May - Poem 12

Ghazal 003  / M. Anne Avera

I gave you my heart but you wanted my soul.
Though I tried to evade you, you hunted my soul.

In the garden, stark night, I crossed gazes with you.
Like a jay-bird I preened and I flaunted my soul.

Oh, lover. Oh, darling, Oh, helpmeet. Oh, thing.
You’ll breathe me to life if I grant you my soul.

Your blue eyes were acidic, your hands gripping me.
You could feel my heart beat as it blunted my soul.

I know not my name, not Meredith or Anne
for you threw it away when you swallowed my soul.

How sweet the taste, ripe saccharine feel
on your tongue as it haunted my soul.

You Met me in Fields / Desirae Chacon

You Met me in fields
under shifting skies
each chronometric moment
folding above us
unto a changing of days
bluebirds giving hope
through unfolding of seasons
doves blessing us with peace
winter came
but it only strengthened our love
it did not shake us
as your eyes held my gaze 
steady and assuring
loyal and intentional
of devotions 

If Only To Be. . .  / Heather Frankland

If only to be a raven
gliding in the wind

before a storm.

Rain cloud heavy,

still the raven

surfs the wind

allows itself

to be tousled

from wind-wave

to wind-wave,

not struggling

to work its wings

with weight

of daily grind,

no cares, no worries

no concerns

for the future

just gliding

as if time

didn’t matter

and change

of weather

didn’t make

one wary.

A storm coming?

The raven

doesn’t fear

any altered flight.

It sheds

the cloak

of the serious

and the profound,

and plays instead.

Such a show,

if only to be

like the raven—

to enjoy the wind

and learn to let go.  

Memory Lane / John Hanright

How does Memory Lane look nowadays?


Still full of trees and freshly mown lawns?
Still full of potholes and FORECLOSED signs?


Still a Private Way with an off-duty cop?
Still a Dead End policed every hour?


Still with the smell of fresh pies and petrichor?
Still suffused with exhaust and quiet strength?


Still made up of good-looking families splitting at the seams?
Still composed of good people in dire circumstances?


How does Memory Lane look nowadays?

Ada / Jillian Humphrey

I was eleven
when, in a hurry, I
took two left shoes
to school.
My best friends
laughed and named
me: Ada.
How quickly it came
to them: A dumb ass.

They let me know
my ponytail was crooked
and my jeans were too short.
I never thought of leaving.
I never thought they may not be
my friends.
I only thought I was a dumb ass.

I wish I could take that fearful child in my arms
and help her.
I can’t.
Instead I close my eyes.
I envision
some old woman
with my own name
holding me right now.

Out of Body  / Shane Moran

–after Mia Word–

I will swim
until my mind stops fishing.

Free strokes whisper: quiet.
I listen for the singing waves,

the same tune since
the first ship reached the James,

and the ones who did not dive,
who survived, 

who stood on blocks like gold
-medal winning swimmers—

sold.
Out of breath

I wait
wading
running, burning

nose, temples vibrating
me out of place

I see my body—a body

on the shore
escaping waves,

and waving
you must survive.

When Wandering Under The Trees Doesn't Work  / Christina Vagenius

Maybe the trees don't know you, yet.
Maybe when you beg for hello
what you really want is
I see your leaves starting to fall.
And the crisp moon hanging
from a thread when you look up,
when you ask
Can I have some light too?
Here, in the dark,
with your leaves plucked clean
from every crooked limb.
Another seed, you’ll call
alive.  

Husk / Sonya Wohletz

I want to link arms with god and go in woods—
his silky mane tickling my arm from time to time.
I want to lick harpoons and fear no injury,
and hunt what dawn escapes.
Cradle in my belly a soupçon of joy,
knowing no appliances presently dysfunction.
The car mechanic—no notes over $200.
Sometimes disappearing seems like the only choice.
Fatherlessness governs me.
Tomorrow, I razor my fingers into earth,
grasp its roots.
Become wormlike, oblivious to the darkness,
its enduring, damp pressures—
excluded by the raptures of assurance.
Here is my unauthorized dispensation
to interpret the cards for my fellow subterranean besties.
Come July the water marks
on our throats will bleach in the Aegean sun.
And what of stipulations, fine grained though they may be.
I tool mine like fine leather. I can be proud in private.
My mind—an ambidextrous coppice perchance.
A fealty bearing no sign of tyranny.
The dopamine troubadours singing
this masque into bloom. The lyre—
dispatching the arguments
through thin and vagrant aethers.