March - Poem 7
The Morning Bus / Kathleen Bednarek
Standing,
waiting for the
morning bus
on the corner
of Eastern,
one man
laughing
at the
blurting
of one
goose
yearning
through
its neck
toward
the harbor—
To pet
that long
neck!
He slaps
his leg
with the
broken foot.
Questions / Mymona Bibi
to saunter along the river is to ask questions,
the question of how
as your shoulder blades try to kiss
each other in the morning stretch,
of why do your fingertips tap
your thigh in wait
and where does all the water we forget
to drink wash away to?
what does all of yesterday melt into?
perhaps the curve inside your elbow
sweaty, creased, brown, lines, separate
when you reach over
to ask me a question
i can’t answer
not yet
not under this crescent.
REPEAT AFTER ME / Susan Hankla
exploits
escapades
episodes
capers
charades
moments
pentimento
caprice
carapace
spirit wind
convalesce
pork rind
sinshine
codex
architect
Kotex
context
text
sex
Vienna sausage
Kosher dill
hill
safety match
soft serve
swerve
Brillo-pad
hard water
patio
slaw
slay
barbeque lays
my little pony
paint-by-number
printed matter
gray matter
it matters
safety in numbers
salad days
Sundays
supper
sup
porcine
pork
telephone
Bible
bubble
Swiss Miss
mittens
smitten
witness
waitress
wellness
wasted
stunted
student
pork chop
music
magpie
chocolate cheesecake
nabs
stabs
wanted
stunted
pinecone
telephone
leave me alone.
Mother of Good / Amy Haworth
Love your neighbor
Love your mother
Mother may I
Mother’s Day
Day after day
Day after tomorrow
Tomorrow never comes
Tomorrow come what may
May I
May-be
Be happy
Be on time
Time to go
Time to change
Change your attitude
Change is growth
Growth is good
Growth rate
Rate your experience
Rate of approval
Approval of the President
Approval of the way we live
Live and learn
Live your best life
Life is good
Life will end
End the way you begin
End state
State of things
State of mind
Mind the gap
Gap between things
Gap to close
Close it off
Close the door
Door to nowhere
Door to somewhere
Somewhere out there
Somewhere over the rainbow
Rainbow wishes
Rainbow bridge
Bridge over troubled waters
Bridge to build
Build the future
Build up
Up we go
Up to something good
Good for you
You…
Good…
To Live is to Accept Circumstance / Christina McCleanhan
During the spring rains,
on a Friday evening walk before the moon is full
or on a late-morning Tuesday
after the geese have stopped chasing the runaway dog,
you might be the first to spot
the new blooms on a secluded bush of wild roses
and tangled onion grass.
You will visit whenever there are no groceries to buy,
mouths to feed, clothes to wash, or faucets to fix,
and remember other freedoms you have known.
Because no one else sees your adoration,
you can pause to suck deep breaths
of cut freshness and damp sweetness,
to bruise one, maybe two of the petals;
There is no owner to judge.
There is no cost to regret.
Linger in this place.
Rest during this season.
Look up at the sun with laughter, my friend.
The wrinkles will be worth it.
Days like these / Elizabeth McGraw
Don’t require much of me certainly not all of me and somehow make me wonder is this something new.
Uncomfortable for sure far from a flow that I intimately know. It’s feels like a stretch but before the release that’s always best followed by a deep deep sleep.
In it there is candor that hides a more indirect level of speech. I listen and lean into and watch. Note the books on your desk and order one so that I might know the situation better.
Showing up and showing down trying to find a footing. Like a back up singer accustomed to the solo I do-wop with the chorus. Inadvertently though it always seems I’m always a bit out of step.
Found a niche that feels new and maybe a spot to grow. No scaffolding here this I know so build it for myself until I go.
Always ready to stay but life’s so short so much to see. I’m a traveler loyal the most to me.
windlogged / Alexis Wolfe
sitting in the window again wishing i had
a desk, its like sitting at the easel
of the word—sentence jumble, vessel / portal
and so on, you know—remembering my mouth
could be blown to bits but it probably won’t.
lately I wake windsick, the wind bangs my
house loose and something bigger than an animal
is scratching up the attic—a young opossum
is called a joey if you didn’t know and their cries
sound sort of like pushing a shopping cart
with a broken wheel. Each time I hang my laundry
I retrieve it a few hours later from the dirt.
Each time my phone rings I scream and the wind
picks up. Someone always wants me
to meet their dog walk their dog watch my dog.
I feel about the birds the way everyone must feel
about their dogs—they’re all my pets and invited
to dinner. Last year, I ruined my friends shoes and now
she won’t talk to me any more: no one is worth more
than a good pair of Hokas. I used to walk into a new
city but now i’ve drunk all of them. But still isn’t there so
much? enough burn bright? to make a myth of war?
