May - Poem 5
The Hunting Party / M. Anne Avera
The sky is dark and circular and starlit
like the day before creation.
All is full-bodied shadow
and quiet.
They come before the world wakes up
on horses or mules or foot—
whether bare or hard-shod, each step still lands soft
on the rippled earth. Their tracks map
path upon path upon path.
Their hounds and pointers and mutts follow,
each bred testaments to the task at hand.
As they crowd out the tree line,
their eyes fix low and their hot breath froths in puffs,
harsh out of their twitching noses,
perking their ears when they hear,
“Good dog, good dog.”
Some wield angled spears or brass-plated guns
while others hoist sharpened arrows
and slingshots of shale and iron.
The stragglers carry nothing,
dragged along to trust in their bare hands
or to simply witness.
These faces, ever-changing.
These parts of a nameless whole.
Slowly, stars melt from the cloudless sky
as sun shatters the darkness.
It begins.
Exhaling-(Part 2) / Desirae Chacon
i exhale again
someday i might see these feelings
in somebody someday
somebody might meet me
high on the road
full of intention
of refined purity
full of love
kindness
goodness
a heart full
a full smile
a mutual gaze
of understanding
wordless
yet so full of meaning
Toddler Poem / Heather Frankland
Strawberries! 1-2-3-4
Blueberries! 5-6-7-8
Puzzles, I love puzzles—
putting in that last piece.
My dog in the yard
my yard, my swing, dirt,
a butterfly—
look a butterfly!
Can I touch it?
No—
I want to touch it.
Why can’t I touch it?
No. I don’t want to see birds.
I want butterflies—
BUT-TER-FLIES.
What, a lady bug?
Where?
Luck?
I like luck.
What is luck?
Lucky me, 1-2-3.
I can count to 20.
Want to see?
I can see
20 good things out here
starting with you, Mom.
You are number—2.
But that butterfly
I couldn’t touch
was number 1.
A Shade of Red / John Hanright
After “Untitled (Heart of Heads), 1989” by Keith Haring
Effervescent heart
entwined with motion and mirth –
What a pleasure to meet
you in the interstice of oblivion and eternity –
Your art puts color into revolution –
Radiating outward, screaming out
blood sweat and tears –
So many tears upon your heart –
If Van Gogh put his pain into his paintings
you wrote your manifesto in red upon a canvas –
Love – the inimitable mediator between art and life –
Your mind has diffused into the aether
to share space in the cosmos –
Your art endures – survives you –
How you would love the world as it is now
unshackled from Death’s greedy hands
constantly confining millions to early coffins and urns
yours among their number –
Our world is caught in the chasm
between utopia and dystopia –
A protopia built from the remains of dreams and nightmares –
Art can save us
Radiating outward, screaming out
silence equals death
ON THE DAY MY DAUGHTER’S FRIEND FOOD SHAMES HER, I FEED MY GRANDMA SNACK PACKS / Jillian Humphrey
my grandmother, dying, wanted
only lemon pudding
so I fed her
with the single plastic spoon
she kept unwashed
in her bedside table
she knew me but not
the day or hour
and she kept leaving us
between bites
to go somewhere like sleep
it’s possible after a life
of so much shame
she wanted finally
in the middle of her
a yellow luminous sweetness
cups of it
so when she asked for more
and more
like a baby bird
I fed her
all she wanted
and then she was gone
Caught in The Flood / Shane Moran
Last night, the flood chased me in a glass,
as I hunched to the bar late and tired.
She is the one I have most desired,
but I drowned alone in the deluge.
In the morning, I called her—wired.
Told her: not too much transpired.
The catching up was good, until she asked:
Why Kim texted her, she saw me at The Deluge?
I couldn’t tell her about the stalking flood,
just said I had a few ‘cause the Knicks had won. Why lie, Shane? You got drunk.
She can't see the flood that chases me,
how I’ll drown alone again tonight
and lie again to her tomorrow.
The Passenger / Christina Vagenius
You can control the temperature
if you do it quick, turn the knob
make it cold, push passenger side only
before he rolls the window down.
Tells you it's warm outside, tells you
to take your sweater off. But you like
the sweater. It's the one from your trip
to Ireland with the knit cuffs and the virgin
wool you bought in the shop from the woman
with your grandmother’s Easter eyes,
basket full of Hershey’s Minis, tucked
inside the plastic grass. Dark chocolate,
making your mouth pucker, your grandfather
laugh when she said, Oh, Frank. The words
dropped in a caldron for safe keeping. I told you
she doesn’t like it. Take your sweater off. But
I like the way the yarn feels
on my skin. Soft, incorrigible,
coaxed from under a spell.
