February - Poem 7

The Clouds  / Kristine Anderson

The weather report predicts more snow
tomorrow, though this afternoon cumulus
puffs float across a canvas of cornflower blue
behind bare winter arms of birch and alder.

By morning, glacier gray nimbostratus
will arrive, sending icy rain or flakes of snow
to overlay frozen-shrouded lawns, to cover
brown oak leaves still hanging on from fall,

to coat rooftops and doorsteps, settling
on streets finally cleared after last weekend’s
storm, gathering on brick walkways
where neighbors tread carefully to keep

from sliding. A good day to stay inside
while the heater blasts its heart out. A good day
for a book or conversation over tea. A good day
to listen to snow’s hush: easy does it.

Sort Of Sonnet Olympiad / Barbara Audet

He would extol thee on this winter’s eve.
Now is sport more artful and more deliberate.
Ebony skies did greet the sparkling torches’ weave,
To plant a light that burns too brief this Milan-frescoed date.
Not this time will the sun burst unfairly bright for miracle deeds.
Nor will cold mar complexions of Sparta’s children as they soar.
By measures marked oh so small, a few will earn their golden leads.
And yes, sometimes, nature’s chance will enhance what training bore.
This eternal moment will not fade or its import ere diminish.
For those braving ice, long drifts so grandly, boldly Italic.
May yet claim the glory given to those who reach an ephemeral finish.
To wear ‘round their necks, this century’s version of laurel metallic.
So long as women, men exert and breathe, eyes see,
So long lives this and we take untampered joy from thee.

Scissortail Flycatcher / Bee Cordera

Bird of most beautiful sunsets, 
swooping
into the evening, catching summer's 
juicy insects. How we miss you 
during the months of cold 
your dancing in the sky, 
the warmth of the sun as 
red as your inner 
wings and feathers.

DREAM FROM A DINNER PARTY AT THE PALAZ OF HOON / Ashby Logan Hill

All day and still he won’t tell us, two lotus flowers floating in the sun.
And you wake up to the howling wind, as brisk as this morning winter,
the still light sun cast flicker between the trees outside your windows.
And from this purpling dream, just having awakened, you sit up and listen,
as slow as ever wonder what the day will bring, sift through the tattered
memories from those lucid moments ago.  You close your eyes and go
back to the Night river, the dinner party, a woman who sees you out back
waiting by the flowing, rose-filled fountain.  Earlier, you had tied an umbrella
to yourself to use as a hang glider parachute and the wind took you up into the
afternoon sky, somewhere like a breeze above Corolla. A man from down below yells
from the horse-lined beach to punch down the bag a bit and twist with the tethers.  “You’ll make your way back down then,” he said. And so I did. And a soft patch of
cypress trees welcomed me and I waited for a ride into town from a stranger.
And all this just to get back to what my mind held? “A sleepless sanctuary,” I said.

The Beginning of a Struggle / Amy Marques

Brokenhearted

Silent

        Repressed

   always knowing   always seeing

even now.

But witness

so believe

          one day

          a word

                 could touch

            striving

            in a happier future

in aid 

of the beginning of a struggle.

The Surface that Holds  / Sonia Sophia Sura

Can I still 
make a wish?

I found an
eyelash
on 
the
yoga mat.

Maybe that’s where
all the
wishes
go,
on the
surface that
holds
our
child’s pose

Maybe the 
surrender to
the human
shapes
of
surrender
and fetus
and 
animal
and
spine

is how the
wishes
come 
true—

Is
relaxing
all I 
need to do
to 
Save
the World?

Stretching
my neck,
shoulders,
my torso?

Raptured  / Samuel Spencer

And just like that,
it was all over – everything,
my life, a distant memory
shut away in my heavenly mind.
There was more I wanted
to do, something I wanted to say,
though I don’t know what.
I never did catch that red Gyrados
in the Lake of Rage. I was halfway
through A Farewell to Arms.
I’ll never know if my parlay hit.
I never kissed her on her full,
red lips, though I looked at them
long enough to know how mine
would feel pressed against them.
I look down at my glowing,
pedicured feet –  I guess my favorite pair
of Vans weren't holy enough…

Haha, get it?