March - Poem 30

A Closing Prayer / Kathleen Bednarek

Prayer survives in the mouth. 
It survives despite the book 
being partially burned. 
And blooms back in muddy ash 
from a mistake of fallen tears.

A patchwork of pages, 
known by its ply 
of edges and shadows. 
Words spoken in.

A hand upon the cover— 
peace—you are beloved. 
Incantations pressed 
by repetition upon sand 
from the Indian Ocean.

All I can give you is finite.
Grains of continent flung back 
to the emptiness of space. 

This hymn of a star’s collapse.
Shared with time, 
desire falling in on itself. 

Encouraging our passage
to be sung, let us complete 
silence taken in, heard through 
a window in the heart. 

Black Grief  / Mymona Bibi

I'm at that stage of grief
where black lakes spill
out into black land
on black days and under black moons.
Once upon a time 
there was a line between sky
and water - I remember wading
through blue bodies.
Now the world is darkened
with ravens and sinking 
is easier,
my voice is dying,
becoming another black sound.
As loud as the last time
I sobbed in the back
of a taxi,
as loud as the dog 
barking at the rising tides.
I want what he wants.
To make art from swallowed pride.
To find stars in the black sky

Every few years I make a list of jobs / Susan Hankla

people have that no one would ever imagine existed.

1. The people hired to carry the trains of heavy designer gowns 
at such places as the Met Gala, or on the Red Carpet the night of Academy Awards.

2. The people who wash all the cat and dog dishes at SPCA.

3. The person or persons who assemble things you buy online:
such as the under-the-desk printer caddy, or the teak shower bench
which weighs close to three-hundred pounds. 

4. The person or persons who knits sweaters for Teddy bears for Etsy.

It's time for the dance-break for words: whoever invented this phrase deserves a medal:
"You can't dance to every record." It's a real stress-reliever to hear it.

An ekphrastic for poems that are classics, such as "One Art" by Elizabeth Bishop,
or E.D.’s "Because I Could Not Stop for Death."

A public service announcement: stop using the word "iconic". Please just stop using it.
Certainly, everything can't be iconic. A couple years earlier, in overuse was the word, "ironic."

And FYI: Dandyism is a thing, y'all. Look it up. Try it on if you are male identified.
We women need to smile.

A poioumenon is a written work that tells the story of its own making, such as
"I May Destroy You" by Michaela Coel.

I'll keep you posted when I think of more things I think you need to know.

Conclusion   / Amy Haworth

(A cento from my March poetry)

A boy on his bike
won’t be shut down, torn down, talked down
by majority votes won

I weep for the girls 
healed
with shadowed lines

And I realize how easy it could have been to say
“I see what you are, you rodeo clown”
rolling it over, tasting it, teaching my mouth to say it

I am from sea shore and man 'o war
when I was your everything 

Today could go either way
but the spring, when it comes, tastes like sunshine

We were made to forge trails
immersed in beauty so loud
you’ll notice it tickle your back
                 Gen       tle
Ghosts or angels — who would know?

I hope you live next door,
(No one here will I know in a year)

As if I knew,
Mother of Good,
the ladders are being burned.

Here's What Makes Sense to Me / Christina McCleanhan

Grief sleeps in the throat.

rouses…peeks…
ragged breath passing—
a golden witness turning darkness

Joy lives in the eyes.