February - Poem 4
Introduction to Winter / Kristine Anderson
Last weekend’s foot of snow hangs around
though now it’s more like ice
and my dog, about the height of that,
had mostly given up on favorite spots:
no more grassy lawn stretching to the street,
no mounds of dirt beneath the evergreens.
Seven times—maybe eight—he fell in
and, immobilized, looked to me to rescue him.
Today, something different. The dog hopped
up to a plateau of snow and didn’t sink.
The surface held. The dog sniffed.
So I stepped up. The ice supported me
for just a beat—long enough to think
okay, this’ll work . . . then thump!
One foot sank deep, shifting body mass.
I toppled down, squarely on my bum. In the snow.
As far as I can tell, the only laughter
came from me. From deep within my chest.
I stood, regained my equilibrium, dusted
off the ice still clinging to my coat.
The dog tugged the leash, wanting to go on.
No, uh-uh, I said, and shook my head.
We’ve had our turns, my dog and I, and now
I think we see: winter has the upper
hand—at least until the spring.
untitled / Bee Cordera
A Tale Of Two / Barbara Audet
“In short, the period was so far like the present period, that some of its noisiest authorities insisted on its being received, for good or for evil, in the superlative degree of comparison only.”
Charles Dickens
It was, he said, the best of times.
Because fabrics were fine.
Thoughts were elevated.
Revolution was a birthright.
The golden thread.
They claimed the Greeks.
Hugged their philosophy, knowledge
Science served with cherish on top.
It was, he said, the worst of times.
Death came forward
as a guarantee
for disobedience.
Fell swoop.
Away you went.
Blood was the answer
For despotic disagreements.
It was, he said, the age of wisdom.
More than Burke and Paine.
More than Rousseau and Jefferson.
All. Created. Equal.
Definitely on paper.
It would seem so.
It was, he said, the age of foolishness.
Because fabrics were fine
only for some.
The paper thoughts
were fragile.
It was, he said, the epoch of belief.
Belief compelling, disturbing,
overwhelming, corrupt.
It was, he said, the epoch of incredulity.
Epochs are supposed to have a start, a finish.
There is no finish line
for stunning reversals
In the progression of human desire.
Recalled to life, he said,
In the presence of the track of a storm.
Winds of self-ambition.
Lightning fits of anger,
striking for power’s sake.
It could still be a season for Light
To dispel the ever present Darkness?
His hero would give his life.
Our heroes are also dying.
in this near spring of hope,
Laid on the doorstep
of a literary fantasy
Come to life.
We are yet knee-deep
in this winter of despair.
The red snow of Minnesota
Must even now give way
To a spring of green and rebirth.
We wish to be recalled
to a better life.
This is still
A time when we
Have everything before us.
But give way to fear,
We will have nothing
Before us.
The Victorian considered that heaven or hell
Were places on your itinerary.
Eventually.
The year of His Lord
one thousand
seven hundred
and seventy-five.
The year of mine is now.
LAST WILL AND TESTAMENT / Ashby Logan Hill
That’s all I’ve ever really wanted. Something like this for death.
If you will, please honor it. I know you have your own beliefs
on who gets what and what goes where and how all the papers
in my archive will be “represented.” I’d like you to know I have
wholehearted trust in you to do so. I know some of the things
I’ve asked for are a bit wacky but I’ve already got everything straight
with my power of attorney and she'll have you know I’m quite
serious about the ice-cold cantaloupe and cucumber tea sandwiches
to be served at my wake. I guess that’s what we’ll call it. I’ve hired a
brass band and a great set of thespians to act it all out — the “dead” me
in my casket will do just that — awake and sing to the rooftops to all my
guests — “He’s already moved on so there better be some damn good laughter
between your sips of whiskey sours and conversations,” he told me to tell you.
“Meet me at the heron rookery at dusk. I’ll be waiting for you there.”
For Kim / Amy Marques
debauchery
bred:
public street
powerful
extensive
crowd
Therefore:
What's coming?
I want to send all my poems to you / Sonia Sophia Sura
I want to send all my poems to you
I want to be a wound split open
only to show you the remarkable
ability we have to
peer inside with a magnifying glass and
find words, shapes, sound.
I want to tell you
I lost
what could bring me dead.
I shattered.
I de-limbed.
I want to tell you with my hands,
my eyes, my lips.
They are still here.
I want to tell you with my hands,
my eyes, my lips
are still here.
Layover / Samuel Spencer
I’m not on-the-go anymore,
but I feel like this, this leg of
The Journey
is just one of those long layovers –
like that one time I spent 19 hours
in the Denver airport, and slept under the gaze
of its demonic gargoyles –
Except this time I get to see my friends
and family, and tour the spot I’ve been to
a hundred times. I’m no longer travelling
and yet my toothbrush
continues to live in a travel case, a go-bag,
if you will.
The truth of it all is
I’m not, in fact, on a layover.
There’s no checking in, no need for
security.
I can be here know it soon
won’t have to end. I can pause my means
for escape. I can put away my
baggage.
