckers it lets you know its displeasure
by emitting an aroma so foul it has been named a stink
bug. But they are also clever creatures who like to play
hide and seek in pleated window shades, for example,
and other games to avoid tissue then the toilet bowl.
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| Gail Denham, Photographer |
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Joan McNerney
Ravena, New York
SeaScape
Hearing waves from a distance and
feeling sea breezes brush our faces,
it seemed a century before we
came to the ocean.
So blue and bright to our eyes
its rhythm broke chains of
unremarkable days.
Over cool sand we ran and you picked
three perfect shells which fit
inside each other. Swimming away in
that moving expanse below kiss
of fine spray and splashes.
With clouds cumulus we drifted while
gulls circled the island. Together we
discovered beds of morning glories
climbing soft dunes.
| Gail Denham
Sunriver, Oregon
Choosing An Island
An island could work if there were flush
toilets, room for a large garage, coffee
kiosks, and plenty of rocks.
Rocks give balance to any land. Old buildings
would be a must – especially one with a wood door
so weathered by wind and sand it gleams gray-brown;
maybe a few dents where the dog scratched one
noisy night when no one heard him whine.
Winds blew hard some nights. Without the protection
of the rock cliff behind the house, the house might
have lost its roof. The Merrits, who lived there, gave
thanks for the rocks.
The Merrits and their dog survived many storms
on the island. Indoor plumbing didn’t come
to the island until 1925, long after the Merritts had
left the old homestead with the gray, sand-blasted door.
Their old barn fell down last year. The rocks remain.
Their strength lends continuance to the island.
There will probably never be a coffee kiosk,
but someone did open a nice little tea shop.
The Merrits’ door was left unlocked. Anyone
can wander in to get away from the wild storms.
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| Alice Neel, Artist |
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| Alice Neel, Artist |
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Mark Hudson
Evanston, Illinois
Abstract Alice
Abstract Expressionism had its appeal,
around the time of artist Alice Neel.
Alice declared herself a humanist,
and her paintings glowed with luminescence.
She said she was not opposed to abstraction;
to her paintings people had a wild reaction.
She would take people, get them nude to paint
revealing their psychology, hardly a saint.
She reached her pinnacle at a later stage;
becoming famous at a much older age.
But she had an eye for the human condition;
her paintings brought a lot of suspicion.
She considered herself a collector of souls,
her paintings and lifestyle were hardly droll.
Her artistic observations were accurate as Freud,
and it’s taken this long for them to be enjoyed.
We can appreciate her gift of observation,
if she would paint you, would you show hesitation?
Humanist yes, perspective bizarre,
perhaps she saw people the way they really are.
| Toti O'Brien
Los Angeles, California
Lexicon
As he slowly deciphered
the old script
he took pleasure in every
word.
How they formed in his mouth
the nouns, the adjectives.
He rolled blue butterfly
on his tongue and a taste
of aniseed lingered
as a window of cobalt
burst
within forest green.
When he said volcanoes
the universe
flipped upside down.
He heard barking
of dogs trapped underground.
Moonlight glare seeped in.
He prepared to turn the page
with hesitant fingers
his lips pearled with froth
his eyes
huge. His eyes.
Open wide.
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| Lynn West, Photographer |
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Olivia Maciel Edelman
Highland Park, Illinois
Sin duelo el fuego. Ata el corazón al cielo
Día lamento, ardiente pensamiento, que quema por dentro el árbol de la entraña.
Cuando la hiedra del tiempo se levanta, y se arrastra por paredes arañadas.
Encendido el deseo se ensaña y se encadena al canto de un rumor extraño,
aguas ausentes y presentes en el espacio ocioso
muriendo poco a poco para sobrevivir en estado desmarañado.
Placentero recuerdo de un albo pájaro que resplandece.
Libre el espíritu, se dilata sobre el temor,
torna carmín el labio de la flor.
Día morado en espera que escapa y se apresura
entre alas de ave somera.
Fuego que enciende y se eleva hacia el firmamento alumbrado.
Pizca de sal en el viento, en la fe que se desplaza.
Día en que la natura de la sangre en la célula aproxima a su desplome
en lágrimas silenciosas oh selva, monte, amapola, tréboles en su esplendor.
Intensa la sed apremia, para soñar con el tiempo de otras horas.
Agua dulce, rumor de veras, mareado desvanecer en renuncia acompañada.
Piedra con hiedra amojamada. Incierta concordia con discordia enarbolada.
Cielo, recelo, anda y sal al encuentro de esa imposible quimera.
Gente en paciencia, con la sabia memoria en almohada señalada, en suerte de miel y leche,
con el maná de un cantar disfrutado en jugosos frutos en lágrimas encendidas derramadas,
entrelazadas las manos, apretado el pensamiento.
Sin duda el mejor invierno derritiendo en frío sin duelo el fuego de un llorar enternecido,
soñando la soledad endurecida, luego reblandecida por el puerto que socorre
acoge abraza y besa.
Alejando el pensamiento taciturno, para suspirar en propias agonías endulzadas,
en el reposo del verde prado del tibio día soleado,
antes que los cansados días quebranten las suaves melancolías.
En la fría mañana del más largo invierno, en el silencio más puro y absoluto
recuerda el florecer del alhelí, y la condena del corazón en el ciego siglo,
nunca llegue el tiempo a calabozo,
para que la mala hierba no ahogue el maíz, el trigo,
y deje las espinas del cactus en el arisco día encalladas.
Parte soledad atormentada, día desdeñado de sol, encaminado el deseo en queja;
entre abrojos el canario, entre filosos escollos por la montaña desde el sueño,
desprendido el espíritu en la noche.
Cielo en mundo en añoranza, en sentido que se esparce, que se quema,
envuelto en un pañuelo, en un desgarro de sábana, entre salmos y llantos,
oh cielo ata el corazón al cielo.
***
Without Mourning the Fire. Tie the Heart to Heaven
Day of lament, fiery thought inside a tree of entrails
when the ivy of time rises, and drags itself up scratched walls.
A lit desire cruelly rages, chained to the song of a strange rumor,
dying slowly, then surviving, in a disheveled state.
Waters present and absent in idle space.
Joyous memory of a bright bird in flight,
free the spirit, it expands beyond fear,
tinting carmine the flower’s lip.
A purple day awaits to hurriedly escape
between wings of shallow birds.
A fire ignites and rises to an illumined firmament.
Pinch of salt in the wind, in faith that moves.
Day when blood’s nature in the cell approaches its collapse,
in silent tears the jungle, mountain, poppy, the clovers in their splendor.
An intense thirst presses, to dream about the time of other hours.
Sweet water, true rumor, dizzy fade in renunciation accompanied.
Ivy with stone rubbed, uncertain concordance with discordance entwined,
heaven, go out and find that impossible chimera.
People in patience, with wise memory in assigned pillow, in luck of honey and milk,
with manna of song enjoyed in dripping fruit, in burning tears,
with hands clasped, and thought clenched.
The worst winter melts cold without mourning the fire of tender crying.
Dreaming of hardened loneliness, then softened,
by the port that aids, embraces, and kisses.
Distant, the taciturn thought sighs in it’s own sweetened agonies,
in repose of green meadow, of warm sunny day,
before weary days break the gentle melancholy.
In the cold morning of the longest winter, in the purest and most absolute silence
remember the blossoming wallflower, the sentence of the heart in the blind century,
may time never arrive in prison,
so that the bad seed will not drown the corn, the wheat,
and leave the thorns of cactus in rough day adrift.
Leave harrowed loneliness, day disdained of sun, on its way desire in complaint;
between briers the canary, between sharp rocks the mountain dreaming,
unfastened, the spirit, in the night.
Heaven in a world in longing, in sense that spreads, burns,
wrapped in a handkerchief, in a sheet’s tear, between psalms and tears
Heaven, tie the heart to heaven.
(Translation from Spanish by Olivia Maciel Edelman)
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| Marina Angione, Photographer |
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Terry Loncaric
Hampshire, Illinois
Florida Tiki Bar
We sat on high bar stools.
Everything, from the grassy roof
to the torches, felt tropical.
A singer, really a one-man band,
told awful jokes, sang cover tunes,
he fit the cheesy atmosphere,
even when he appeared snarky,
it was a part of his lounge lizard act.
A perfect place for sharing crab legs,
tropical beverages, flirty glances,
let's watch the tide roll in,
while we wait for Jimmy Buffett,
two laid-back beach bums,
we have all the time in the world.
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| Image from creative commons |
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| "The Fate of Persephone" by Walter Crane (1877) |
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Linda M. Crate
Meadville, Pennsylvania
mistaken identity
you mistook me
for a nymph,
only full of flowers
and sunshine;
but like persephone
i have always contained
multitudes—
when you killed who
i was
my mother became demeter,
wanting her daughter back;
i don't know if i could ever
be that girl she misses
i am finally coming into my own—
you should've appreciated my flowers
because all i have for you now is
death, wrath, and rage;
and then you have to contend
with my mother
because you are no god.
| Suzanne Elia Stephan
Oracle of Alden
Pigtails and a pair of dark raven eyes, a steady gaze of wonder.
Jean pockets full of rocks, feathers, and dead bugs – all her gems!
Enchanted by animals! The smell of rain! The sound of thunder!
Happy outdoors, snatching flowers from their stems.
She climbed alone into a dumpster for more buried treasure,
delighted by the glass bottles, and bits of metal and twine.
Thinking of the animals that gave her the most pleasure,
her dreamy innocence shattered when she was grabbed from behind.
She remembers some pain, being stunned by the violence,
the rest is a blur, just floating feelings in her mind.
The trauma created a crouching jungle lioness,
reality and imagination forever intertwined.
Elephants, her favorite, she adopted its tough hide
she learned to ignore, to defy.
Her mind travels on transparent wings, just like the dragon fly!
Thoughts’ hover and dart about, every moment a surprise.
She loves the wild hare, its quick silent running.
Fleeing terror makes legs strong and swift.
Like the raven she learned to be cunning
to understand kindness, and respond by leaving a gift.
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| Monica Cardestam, Artist |
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Yuan Changming
Vancouver, British Columbia, Canada
I/我 as a Human: a Bilinguacultural Poem
1/ Denotations of I vs 我
The first person singular pronoun, or this very
Writing subject in English is I, an only-letter
Word, standing upright like a pole, always
Capitalized, but in Chinese, it is written with
Seven lucky strokes as 我, with at least 108
Variations, all of which can be the object case
At the same time.
Originally, it’s formed from
The character 找, meaning ‘pursuing’, with one
Stroke added on the top, which may well stand for
Anything you would like to have, such as money
Power, fame, sex, food, or nothing if you prove
Yourself to be a Buddhist practitioner inside out
2/ Connotations of Human & 人
Since I am a direct descendant of Homo Erectus, let me stand
Straight as a human/人, rather than kneel down like a slave
When two humans walk side by side, why to coerce
One into obeying the other as if fated to follow/从?
Since three humans can live together, do we really need
A boss, a ruler or a tyrant on top of us all as a group/众?
Given all the freedom I was born with, why, just
Why cage me within walls like a prisoner/囚？
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| Ellen Blum Barish, Photographer |
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René Parks
Kankakee, Illinois
I think it was the chickens that I loved
Communing clucks and armless embraces
Curiously peck my bright diamond ring
Sleepy chicken dreams of rafter roosting
Hatch up, chest out, run two legged chases
Iridescent plumes, gold fluff, blond faces
Brooding in a cardboard box midwifing
Sisters eggs with sympathetic bocking
Olive, blue, speckled brown eggs near cases
Of stale mealworms who play dead at the sight
Of juicy apple guts gilding the ground
Under the canopy of cherry tree
Bathing in the dust before she takes flight
Escape inglorious romance abound
Nesting wildly among speckled swans, free
9th place, modern sonnet form
in the 2021 Helen Schaible International sonnet contest
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| Ann Privateer, Artist |
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| Ellen Blum Barish, Photographer |
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Marianne Peel
Vernon Hills, Illinois
Ancestry.com
Before you speak, I want
you to know I am lonely
in this world, as Anthony Bourdain
said while searching for his generations-back
grandfather in Paraguay.
He discovers his great great grandfather made
hats. Utilitarian head coverings. And he is disappointed
– yearning for a gangster story or a gun toter
or someone hiding from an unspeakable
crime, under witness protection.
Like him, I seek out my blood, knowing
names have been truncated, squeezed out
like dungarees in an old wringer washer.
Ethnicity cleansed from each syllable. Obliterating
the Lithuanian out of root and stem.
My ancestors dug potatoes out of the earth.
Macerated them into bilinis – potato pancakes –
grating them down to a nub of pulp. With still more
push in the arm, there is blood in the bowl. A river
floating between the pulverized potato shards.
We fry these patties in crackling vegetable oil. Slather
them with sour cream. I choose the pancakes
with burnt edges. My Nana wants the ones blackened
in the center, where the gas stove performs its most efficient
work. My Aunt Bernice licks the lid of the sour cream.
When I stop long enough to examine my hands,
there is dirt imbedded in my palms. Soil trapped
under my fingernails. My hands smell of the earth,
damp and clotted. With hands that have labored
in stubborn fields for generations, I come to the table.
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| Janz Duncan, Photographer |
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Janz Duncan
Lake District National Park, United Kingdom
Filtered Light on Light
Filtered light on light,
these last bright rays of a setting sun
spotlight – nay, delineate – Nature’s timely cast,
their warming yellows, oranges, and ochre
. . .
which golden rays – alas! – herald not life but presage decay.
Blades of grass now flutter playfully – yea, proudly – upon an Autumn breeze:
but too soon will they wither brown and sere
trampled upon by many feet and crushed like so much mulch:
its function now to protect, nurture growth.
And thus does the cycle of Life turn and endure.
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Teresa K. Burleson
Coolidge, Texas
Metamorphosis
Held captive
In this tiny prison,
I am a pupa
Slowly morphing
Into a creature
Ready to take flight
On newly won wings,
Reflecting the splendor
Of that face
I shall someday see.
Previously published in author's chapbook, Rose Without Thorns.
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| Monica Cardestam, Artist |
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| Marilyn Peretti, Photographer |
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| Susan McClellan
Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania
Winter Snow
The winter snow
Covers the trees like a quilt,
Blanketing them carefully
With patches of snowflakes,
Comforting them until spring
Until they are uncovered.
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Court Williams
Highland Park, Illinois
Winter
The window reveals a winter’s day,
With the snow piled all around,
And a wind-blown bush that’s here to stay,
Anchored by the frozen ground.
The bush is naught but branches bare,
As the skeleton of a soldier long passed on,
Who in his prime was fit and fair,
Now a memory all but gone.
The iron hard earth,
The inevitable grave,
The journey from birth,
Like an irresistible wave.
All living things this season must face,
To complete our cycle of life,
And then we go and leave but a trace,
Of how we faced this strife.
The bush stands mute before the storm,
Enduring nature’s onslaught,
And when the days again turn warm,
Is rewarded for the fight well fought.
I draw some hope from the sight,
As to life the bush does cling,
Confident that from its plight,
New life again will spring.
| Alice Marcus Solovy
Highland Park, Illinois
Irony of Choice
How dark
Is the night sky
With deadly fear
Or peaceful calm?
You choose.
Pick your path
From the fork
In the road.
Go right
Or left,
Or push on
In between
Or turn back.
You choose.
Or do you?
How much of
Life is chosen
For you?
How much is
Yours to choose?
Either way
Choices are made.
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| William Hicks, Photographer |
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| Image from creative commons |
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| Image from creative commons |
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Jenene Ravesloot
Chicago, Illinois
When He was Late
Remember how we used to ride on
our Wonder Horse Mares at dusk,
you on the painted white one called
Snow and I on the painted black one
that seemed to glow like a coal as we
rocked back and forth on those
springs—You, King of the Cowboys
and me, Queen of the Cowgirls,
rocking, rocking, rocking, while
mother sat in the kitchen, alone.
| Tom Roby IV
Chicago, Illinois
Things are Out to Get Me
This window opens a bit too wide.
That antique chair sports a wobbling leg.
My chef’s knife looks too sharp.
This brake thinks it’s the gas pedal.
That curb is higher than I remember.
My lawn mower tried to bite my foot.
This ceiling fan wobbles worse and worse.
That vine crawls halfway across the room.
My shaving cord dove into the sink water.
I tell you things are out to get me.
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| Kay Thomas, Sumi-e Artist |
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| Kay Thomas
Highland Park, Illinois
lotus haiku
from roots in mud
and murky water
beauty arrises
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| Gail Denham, Photographer |
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Michael P. Wright
Highwood, Illinois
Investigator
A myriad of hope
A quirkiness to the hilt
One outstretched matted smudge for conviction
Curiosities widen, they broke the case wide open
Jack of all trades, knowledge is extensive
Hustling and bustling they are
Plain clothes and rumpled suits
Street smarts, their knowledge of choice
Precision like justice
Accuracies and timing so spontaneous
An orator to the common man
Adjust in requisite neighborhoods
A police officer and vainglorious to a fault
Writes like Conan Doyle of Sherlock Holmes fame
Decipher facts and salvage a prosecution
Quite a hardened rollercoaster ride they have.
| Jacqueline Stearns
Bloomfield, New Jersey
Dogs On Parade In Parks
Regal standard poodles, passing
by, on upraised front paws.
Golden retrievers, loping along,
straining at their leashes, looking
for people to lavish affection upon.
Portuguese water dogs with gorgeous
curly black coats,
their curious brown eyes taking
everything in.
Collies trot by, reminding me of
childhood afternoons spent
watching Lassie.
Red and black pomeranians
mincing daintily along sniffling
everything in their path. Cocker
spaniels, lovely redheads with
floppy ears. Oh, to be a fur Mom
to one of these darlings.
Taking a bicycle ride, with
my baby in the basket.
Stroking silky heads. Rubbing my
hands down furry backs.
Contented whimpers. Frantic licking.
I have made a canine friend.
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| Idella Pearl Edwards, Photographer |
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Daniel Cleary
Chicago, Illinois
Encounter (for V F)
In that first instance, it was if we knew
Something had happened, although what it was
Remained uncertain. Standing there, we paused
Not saying anything. I looked at you.
Your face was lit up like a startled fawn
As if you never expected such a thing.
We nodded hello, briskly acknowledging
Our former aquaintance, then you were gone.
Yet something happened we'd not known before
(I'd tried to paint your portrait and I failed
In an abortive attempt one afternoon:
Bored with the thought of all that it entailed,
I think you wished I'd get it over soon...)
It was as if we recognized each other.
| Bruce Matteson
Yorktown Heights, New York
26645 mornings and counting,
i have been given the chance to see
day coming out of darkness
that right there is hope
more tender and sweet
than the best fresh baked biscuit
hope full of promise
promise that no matter what i make of this day and
whether i show up tomorrow or not, morning will
yeah, i’ve missed a few, my fault or not
but i find, if you’re there for the day
the day is there for you regardless
of the plans others may have
some of my worst days
started with that bigger than life sky
cut at the horizon with the crispness of the earth
all the important data is there
morning is the nose on god’s face
i can’t see her mouth but i hear her words
she says it’s not about me
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| Monica Cardestam, Artist |
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| Ann Privateer
Davis, California
The Mona Lisa
Now lives in Paris
Alone in a crowded space
Because she communicates
By saying nothing, people
Take her picture, she awakens
So much interest, she’s a star.
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Daniel J. Fitzgerald
Pontiac, Illinois
Glass of Wine
When quiet days give sway
to quieter nights,
it is good to have
a glass of wine resting near
an easily bent elbow.
Darkening skies ask for
a sober drink
to toast the end of the day.
Birds chirp,
cars turn on headlights,
dogs bark hoarsely
at lengthening shadows.
A sip, a swallow,
the warmth of sunlight
lifting the night’s darkness.
Somewhere, far off,
voices call for friendship,
answered truthfully
in sharing a glass of wine.
| Tim Callahan
Altadena, California
Dusky Drinks for Darker Days
So now it’s autumn and so
I drink dark wine.
All summer long on long hot days
I drank chilled white wine as I
sat in my shaded garden
on long golden afternoons.
But now in early darkness
and soothing cooler weather
I drink dark wine as red
as venous blood.
On a day, the day that’s shortest
in the year some years ago
late in a darkening afternoon near dusk
as I walked on an upward trail
I greeted a fine young man
and woman and wished them
both a happy solstice
At their puzzled looks
I told them it was the day
of shortest daylight of the year
and they brought out a flask
of spirits dark and strong and so
we three toasted then
the darkness of that day.
Autumn and winter call for
dark and heady brews and
heavy hearty soups and stews.
It is a time when these dark
draughts engender warmth
on these dark days.
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| Sam Dotson, Artist |
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Hanh Chau
San Jose, California
The Shooting Star
Looking out of the darkness night above the sky
I am witnessing the sparkling bright star
that had caught to my eyes
With fondest memory has filled me
to the search for the curiosity to this universe
Who is to create this shooting star
Mother Nature or me?
With the sign I often read
Can that be me
With the dream to come true
Or it is far beyond the wildest expectation
Determination has instilled me
To continue to carry on
Yes, someday
I can reach to that star
and become like that brilliant one
hanging far beyond the galaxy space
to take on of my own destination
to fulfill my own request
Never care to give up
To keep on moving despite
when the world is stop turning
Only to make the best out of it
And to live life to the fullest
Without any regret
That shooting star will be mine
Someday I promise, indeed it will
Because I am aim to be one
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Lynn West
Highland Park, Illinois
My Pillow Cries
My pillow cries
In the middle of the night
I try to comfort the soft feather bundle deep in my face
But it still cries
So I hold it and push it into my soul
It suffocates as I squeeze
No longer able to breathe the tears are quieted
And I am able to sleep
The long deep sleep of the dead.
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| William Hicks, Photographer |
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| Regina M. Elliott
Fletcher, North Carolina
The Midnight Horse
The recall of long ago, of a spirited All Hallows' Eve,
as I was in the fragility of youth, oh, the pallor,
my lifeless pallor of my major depression,
then, the Midnight Horse began his nocturnal
whispery visits, handsome in his mystical
countenance, his resplendence,
with a dusky ebony body and silver hooves,
he prances into my loneliest of dreams and grief,
whinnies, then announces his presence, as if
to say, "I am here,"
some of humanity with depression talk of
the stalking black dog,
yet, mine is the Midnight Horse.
In my bath of lavender and moonlight he
awakens me, and a loving thought that
comes to mind is my distinct feeling that
my eternal soul of despondency is a
kindred spirit with Edgar Allan Poe,
and, as I listen to the whippoorwill near my
autumnal chilled bedchamber,
the hearth's embers of cold ashes,
I will have a few fragmented hours slumber,
as the creeping murky velvet hours of the
night grow a light gray,
my equine comforter snorts and tosses
his head, his eyes of dead onyx pools,
he assures me he is always with me,
stars sparkle on his coat, and the wind
billows his mane and tail,
my spectral companion, my Guest of Honor.
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| Lynn West, Photographer |
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Michael H. Brownstein
Jefferson City, Missouri
Defining Beauty
You are the rhyme in beauty.
the great half smile of moonlight,
the radiance of sunrise over Lake Michigan.
When the grand gulls rumble in the water,
the large fish skip to the surface,
and a wave washes away sand castles,
I see you there, too, within the smell of hair,
skin, the breath of perfume from your lips,
and I can touch the rhymes in my heart.
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| David Dotson, Photographer |
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| Ann Privateer, Artist |
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Jennifer Dotson
Highland Park, Illinois
Goodbye, Joe. A Villanelle.
Dependence on caffeine is not a sustainable thread.
My drinking coffee and tea is effecting how I feel.
Inevitably there is a great pounding in my head.
I love that morning mug full after waking from my bed.
A burst of energy and my exhaustion it does conceal.
Dependence on caffeine is not a sustainable thread.
Through my veins is the caffeinated goodness quickly spread.
All the cream I add may someday in those same veins congeal.
Inevitably there is a great pounding in my head.
“Try decaffeinated drinks or herbal tea,” my doctor said.
To my glib objections, her grim expression is like steel.
Dependence on caffeine is not a sustainable thread.
My doctor knows it’s true after all the studies she’s read.
Withdrawal from my daily caffeine buzz just seems surreal.
Inevitably there is a great pounding in my head.
Now I’m only drinking assorted herbal teas instead
and end my day with a lovely cup of chamomile.
Dependence on caffeine is not a sustainable thread.
I’d like a break from the great pounding in my head.
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| Gail Denham, Photographer |
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2021 Summer Gallery Archive - Shoes
Nila Bartley * Jessica Weyer Bentley * Mary Beth Bretzlauf * Fiona M. Campbell * Monica Cardestam * Joseph Kuhn Carey * William Carey * Chris Chandler * Jackie Chou * Jan Chronister * Hinda Cole * Tina Cole * Gail Denham * Charlotte Digregorio * Jennifer Dotson * Janz Duncan * Idella Pearl Edwards * Michael Escoubas * Indira Esson * Isadora Esson * Daniel J. Fitzgerald * Karen Fried * Judith Stern Friedman * Dominique Galiano * Cynthia Gallaher * Nancy Hepner Goodman * Alwyn Gornall * Janea D. Harris * Teresa Harris * Janis Butler Holm * Mark Hudson * Kate Hutchinson * Linda Imbler * Julie Isaacson * Paul M. Jamar * Caroline Johnson * Judith MK Kaufman * Richard V. Kaufman * Betsy Dolgin Katz * Tricia Knoll * Michael Ethan Landau * Joan Leotta * Terry Loncaric * Cindy Madara * William Marr * Michael Maul * Susan McClellan * Cassandra McGovern * Bob McNeil * Adrian McRobb * Silvia Morgan * Wilda Morris * Lakshmy Nair * Carl “Papa” Palmer * Phyllis Patterson * Ann Privateer * Marjorie Rissman * W. R. Rodriguez * Rie Sheridan Rose * Marie Samuel * Julie Sheldon * Alice Marcus Solovy * Miranda Stewart * Christine Swanberg * Nick Sweet * Kay Thomas * Connie Vitale * Lori Wall-Holloway * Lynn West * Lynn White * Diane Wlezien * Michael P. Wright * RM Yager * Yvonne Zipter
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Click to download Archive |
2021 Daily Poem Archive - September
Lois Baer Barr, Michael H. Brownstein, Jackie Chou, Victoria Crawford, Jennifer Dotson, Mardelle Fortier, Marne Glaser, Carol L. Gloor, John Grey, Jaqueline Harris, Ariella Kharasch, Candace Kubinec, Ann Lammas, Arlene Gay Levine, Carol Spielman Lezak, Terry Loncaric, Lennart Lundh, Nitya Menon, Sandeep Mishra Kumar, Carl "Papa" Palmer, Jenene Ravesloot, Marjorie Rissman, Tom Roby, Alice Marcus Solovy, and Court Williams
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Click to download Archive |
2021 Daily Poem Archive - August
Chris Chandler, Victoria Crawford, Jennifer Dotson, J.K. Durick, Mardelle Fortier, John Grey, Janea D. Harris, Caroline Johnson, Richard V. Kaufman, Joan Leotta, Arlene Gay Levine, Terry Loncaric, Lennart Lundh, Jean McDonough,Sandeep Mishra Kumar, Carl "Papa" Palmer, René Parks, Jenene Ravesloot, Donita Ries, Alice Marcus Solovy, Nick Sweet, Curt Vevang, Lori Wall-Holloway, Lynn West, Court Williams, and Yvonne Zipter.
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Click to download Archive |
2021 Daily Poem Archive - July
Gary Beck, Daniel Cleary, Victoria Crawford, Jennifer Dotson, Maureen Flannery, Phil Flott, Mardelle Fortier, Dominique Galiano, John Grey, Paul Jamar, Richard V. Kaufman, Joan Leotta, Lennart Lundh, Bonnie Manion, William Marr, Jean McDonough, Silvia Morgan, Carl "Papa" Palmer, Marianne Peel, Marilyn Peretti, Jenene Ravesloot, Alice Marcus Solovy, Kay Thomas, Curt Vevang, and Lori Wall-Holloway.
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Click to download Archive |
2020 Daily Poem Archive - September
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2009 Fall
Muses' Gallery Archive
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