Ghost / Michelle Frost
I sift through winter-stark trees
a breeze slight gust in leaves
what's left of me
empty gown of grief
ghost of who I used to be
I rise with the moon
glowing white translucent
moody shifting clouds
Night sky black and bright
A million stars my guiding light
An Encounter / David Hadbawnik
it’s clear the boy’s having
a fit of some kind
under my glare she seems
more restrained, lifts him up
with surprising strength, catches
his hands, lightning flashes
over the mountain. they can’t
possibly be going there, storming
away on the path, a candle burning
in a small red jar. she does that
thing again of diving
forward, half-hopping, half-
trotting in the effort
as the sky darkens, actually
wheezes, coughs, moans, and
not seeming to have control runs
for the younger boy, who
drives slowly past me and away
untitled / Alexander Shalom Joseph
I’m teaching a class this sunday
at a denver nature preserve
which is sandwiched between
two prisons and a power plant
as well as two highways
and the edge of suburban sprawl
the class is supposed to be
about nature writing
and it was agreed that this place
it the closest nature
for most of the targeted audience
and so I went there yesterday
to plan out what to do
in the parking lot I wondered
what there would be
to actually see
in this tiny bit of trees
shoved between all the ruin
walking through the entry way
I found myself at an overlook
below me wide grass and cattails
a lake and a river
wild turkeys squawked in the sun
the air smelled like drying leaves
even though I could hear
the trucks on the highway
see the smog between me
and the mountains
see the shine of the prison fences
there was an immediate ease
yes somehow this
this little scrap left
of the paradise
that the world once was
still has power yet
somehow there are still
wild turkeys hidden
where you would never
think to look
as free as they have ever been
pecking at the dirt
yes somehow
we have not killed the wild yet
not all the way
may there always be
these untamed splinters
in our city feet
Five, Frost / Sally Kuzma
Five is a fish-hook
I dangle into the collected poems of Robert Frost.
It comes up measuring
miles, dollars, years, feet–
the height of a hoe handle–
the size of a gang of men doing the hay
and the number of mountains ranges receding
into the sunset, into Vermont,
things that concern this chronicler of rural life.
It’s in bigger numbers too
twenty-five, the price of a prize rooster
fifty-five, a distraught neighbors’ age
eight-five, a year in memory
further down the online scroll of poems
the number snags on a dark story–
‘Five hundred.
Five hundred—five—five! One, two, three, four, five”--
a dubious insurance settlement
to pay the doctor’s bill
for a worker’s mill-crushed feet,
lament of a lone man close to flowers
who knows along which brooks
rare orchids and lady’s slippers grow,
whose wealth of knowledge can’t buy back his feet…
‘You don’t know what I mean about the flowers.’
The Gypsy / Rachel Lee
Feel all the pain, strain, and moth rotten shame
Let the disease drain
Together we always up another level
Now on the same level
Never better
I know a gypsy that told me a joke
It wasn’t funny but so sincere that I choked
She said the only way out was through the mental plane
Where everything is evoked from stones and deep terrain
“You must hollow yourself” she says. “You don’t know the way? Look at the skies… freezing snow and rain today.
He’s crying to clean all the disdain.”
Too many tears and too much to explain
“He wants to take that away. Accept all his gifts and share them today. He has so much to give but you only throw fits. You must open your eyes and forget your regrets.”
I feel warranted to say
That today was a good day
I Can’t Even Remember the Plant’s Name / Lincoln McElwee
Its edges were serrated and vibrant green,
meaning it was healthy. Meaning it was whole.
There were fresh leaves that also grew
steadily towards the light.
It won’t be like the last time, I said
as I carried it away. The woman at the nursery swore
it was special, so I gave it a nice pot, fancy dirt,
prime real estate near the fireplace.
For a while, it withstood my forgetfulness,
each occasion of thoughtless drought.
How I’d water its praying cousins
near the grow lights but forget its own existence.
How I’d marvel at the ease of the pothos,
its leaves waxy and reaching. How I’d bask
in the tale of the spider plant
rescued from overwatering at Home Depot.
I didn’t notice its own leaves drooping
and then dropping until it was too late.
Look at the language of the leaves.
The way they murmur danger in yellows and browns.
They’re like hands. They’ll tell you what you need to know.
Perhaps I wanted to play savior. To swoop
in at my appointed hour and give life.
Perhaps I wanted to make a fool of beauty,
but I’d bought the plant because it looked like mercy.
In the end, I was a savior overwhelmed with choice.
And I failed us both.
Refrigerator Homily / Michelle Stoll
Standing in front of my
refrigerator, staring at the jars
pesto used once
capers suspended in their brine
three kinds of milk
five cheeses
two drawers of fresh produce
Such bounty
for one woman
Because I could feed families
(except what meal is made from gourmet sauces and broccolini?)
There's a lot of empty in full
A lot of want in too much
I'm embarrassed by my options,
then by the cold air pouring
from the open door,
then by how my shame extinguishes gratitude
I'm not making a point,
more like a prayer
about daily bread
and temptation
I met a bishop who said
If you cannot see God in someone
that's a you problem
My bathroom mirror agrees
What I want to say to the woman in sweats and an AC/DC shirt
In front of the open fridge is
everyone wants something
no one can give them
something that's not yours to give
Maybe this, fancy condiment lady:
Just stop taking
Just do that
