February - Poem 5

Frozen  / Kristine Anderson

water below 32°
cubes for cold lemonade
or tumbled into the cooler
or packed in a Ziplock
for a sore shoulder

in winter, the sidewalk
where I shuffle and slide
to the trash can, a bag full
of warm coffee grounds from
breakfast, cellophane
that once held a loaf of bread,
detritus of everyday

crystals hanging onto eaves
puddles turning solid

cold as . . . meaning rigid,
unfeeling, heartless—
the heart as counterpoint:
vital, dynamic, warm

outside a kitchen window,
piled snow hardening the ground
where, below, daffodil bulbs
wait for the thaw

A Tale Of Two  / Barbara Audet

Walking in beauty is dangerous.
Only if there's beauty in you.
Tender beauty 
beyond skin deep courageous;
Eclipses temporary aspect, hues.
Force and Beauty 
meet most often 
when skies are starry,
and demand is great, 
unsoftened in such gaudy days.
Pretty planned, impaired, has no place.
tt shatters under lights, impure, notorious.
Lasting beauty draws attention.
As it's brave, not vainglorious.
Beauty at peace asks Her
Take the stand, go unadorned.
With thoughts expressed serene
Define calmness with
unnecessary win-refusing smiles.
Word eloquence alone
is goodness spent 
most beautifully.
Action in intimidation's face
is nameless grace.

ON FARMING THE LAND / Ashby Logan Hill

                      from King Tutenkamun’s Diary

“Meet me at the heron rookery at dusk. I’ll be waiting for you there,”
he said to his advisors. “I want to talk to you about farming the land,
how fertile the crescent is and Ibis gliding as Thoth tells us of
Ankhesenamun, how rich and ripe the soil is to carry my children.
My father once told me about the people of god, the lamb of the
sun but he kept everything else from me. I took on a different name.
I wanted to till the earth, cultivate the land, sow the fields with the
beauty and magic of the sun. I wish he would have told me sooner
about the drought and the shrines of the delta marshes left to decay. 
I don’t know why he would keep this from me. I like the way the reeds
sway in the wind, how crystal blue the water is. I wish there was a way
to tell him now how much I love the grass by the Nile, the birds and
fishes coexisting, how all the fields and dirt and sky become one.”
It is unfortunate that the sun does not travel backwards.

Italicized line from E. Ethelbert Miller's "Michelle"

Talking to the Moon / Amy Marques

Tell me, dear daughter,
that, years ago, i had
attention & curiosity at
who you were 
to become.

Source Material: A Tale of Two Cities

Micah called / Sonia Sophia Sura

He said he doesn’t know how to flirt.

He doesn’t like going to bars and hearing girls
talk about their crazy roommate.

He likes to talk about wars and authors from the
1900s and what he cooks for breakfast. 
His eggs benedict is so passionate, he
almost missed his train, one time out of Saratoga Springs.
Made eggs benny for everyone but himself.

He read me poetry. Elizabeth Bishop.
Told me about her life.
She went to Brazil and wrote a poem for Micah to read to me
while I wrote a poem
and pretended I was listening.

He said he just finished cleaning his room.
I cleaned my room last night, too, but
he’d destroyed things in his room. Broke things.
Has to make coffee differently because he broke the
coff—
I don’t know. I don’t drink coffee.

I want to know
what he’s like
when his guard is
down.
I want to know what
he’s like when
his rage
softens and
slithers like a snake
hugging a 
tree;

what I mean to say, 
what I’m getting at is,

Micah reads me poetry 
from the books on his shelf,
if he has a standing shelf.

Micah gets together with his friends and they
read poetry to each other,
in the heart of Brooklyn,
they are reading poetry to each other. 

Micah is so gentle and ardent for intellectual
stimulation, he must have smashed his belongings in 
pursuit of a higher intelligence…

It’s my philosophy to take care of myself and
share my methods with others.
I tell him about the celtic shaman.
I tell him about meditations
and sufi whirling and
I want to know what he’s like
when his guard is down,
when he’s relaxed to someone’s lips.

Corporate Confession  / Samuel Spencer

I can hear the morning rain pattering
on the leaves outside my window.

I want to stay in this moment, wait
until the sky runs out of droplets –

But I mustn’t, or I will miss the time to be
“on time.” I will be the one who goes

as the rain stays in this moment and watches me
run out. I ask myself

when did my life become a series of forsaking
the joys bestowed on me at birth?