February - Poem 11

Shelter / Kristine Anderson

In winter, busy chickadee-dee-dee calls
fill the woods as songbirds forage in trees,
hopping along branches for insect eggs,

accompanied by the rat-a-tat of woodpeckers
and caws of blue jays storing up before
icy winds blow in with more snowfall,

while gray squirrels scurry across frozen lawns
then skitter up trees, carrying precious acorns
to the shelter of a tree cavity or drey.

Outside, dark nimbostratus clouds roll in.
Here in our kitchen, we switch on lights early,
the room glowing. Steam rises from the coffee

maker, as we settle in like our neighbors
the squirrels, the jays and chickadees
and woodpeckers, to wait out the storm.

Pipevine Love / Barbara Audet

I fear for the lives of deep noir butterflies,
Hindwings edged with blue carbuncles,
Fresh mated on their flight of blending.
Over scrubby Texas fields,
So far from opal beams of treasured Rivendell,
Where I imagine such creatures thrive.
They search, dart, flirt offhandedly at first
In search of lighting places.
Soon, they'll have to make demands, 
Impatient with each other,
Life will generate a need,
More intense, more vital 
For lepidopteran lovers
On a just in time's nick,
Journey 
To survive.
Butterflies such as these aerial anomalies
No doubt, once in abundance, angered wayfarers.
Now, two float in solitary dance
Across a long, brown swatch of faded grass.
Upon reflection, no camera in hand,
This passerby takes mental memory
Of the lovesick Pipevine swallowtails,
More common than my soul
in search of airborne beauty and simplicity.

Ode to Hospitality   / Bee Cordera

On a cold winter evening you are the fire we sit by telling stories, the extra sparkles of stars in the sky guiding us through a dark night.
Because of you, we know a familiar kind of love. We are happy to hold in each other the light of life the inspiration for good.

ODE TO THE FORGOTTEN STONES / Ashby Logan Hill

And I smile a little longer, like him, before the oil stains on his blue jeans call to me.
The man I mean, standing there stone faced by the swift, cold creek,
a simple man in a straw hat and overalls leaning against the fallen stones.
“The river looks mighty fine,” he says to me.  “I just might be able to
take the boat out today and do some fishing.”  He’d been chewing, between
elongated sentences, a wad of Beech-Nut plug, the juices from his “t” and
“s” sounds splitting midair and levitating just a bit before finding ground.
This whole time I’d thought I’d seen a ghost loafing by the ruins of my
father’s childhood house. A doe and a buck stood high in the trees watching.
“These weren’t no hedge or henge,” he says. “I’d be sure as sassafras if’twere
to tell of it.” “I’m not sure what you’re getting at,” I said. The trickle of
water had gotten lost in me and was trying to find its way back. I could
feel it in the bones and bricks of my indifference, standing there in silence,
waiting for the clouds to break, no direction home, a complete unknown. 


       italics from Bob Dylan's "Like a Rolling Stone"

Hold / Amy Marques

philosopher, they call me

philosopher

Are they right?

Hold a moment

smoothly, willingly, 

sufficiently 

long and hard

steadily

bright

Source material: A Tale of Two Cities

My name gives me a big ego, / Sonia Sophia Sura

My name, 
from my Great Grandmothers,
is Sonia Sophia Sura.

Sonia means wisdom 
and Golden Voice.
Sophia means Holy Wisdom 
and mother Gaia,
Mother of the Earth.
Sura means chapter,
an image, 
divine,
sun.

Sonia Sophia Sura
is the Golden Voice
of the divine
Chapters 
of Wisdom,
the
image 
of
Mother Earth. 

Mosquito Net  / Samuel Spencer

I used to lie awake,
eyes wide open as the sweat rolled
from my temple to the sheets
I was not beneath.
It must have been November or
December in Malawi, when
the days are hot and dry, and
the dust accumulates in every
crevice you can imagine.
I’d lie pooling and furious at the
dark stagnance trapped within
the dome above my head; a thin
veil of mesh like a fish net designed
to keep those killers, those vampires
from sucking my blood. I’d lie
there, melting and needing to piss;
needing until my stubborn mind
gave in to my persistent blatter.
I’d claw the net away and trace the
walls to the bathroom, grope
the sink for a box of matches
and light a candle. I’d let loose
a long dark ark of urine,
listen to its quiet impact
on the porcelain; shake,
blow out the candle, walk back
to bed in reverse, and
assume my position beneath
the smoldering, life-saving net
only to hear the enemy zip
past my ear, searching for
flesh. It was futile. In the morning
I found her fat and resting
on the wall. I annihilated her
with my palm, and together we left
behind the story of two battles
lost.