May - Poem 29

Chueh-Chu 001  / M. Anne Avera

I remember your house in November rain,
how we ducked our heads through the kitchen door.
We curled on your bedspread, warmth seeking warmth,
my wool-socked feet brushing the hardwood floor.
You had spent hours sifting through your stash--
your collection of box-tops, bread ties, and trash galore--
for something exciting, something that glowed,
a gift for me, though I always wanted more.

Societal Degradation / Desirae Chacon

butterfly drifts by
sunshine bathed upon her back
wings soaked in sunlight

everything in this life
was so generously given to us so freely
until greed of society came along
all the resources supplied at no charge
beautiful fruit bearing trees, meat & wild berries
wind, air, water & gold
we could all have gold inlaid into our properties if we wanted to 
we could all wear pearls and the highest fashion
no wallet or wealth
status or networking
to utilize 
no thousands of dollars
to learn knowledge that is free all around us
to earn a document
for “better opportunities” 
in exchange for years of our lives
and the cost consuming repayment that can span decades 
raising children to begin their lives with student loans that cost as much as some homes

greed

nothing needs to cost anything

no homes in ideal locations
taking free coastlines and convenient locations 
and reserving them for the rich
the rich told not to lend out hands
when no man really needs any money
and yet the money man created
demands demands demands
working to earn
what society calls success or survival
luxury handbags, sports cars & mansions
making rent, needing food, or fuel for at least a tank of gas
looked down upon because you left the old country for a “better life”
when this life is too fast paced and the foundation is all material that wont last
yet money demanded time and hard-work to build it

To Uncle Larry Who Liked to Sing  / Heather Frankland

Don’t ever forget
Uncle Larry was a kind man
who liked to sing—jokingly serenade
his nieces and nephews, even
when off-key. Even if he
had only a few deep scratchy notes
that could masquerade as Sinatra,
he’d look at you in the eyes
and sing with humor and sincerity.

Don’t ever forget
Uncle Larry was a generous man
who cared to find out what you cared about
and then, would encourage you.
For me, it was poetry—
he and I both wrote, and it was a bridge
between us, allowing for easy conversation
at crowded family dinners.

Don’t ever forget
Uncle Larry was a matchmaker—
some of the matches, he felt proud of,
others, he regretted the match.
He is the reason my parents met—
matching his sister with his college friend.
Dad remembers Uncle Larry and Mom
singing and skipping together
around the college. I like to imagine it—
the two who could be silly with each other
and shared a love for Agatha Christie mysteries.

Don’t ever forget
the stories we learned after Uncle Larry
passed away, the ways he tried to be a peacemaker
in the family—staying in touch with everyone,
the stories about him finding ways
to give people a kind word when they needed it
or slip them a twenty when he knew times were tough.

Dad says he misses his friend.
Mom wishes she could call him.
And me, well, I am writing this poem to him,
someone I knew so long,
but still remains a mystery—
I gather the details I remember,
scraps of stories—weave them together
and hope this is a poem
that he would’ve liked. 

Waiting for a Train / John Hanright

IV.

To arrive, to reach the end
Stop – breathe –
Clammy hands, tapping foot
Screeching brakes
Clanging bells
Now’s the time to go
Forward, momentum
In the heart, muzzled mind
One foot in front
Of the other, beside me
Looking at the train –
Not paying any mind
To the man, beside them
As I step from the platform
Release overwhelms me
Renewed freedom
Fully embodied will
I stand waiting
Resolute, ready to face
My beginning and my end

Pull / Jillian Humphrey

I am drawn cockeyed
by the rotations
beneath me
which pull me to center
while spinning me round
so that as I stay a straight
course I go left 
and outside. The real force 
is only one of many
felt forces.
Bathwater circling
the drain believes
itself a record
not a waterfall yet
plummets. A mortal coil
a labyrinth a conch a hurricane a milky
way may all be traveling
due north and still
they turn. A physical force
proportionate to the size of the disco
ball compels me to boogie
then sends me back
to flower the walls.
I circle the dance floor
not knowing what comes next.

Shoulder / Shane Moran

Sex is all we got   and   the only time you
Hold nothing against me but your body.
Only you know how easily I fold
Unto you—mama or baby—I hate your tears.

Let me be enough for you  and     please
Don’t make a fool of me,
Especially not in this bar, where everyone’s got a fresh cut but me.
Right now, I’d love a touch on the cheek, a tug on my beard.

Kitchen Drawer  / Christina Vagenius

On Blanche days, I swept the porch with sunned feathers,
searched the cracked wall for pill bugs, rolled them home

with want. Envied their nose to tail secrets, bent around what
disappears. I waited on the turn of Dad’s wheels, feet alight

in gypsum and day old rain, a mold for the castle’s shadow,
allegiance to a festooned gutter leaking life over borrowed toes.

And the blistered pouch of the daylily’s mouth waiting to be popped.
Power fused between pinch, I follow. The tip-toed wet step cement

mementos, the purred leisure left to trace. My finger, an accomplice to her
treason. The red, swelled slammed door. A thrown kitchen drawer, hinged jaws

don’t talk. But our eyes, wet with the last reach of mulberry — purple pavement
thick with her blood I have grown here too. The day’s last sigh. Blanche and her

framed eyes, knees pressed into mine. A rudder waved, cheeks finding the milky
seat of her shoulder. Says Tell me, again. How we’ll never grow older.

Cantilever / Sonya Wohletz

For Maestro Frederico Vigil

at the school on canyon road ms. baca said you have talent
soon dragons skimming your fingers, crushing feathers in cochineal
and ants swarm starlight to sow the early corn fields

modotti behind her lens. trotsky—rivera—kahlo damp and sand
you said painting fresco is like a dance—the wall is your lady
at la entrega de los novios: pigments become her skin your history

si diosito quiere and ave maría
cupped in supple
wine