December - Poem 14

I can bring lifeboats and landing gear / Kate Bowers

What can I do disabled with love
Calabashless on a shore
Unrecognizable to me.

Though a swimmer, 
I hesitate.
To dive is to immerse,

And am I not already drowning
Breathless on the precipice
Above this strip mine?

Scuba students nearby tell me tales
Of sunken school busses they have found
In the mine’s flooded depths

Old cars filled with back seats
That once held one close
To another 

And the echolocation they feel
Through their wetsuits,
The pulse from the unknown

As they sink

Ballroom / Katie Collins

One, two, three, four
I count my steps
As we circle each other
Dancing around the room
The extra effort is to keep from stepping on your toes
If only you felt the same

Who Brings a Dozen Doughnuts to a Funeral?  / Ellen Ferguson

Who doesn't?
Normal folks, not stars in every show
Calm angels, not those who toast themselves
True friends.
When you brought a dozen doughnuts to mine,
I blanched like a hot cruller
Embarrassed for you, even
After I was gone.
Like after you brought that leftover rye toast
From the diner                        To our first date
I should have known:           You would bring 
Doughnuts to my funeral    Back in Jersey, riding
Like a golden calf          On a false deity's shoulder

Memory’s Archive / Chris Fong Chew

Buried in memory’s archive 
is a tale of leaving 
and arriving in a land 
foreign to the self 
and a foreigner to others. 

This land of mystic words 
confused phrases, 
backwards syntax, and 
misunderstood praises. 

This land of exclusion
inclusion, diverse, reclusion, 
contortion, extortion, 
important information 
is hidden from those who 
did not originate from here. 

Refugee and perpetual 
foreigner, learning the ways 
of the host. Did you ever find 
out about the secrets hidden
under the soil?

The bodies, of people, of animals 
of forests, plants, trees. Riches 
at the cost of the richness of 
this land before it was 
taken, stolen, broken, destroyed. 

In memory’s archive is a story of the place 
of riches. Was it truly as rich as it was 
set out to be? 

Hear, Oh Lonely / Davis Hicks

The world, our bounty-broken world, is many.
When dry wildflower blossoms dance across dunes,
the closest to mermaiding they’ll ever get, 
pray.
Pray for them, and for rain. For the beautiful and the damned,
the drop-tested
 and the stop-gapped, for the sweat faces of the attempted
and the falsetto findings of the sugar-dancer. 
Pray for them. 
Pray through squinting eyes
pray with water filled words
falling from split-lips.

Be unafraid to stutter,
unmasked and unabashed in your voice
even when it traitors. Remove the callouses from your
ears, the habits from your steps
and then begin. In the peaceful embrace 
of the wild places- in nook and cranny, in notches
and creeks, those unwilling
to slingshot. If they do swallow you
it is only
with 
wonder.

Pray with upturned palms
ready to embrace 
whoever is willing
to grab hold.
Let prayers be as full as blossoms
and believe there is such
an honest act
as listening.

Let the act be familiar, as visiting the stream is, 
but the words as fresh as each day’s new rush
of silent clarity. Yesterday’s rain
distilled 
by time and roughness into 
something smooth, 
something kind in its chill-settled softness.
Let your prayers 
be prayers
be prayers 
as the water
is the water
is the water
but never once claims
 to be 
all of it 

at 

once.

Kindling / Victor Barnuevo Velasco

She keeps returning to the same
gathering ground. In summer,
dry twigs fall before the leaves.
They save the fire. No, they
save more than fire. They give
her time to collect what she
has lost since she moved out
of her mother’s house. Before
the pot of porridge that never
seems to get emptied. Before
the bottles and baby clothes.

They are more than kindling.
In her mind, she picks up
a brush for her once shiny hair.
A pocket mirror. A lipstick
she wipes before her husband
comes home. She tells him she
goes to the forest to keep the fire
alive. To save matches and kerosene.
Not once does he suspect
there’s more to fire than burning.

A Modest House / Jen Wagner

A modest house
Small and plain.
Tucked away 
Down a hidden lane.
A magic place
Where we all came, 
To gather in love
And celebrate.  

Filled with love,
Magic and lore.
Stories shared
As we sit on the floor.
Eyes are wide
Waiting for more. 
Always anticipating 
What’s in store.

These halls are filled
With shadows we cast.
The Ancestors walk
The grounds that are vast.
The trees they whisper
The names of our past.
Here I seek solace
Life moves too fast.

Here life slows
To the pace that of a crawl.
I breathe in deeply 
Feeling so small.
Accepting the energy
She shares with us all.
Living in memories
Of spaces long gone. 

A simple house 
In stature and size. 
You cannot deny
The magic inside. 
Energy teeming
Ancient and wise. 
Grounded in love 
Disguised in plain sight. 

Out with the Old / Stacy Walker

Out with the old, 
We often say, 
Decluttering stuff 
Along the way. 

Purging the junk 
We no longer need, 
We give it away  
To perform a good deed. 

With empty space, 
A different view, 
Wondering what 
To put in there new. 

Hurry along, 
Replace and refill, 
Desperately hoping 
To settle in still. 

But what if I sat 
With the vast emptiness, 
Wondered a while 
What to do with less. 

And what if I did 
The same inside, 
Peeked around corners, 
Saw what I tried to hide. 

Got rid of the stuff 
That no longer serves, 
Removing all 
That unsettles my nerves. 

Without that junk 
Interfering each day, 
A bit more space 
As I find my way. 

Room to choose 
What truly uplifts, 
Redecorate my space 
With life’s true gifts.