Poetry Corner
Section Editor: Mare Leonard
Mare Leonard lives and works in the Hudson Valley where she is an Associate of the Institute for Writing and Thinking and the MAT programs at Bard College. Her latest chapbook, The Dark Inside My Hooded Coat, was published in 2018 at Finishing Line Press. Find reviews on her Facebook Page: Mare Leonard Poet and message Mare for a copy.
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"When was the last time you selected a book of poems to read or ordered one from the library? Poetry is dismissed in our culture. With Poetry Corner, we are hoping to share a taste of poems that will make you think, laugh or wonder. We will also post monthly readings, events, and classes in the Hudson Valley Region of New York and beyond." ~ Mare Leonard Attention Readers:
If you would like us to post a nonprofit or FREE community event in Poetry Corner, please send a note to: seniorstaff@sanctuary-magazine.com For-profit events will also be posted for a small fee. Please inquire. |
EVENTS
CAPS Calendar Hudson Valley, NY Bowery Poetry: Open Mic (see calendar listings) New York, NY Poetry Near You: Poets.org Poetry Events throughout US Poetry Open Mics Find virtual open mics poetry in your local area in the U.S. and Canada. |
September 2022: Selected Poetry
Poems this month by Jac Carley
Poems this month by Jac Carley
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Long, too long. O Covid.
by Jac Carley Winter’s tourniquet tightens, it wrings the white out of the only cloud to cut off the throb of dawn, sacrifices a limb of horizon to save the torso of sky. Too grey, this morning. And too long. At the curb a smiley-face mask lies trampled in yesterday’s snow, half buried in grit and grime. A relic, the mandible of a saint? A dismembered warning? I step around it, superstitious. Of course I am afraid of vicious gods’ vengeance, of more pandemonium. |
Long Covid: Danse Macabre
by Jac Carley Squeezed between night’s repeating dry dream and manic goose honks in my brain, the sun rises naked as a dancer swirling around a pole, in light too bright for the time of day. With it comes glisten and sweat, shimmy-shakes and fevered tremolos. My senses are clogged and fogged, I can hardly follow the act on my lap. Echoes pound, resound in the empty lobes where reason dwelled just weeks ago. Tinsel heart is mute, waits for a miracle. Playfulness, my own, dearly departed. The sun drops, curtains fall on another day of fatigue. Hope, I fear, has left the theater. |
Jac Carley is a visual artist and writer. Her career began in the 1980s as cofounder of tanzfabrik berlin. During two decades as a contemporary choreographer in West Berlin, she incorporated dadaist and surrealistic literature in evening-length choreographies that toured extensively. In 1999, working with words overtook her ‘day job,’ and she’s since published four books as well as poetry. Jac is grateful to be a member of the RAR poetry group. In Sanctuary's July issue, Jac shared the inspiration behind her sketch work on braille and her installations presenting the same concept.
August 2022: Selected Poetry
Poem this month by Victoria Twomey
A lovely poem to share with our 7th annual Focus on Youth special issue.
Poem this month by Victoria Twomey
A lovely poem to share with our 7th annual Focus on Youth special issue.
Flutter and Glow
by Victoria Twomey
I remember you and me
watched over by those immaculate clouds in their white nanny dresses
the innocent scent of green grass growing thick upon a hill
I can feel the warm breeze
our foreheads together
the tips of my hair touching your shoulder
I know I loved you childlike and pure
pure as golden morning light
the way only a little girl can love a best friend
I loved you naive
like I loved all things
that fluttered and glowed
all things magical
and momentary
like starlight, fairies and fireflies
it was our secret, that shimmering day
when we both sliced an index finger with a blade of sharp grass
brave to the sting, we allowed the crimson line of red to brim
we pressed our fingers together
until our blood intermingled
both saying, at the same time, blood sisters forever
and we meant it
not knowing that when Autumn arrived
I would have to move away
that I would start a bewildering argument with you
leave for another town
never to see or speak with you again
too young to understand it was all part of my lessons
on how to replace a childhood with something safer
how to begin the brittle business of building walls
and so, all these many years later
here I am cradling this poem
like a broken-necked bird, too far gone
wondering if you ever think back
to a hill, a friend, a promise
a belief in forever
by Victoria Twomey
I remember you and me
watched over by those immaculate clouds in their white nanny dresses
the innocent scent of green grass growing thick upon a hill
I can feel the warm breeze
our foreheads together
the tips of my hair touching your shoulder
I know I loved you childlike and pure
pure as golden morning light
the way only a little girl can love a best friend
I loved you naive
like I loved all things
that fluttered and glowed
all things magical
and momentary
like starlight, fairies and fireflies
it was our secret, that shimmering day
when we both sliced an index finger with a blade of sharp grass
brave to the sting, we allowed the crimson line of red to brim
we pressed our fingers together
until our blood intermingled
both saying, at the same time, blood sisters forever
and we meant it
not knowing that when Autumn arrived
I would have to move away
that I would start a bewildering argument with you
leave for another town
never to see or speak with you again
too young to understand it was all part of my lessons
on how to replace a childhood with something safer
how to begin the brittle business of building walls
and so, all these many years later
here I am cradling this poem
like a broken-necked bird, too far gone
wondering if you ever think back
to a hill, a friend, a promise
a belief in forever
Victoria Twomey is a poet and an artist. Her poems have been published in several anthologies, in newspapers and online, including Sanctuary magazine, BigCityLit, PoetryBay, Autumn Sky Poetry Daily, The Tipton Poetry Journal, Verse-Virtual, the Agape Review, and the Trouvaille Review. Her poem "Pieta" was nominated for a Pushcart Prize.
July 2022: Selected Poetry
Poems this month by Melody Wang
Poems this month by Melody Wang
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Goddess by the Sea, Reimagined
by Melody Wang She is in a trance as turbulent forces swirl all around, threatening to drown her and bring her to another realm. The salt air mists upon her face like an insistent visitor pounding at the door of her house after hours. She smiles her secret smile, undeterred. She is the eye of the hurricane, the conductor of this frenzied symphony of waves and wind. She is rooted to the source and throws her arms wide to embrace the unknown, her laughter tinkling like windchimes, hair wild with luminous droplets. She sways in a trance, commanding the discordant notes to rearrange themselves in peculiar harmony. She does not see me, for she is me. Together, we transcend the thrashing waters that carried away the parts of us that weighed us down. In the calm, we remember what we'd forgotten: we are and have always been one with the sea. |
What We Carry
by Melody Wang my mother & I condense a lifetime together into weekly hikes — there are never enough daylight hours we seek out wild rapeseed moss-soft fennel prickly radish leaves that unfurl to fold up gently: we linger in languid afternoon light, traipse from patch to patch squat to forage in a rush all that we recognize as humble nourishment. My mother, eyes wild with huáijiù, plucks tender shoots in eager handfuls, states in a matter-of-fact tone: It is in our DNA this trauma, the need to store up enough food to stave off winters men — cannot and will not ever understand what we carry inside us. In silence we walk the path, heads held high *huáijiù means wistful longing or nostalgia in Mandarin First published by West Trestle Review. |
Melody Wang currently resides in sunny Southern California with her dear husband and wishes it were autumn all year ‘round. Her debut collection of poetry "Night-blooming Cereus" was released in December 2021 with Alien Buddha Press. She can be found on Twitter.
June 2022: Selected Poetry
As part of our "Celebrating the Men in Our Lives" issue, poems by Will Reger
As part of our "Celebrating the Men in Our Lives" issue, poems by Will Reger
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Army of Words
by Will Reger Maybe I am free Now From the voice Always chattering, Hungry to state Something profound Rattling off divisions’ worth of words To march in winter Out of my Moscow mind, Falling to partisans And hunger, Snow Was it a mistake To whip these marshaled Words forward to you? |
Falling Leaves, Rainy Day
by Will Reger I practice my flute on the balcony overlooking the silhouette of the city. I love to imagine the notes falling, spiraling down like leaves to the street. Their musical cackle rises up to me, as the many feet of strangers plow and kick unknowingly through the piles of long ago played notes, never swept up and carted away. Of course, when rain falls, the music grows softer, messier. The heart of it is timid in the damp air, and as the water gathers in the gutters, many tunes are brought to life and fade away into the distance. Rainy nights like these reassure me some kind of paradise is coming—the music I remember has fallen to the street and helps keep alive my wish to live. |
Will Reger has been publishing poetry since 2010. He is the Inaugural Poet Laureate for the city of Urbana, Illinois. He has published two volumes of poetry (Petroglyphs 2019; Kaleidoscope 2020). He plays the dong xiao and the bansuri and is an assistant professor in the Department of History at Illinois State University.
May 2022: Selected Poetry
Poem this month by Robin Wright
Poem this month by Robin Wright
Granddaughter's First Picnic
by Robin Wright
Other children yell, baby, as they run past her,
around picnic tables on their way to adulthood.
Soon, she’ll enter their world
of carelessness and consequence,
but today she nurses on sleep’s sweet breast
through popped balloons and Zac’s protest
against time-out. She is oblivious
to camera flashes, the smell of fried chicken.
But when a little girl touches her
with a bunting feather left behind
at Canyon Lake, that softness stirs her.
This poem was first published in The Literary Nest.
by Robin Wright
Other children yell, baby, as they run past her,
around picnic tables on their way to adulthood.
Soon, she’ll enter their world
of carelessness and consequence,
but today she nurses on sleep’s sweet breast
through popped balloons and Zac’s protest
against time-out. She is oblivious
to camera flashes, the smell of fried chicken.
But when a little girl touches her
with a bunting feather left behind
at Canyon Lake, that softness stirs her.
This poem was first published in The Literary Nest.
Robin Wright lives in Southern Indiana. Her work has appeared in One Art, As it Ought to Be, The Drabble, Young Ravens Literary Review, Olney Magazine, Rat’s Ass Review, Sledgehammer Lit, Muddy River Poetry Review, Sanctuary, and others. She is a Pushcart Prize nominee, and her first chapbook, Ready or Not, was published by Finishing Line Press in October of 2020.
APRIL 2022: Selected Poetry
Poem this month by Emma Foster
Poem this month by Emma Foster
After My Diagnosis: A Journey
by Emma Foster
My heart and my brain
Now grow in unison,
Thinking as one, and wondering
Where to go from there
After leaving the psychiatrist’s office.
My soul and my mouth
Both ask the same questions,
Asking why I didn’t know sooner.
And can I finally stop fighting
After finding answers I didn’t consider?
My lungs and my eyes
Must handle the new life in front of me.
They force me breathing, searching
For the next step to take,
Knowing I’ve got a powerful life to live.
My feet and my hands
Keep building and working
Because I’ve only just begun,
Climbing visceral mountains
With each day that I’m given.
This poem was previously published by Art of Autism.
by Emma Foster
My heart and my brain
Now grow in unison,
Thinking as one, and wondering
Where to go from there
After leaving the psychiatrist’s office.
My soul and my mouth
Both ask the same questions,
Asking why I didn’t know sooner.
And can I finally stop fighting
After finding answers I didn’t consider?
My lungs and my eyes
Must handle the new life in front of me.
They force me breathing, searching
For the next step to take,
Knowing I’ve got a powerful life to live.
My feet and my hands
Keep building and working
Because I’ve only just begun,
Climbing visceral mountains
With each day that I’m given.
This poem was previously published by Art of Autism.
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Emma Foster is a fiction writer and poet based in Florida. Her works have appeared in Ariel Chart, Sledgehammer Lit, Aurora Journal, Your Daily Poem, Art of Autism, and others. Her microchap "Isosceles Triangles" was released by Origami Poems in 2021. |
MARCH 2022: Selected Poetry
Poem this month by Susan J. Wurtzburg
Poem this month by Susan J. Wurtzburg
Sliding Over the Edge
by Susan J. Wurtzburg
The Yokohama coast where railway tracks hold the land
close to the seashore like a giant zipper.
Wooden sleepers stretch north to Kaena Point,
an albatross sanctuary on Oahu’s rocky tip.
A promontory across the ocean, and many mountain ranges
from my father, lost to geography.
The landscape impinges on his daylight hours,
four white walls, a wheelchair, and a door.
No entrance to the world. He has exited his mind
and left his body untenanted, an empty shell.
This dry husk of a man, confined to a bed, no walking,
but occasional gliding, nurse powered.
Motionless, but for a flapping arm, almost like a wing
practicing flight, skin transforming to feathers.
Plumes of hair upright, but inside an old sea bird preparing
to launch from his wheeled chariot.
Rounding skyward, an avian intervention giving sanctuary
as his mind slides over the edge of reality.
Spending his final years airborne at sea, so ideal
since he always loved birds, especially albatrosses.
This poem was previously published in Love in the Time of Covid: A Chronicle of a Pandemic, June 01 issue.
by Susan J. Wurtzburg
The Yokohama coast where railway tracks hold the land
close to the seashore like a giant zipper.
Wooden sleepers stretch north to Kaena Point,
an albatross sanctuary on Oahu’s rocky tip.
A promontory across the ocean, and many mountain ranges
from my father, lost to geography.
The landscape impinges on his daylight hours,
four white walls, a wheelchair, and a door.
No entrance to the world. He has exited his mind
and left his body untenanted, an empty shell.
This dry husk of a man, confined to a bed, no walking,
but occasional gliding, nurse powered.
Motionless, but for a flapping arm, almost like a wing
practicing flight, skin transforming to feathers.
Plumes of hair upright, but inside an old sea bird preparing
to launch from his wheeled chariot.
Rounding skyward, an avian intervention giving sanctuary
as his mind slides over the edge of reality.
Spending his final years airborne at sea, so ideal
since he always loved birds, especially albatrosses.
This poem was previously published in Love in the Time of Covid: A Chronicle of a Pandemic, June 01 issue.
Susan J. Wurtzburg lives in Hawaii with her husband, a dog, and many books. Writing keeps her sane in these volatile times, and her poetry has appeared in Bindweed Magazine, Poetry and Covid, The Literary Nest, The Pen Woman, Verse-Virtual, and Quince Magazine. Thanks to the Rat’s Ass Review Writing Group members for wonderful input over the years.
FEBRUARY 2022: Selected Poetry
Poem this month by Elizabeth Fairleigh
Poem this month by Elizabeth Fairleigh
Rolling Waves
by Elizabeth Stevenson Fairleigh
Sapphire waves on an endless sea,
possess the secrets of a soul set free.
Magnetically gathered, waves form a wall.
They pile up in rhythm, then gracefully fall.
Quietly harboring man’s innermost needs.
Saving her whispers for planting the seeds.
Currents of motion swiftly run by.
Releasing her anger, as viewed from the sky.
Fluently flowing with life’s greatest treasures.
Feeling so grand, the tide only measures.
Sweet essence of life pours forth from the sea,
Engulfing our senses and what’s yet to be.
Man’s tears are consumed in diaphanous foam.
Fragmented pieces on coarse sands of home.
Calling us back, a power so strong
We return to the seashore, where we belong.
by Elizabeth Stevenson Fairleigh
Sapphire waves on an endless sea,
possess the secrets of a soul set free.
Magnetically gathered, waves form a wall.
They pile up in rhythm, then gracefully fall.
Quietly harboring man’s innermost needs.
Saving her whispers for planting the seeds.
Currents of motion swiftly run by.
Releasing her anger, as viewed from the sky.
Fluently flowing with life’s greatest treasures.
Feeling so grand, the tide only measures.
Sweet essence of life pours forth from the sea,
Engulfing our senses and what’s yet to be.
Man’s tears are consumed in diaphanous foam.
Fragmented pieces on coarse sands of home.
Calling us back, a power so strong
We return to the seashore, where we belong.
Elizabeth Stevenson Fairleigh is an award-winning college newspaper editor. She has been writing poetry since she was 14. Over the years she has written more than 125 poems and is compiling them into a book titled The E Collection: Poems from the Heart, which her artistic daughter will illustrate. Elizabeth shares, “Writing poetry is my passion and how I process life." When not writing poems, she runs a PR firm, thE Connection, Inc. She lives in Atlanta, Georgia with her husband of 26 years and daughter. They have a tailless cat named Cookie, a leopard gecko named Leona, a fire bellied toad and an aquarium full of tropical fish!
JANUARY 2022: Selected Poetry
Poems this month by Ingrid Bruck
Poems this month by Ingrid Bruck
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In Praise of Grits
by Ingrid Bruck I love corn in all varieties, shapes and textures. Fresh on the cob, slathered with butter and salt. Corn, knife sliced off blanched cobs. Yellow or white grains, served whole or creamed. An unpeeled ear, charcoal roasted, rubbed with lime. Ripe corn from the garden, frozen or canned. Shucked and dried kernels off the cob. Ground into flour, made into corn muffins. Pounded into masa, patted, slapped, baked into tortillas. Boiled rough cracked corn in salt water for grits. I love grits, they travel me back to Texas Where our boys were born and raised. Good old-fashioned grits (never instant), I boil stone cut grits in salty water. We eat grits for breakfast with butter and cracked pepper. Or a traditional southern dish of grits and fried Smothered in creamed gravy, with greens on the side. Grits open up miles of clear blue Texas skies Where the sun shines so bright, you have to wear shades, Where you can’t gage far from near on rolling prairie grass, Where long horn steer and antelope roam on ranches, Where the legend of Bigfoot Wallace, Texas Ranger, Lives on in the hill country along the Llano River And bluebonnets grow bigger than his feet or appetite, Where Big Tex stands at the Dallas State Fair entrance (Even though he burned in a fire in October 2012 Until they rebuilt his fifty foot frame, cowboy clothes), And where old-fashioned grits, the only real kind, Boil in a pot of water for exactly twenty minutes As every lover of the movie My Cousin Vinny knows. First Published by: Halcyon Days Magazine, Issue 18, Summer 2020 |
Cherokee Moon Sonnet
by Ingrid Bruck Bull moon paws the sky. He paces the night, Rising, waxing gibbous, waning, a friend of all seasons. Light binds time in moon cycles: two fortnights make one month, three months stitch a season, four seasons sew a year. One horned, two horned, one horned— steadfast and true, bull races and snorts to the end of his time. Extinguished and rekindled, bull’s lantern floods through darkness. First Published by: Poetry Hall: Chinese & English Bilingual Journal Vol 3 No 1 April 15, 2020 |
Ingrid Bruck, a Pennsylvania-based poet, writes haiku and short poems, makes jam and grows wildflowers. She is a retired library director. Her chapbook, Finding Stella Maris, was published by Flutter Press. Current work appears in #FemKu, Failed Haiku, Heron’s Nest, Drifting Sand and Heliosparrow.
DECEMBER 2021: Selected Poetry
Poem this month by Meg Freer
Poem this month by Meg Freer
What will she do today?
for Jennifer A.
by Meg Freer
Her house has no bones,
no room for a hand dragged over skin
or the kiss crass and sharp.
She feels kind today, helps clear away
residual calculus on night’s edges,
travels sunwise as shoulders read
the world. She fuels jazz on a porch
with a purple bench, leaves a margin
for the elastic recoil of riches
unfurled by eastern cloud-flow.
She inhales primary colors,
exhales secondary hues of violet,
marigold, tangerine, emerald.
Sometimes audible, sometimes private
—breath—
always the main character.
Previously posted in Amethyst Review (August, 2021)
for Jennifer A.
by Meg Freer
Her house has no bones,
no room for a hand dragged over skin
or the kiss crass and sharp.
She feels kind today, helps clear away
residual calculus on night’s edges,
travels sunwise as shoulders read
the world. She fuels jazz on a porch
with a purple bench, leaves a margin
for the elastic recoil of riches
unfurled by eastern cloud-flow.
She inhales primary colors,
exhales secondary hues of violet,
marigold, tangerine, emerald.
Sometimes audible, sometimes private
—breath—
always the main character.
Previously posted in Amethyst Review (August, 2021)
Meg Freer teaches piano, writes poetry and does occasional freelance editing and proofreading from her home in Kingston, Ontario. Her photos, short prose and poems have appeared in various North American anthologies and journals, and she has also co-authored a chapbook of poems, Serve the Sorrowing World with Joy (Woodpecker Lane Press, 2020). Meg's recently published poems and photos may be found on her Facebook page.
NOVEMBER 2021: Selected Poetry
Poem this month by Bette Ann Moskowitz
Poem this month by Bette Ann Moskowitz
Deaf Child Area
By Bette Ann Moskowitz
It is also green and brown and dense
With trees. Small golden weed
And purple flowers gone to seed
Surround a rusted rustic fence.
An old dog with twitching ears lies
Amid wild scallions. A sun, mild,
Warms this dog of the deaf child
Who can see the whimper in his eyes.
Inside the house the doorbell has a light,
The phone bell, too, and timer on the stove,
And any car the deaf child's father drove.
And senses here are quiet: smell and sight.
But maybe deepest in that area of the deaf
There plays a full symphony in F.
By Bette Ann Moskowitz
It is also green and brown and dense
With trees. Small golden weed
And purple flowers gone to seed
Surround a rusted rustic fence.
An old dog with twitching ears lies
Amid wild scallions. A sun, mild,
Warms this dog of the deaf child
Who can see the whimper in his eyes.
Inside the house the doorbell has a light,
The phone bell, too, and timer on the stove,
And any car the deaf child's father drove.
And senses here are quiet: smell and sight.
But maybe deepest in that area of the deaf
There plays a full symphony in F.
Bette Ann Moskowitz is an award-winning author and teacher born in Bronx, N.Y. Bette has written several books, both fiction and non-fiction. Her memoir Do I Know You? A Family’s Journey through Aging and Alzheimer’s won a New York State Foundation for the Arts Fellowship for Literary Non-fiction and The Room at the End of the Hall: An Ombudsman’s Notebook was a Finalist in the same category. Her latest non-fiction book, Finishing Up, is a personal look at the very public subject of aging and ageism in America. She is also a poet. Find Bette's 2017 feature in Sanctuary HERE.
OCTOBER 2021: Selected Poetry
Poem this month by Robin Wright
Poem this month by Robin Wright
Renters
By Robin Wright
We’re young, newly married,
and when the landlord hands us the key
to our first apartment, we’re transported
into the car of a Disneyland ride,
thrill rising to meet us
as we descend down the rail.
The baby in my womb, just a flutter now,
but we envision him swinging and flipping
on the jungle gym nearby.
Our thoughts carousel as we open the door
then freeze like wooden horses.
The apartment doesn’t look like
the model. Bare floors, vacant windows,
curtain rods left hanging
by loose screws. A paper cup and bag
abandoned in the corner.
We promise we’ll cover floors,
toss sheets over windows,
throw away residue of another life,
and care for this baby
when he falls head first into birth.
By Robin Wright
We’re young, newly married,
and when the landlord hands us the key
to our first apartment, we’re transported
into the car of a Disneyland ride,
thrill rising to meet us
as we descend down the rail.
The baby in my womb, just a flutter now,
but we envision him swinging and flipping
on the jungle gym nearby.
Our thoughts carousel as we open the door
then freeze like wooden horses.
The apartment doesn’t look like
the model. Bare floors, vacant windows,
curtain rods left hanging
by loose screws. A paper cup and bag
abandoned in the corner.
We promise we’ll cover floors,
toss sheets over windows,
throw away residue of another life,
and care for this baby
when he falls head first into birth.
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Robin Wright lives in Southern Indiana. Her work has appeared in Ariel Chart, Minnow Literary Magazine, Ekphrastic Review, Sanctuary, Black Bough Poetry, Spank the Carp, Muddy River Poetry Review, Rat’s Ass Review, and others. One of her poems was nominated for a Pushcart Prize by Panoply, and her first chapbook, Ready or Not, was published by Finishing Line Press in October of 2020.
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SEPTEMBER 2021: Selected Poetry
Poem this month by Mare Leonard
Poem this month by Mare Leonard
First Holy Communion
By Mare Leonard
At seven I prepared for this day
as if for a wedding.
Mom sewed an organdy dress
with blue trim.
for Sister Rose Patricia I memorized prayers,
recited them after Sunday lunch.
Dad snored, Mom fingered her rosary,
I stuttered,
knew that if I had one word
wrong
I’d have to stay after school.
Could not cross Junction Ave. alone.
Must go to Confession
Before Sunday. My sister said
“Do not go to Monsignor,
he’ll make you say the rosary,
go to Father Reagan.”
Wrote my list: disobeyed my parents,
14 times, killed 24 ants, Adultery twice.
I didn’t want to exaggerate.
Father Reagan’s line too long.
I’d be first for Monsignor.
When I confessed adultery,
He laughed so hard I thought he’d die
I ran out, no penance for me,
Tore up my list, tossed the scraps into the trash,
Next week I’ll confess to sloth.
Previously published Panoply, A Literary Zine.
By Mare Leonard
At seven I prepared for this day
as if for a wedding.
Mom sewed an organdy dress
with blue trim.
for Sister Rose Patricia I memorized prayers,
recited them after Sunday lunch.
Dad snored, Mom fingered her rosary,
I stuttered,
knew that if I had one word
wrong
I’d have to stay after school.
Could not cross Junction Ave. alone.
Must go to Confession
Before Sunday. My sister said
“Do not go to Monsignor,
he’ll make you say the rosary,
go to Father Reagan.”
Wrote my list: disobeyed my parents,
14 times, killed 24 ants, Adultery twice.
I didn’t want to exaggerate.
Father Reagan’s line too long.
I’d be first for Monsignor.
When I confessed adultery,
He laughed so hard I thought he’d die
I ran out, no penance for me,
Tore up my list, tossed the scraps into the trash,
Next week I’ll confess to sloth.
Previously published Panoply, A Literary Zine.
Mare Leonard lives and works in the Hudson Valley where she is an Associate of the Institute for Writing and Thinking and the MAT programs at Bard College. Her latest chapbook, The Dark Inside My Hooded Coat, was published in 2018 at Finishing Line Press. She is Sanctuary's poetry editor. Engage with Mare on Facebook.
JULY 2021: Selected Poetry
Poem this month by Susan J. Wurtzburg
Poem this month by Susan J. Wurtzburg
Unimagined Possibilities
By Susan J. Wurtzburg
Eyes focus on dust motes, yellow swirls
hover, animal smells in the air.
My cousins soar between hay bales,
excitement crackles with fear.
Voices loud, mouths wide, leg scratches,
still we chase and scream.
Shoes full of hay stems never slow us
down as over the bales we fly.
Games done, we empty socks and pockets
of dried grass, brush each other off.
A tidy for the youngest, a glance around the barn,
ready for departure.
Oblivious to the black-cloaked figures, scythes
raised, who haunt our play.
Death lurks overhead; rusted bale claw held
by a tattered rope.
Injury loiters by the open end of the barn,
a two-floor drop into a manure pile.
Mortality dallies in the hay mows, a plunge
to mangers or stone floors.
We are children, oblivious to grim possibilities
skulking around the cows.
Back up the hill to our parents, enjoying
gin and tonics in the late afternoon.
We leave the barn reapers to their dark pleasures
as we escape the possibilities again.
By Susan J. Wurtzburg
Eyes focus on dust motes, yellow swirls
hover, animal smells in the air.
My cousins soar between hay bales,
excitement crackles with fear.
Voices loud, mouths wide, leg scratches,
still we chase and scream.
Shoes full of hay stems never slow us
down as over the bales we fly.
Games done, we empty socks and pockets
of dried grass, brush each other off.
A tidy for the youngest, a glance around the barn,
ready for departure.
Oblivious to the black-cloaked figures, scythes
raised, who haunt our play.
Death lurks overhead; rusted bale claw held
by a tattered rope.
Injury loiters by the open end of the barn,
a two-floor drop into a manure pile.
Mortality dallies in the hay mows, a plunge
to mangers or stone floors.
We are children, oblivious to grim possibilities
skulking around the cows.
Back up the hill to our parents, enjoying
gin and tonics in the late afternoon.
We leave the barn reapers to their dark pleasures
as we escape the possibilities again.
Susan J. Wurtzburg is a retired academic who lives in Hawai‘i. She writes and runs her editing business (Sandy Dog Books LLC) in between water sports, hiking, and socializing online, while she waits for the pandemic to diminish. Susan’s poetry has appeared in Bindweed Magazine, Hawai‘i Pacific Review, The Literary Nest, Poetry and Covid, Quince Magazine and the Rat’s Ass Review. She belongs to the Rat’s Ass Review Writing Group.
JUNE 2021: 5th Annual Special Issue "Celebrating the Men in Our Lives"
We are celebrating the following male poets: Vern Fein, Bob MacKenzie, Sergio Ortiz & Karlo Sevilla
We are celebrating the following male poets: Vern Fein, Bob MacKenzie, Sergio Ortiz & Karlo Sevilla
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Fairy Tale Daughter
By Vern Fein (Illinois) My dear wife: You know how princes become frogs? Our daughter has become a dog. In bed, this morning, side by side, The huge black puppy in our life. Petting her hunger for affection, Licking our bedclothes like confection. I think of our daughter far away Spreading her wings to win her day. Leaving behind her family to sing. Leaving the dog to fetch and bring. A dog can become a daughter, And we can become her parents. Though it cannot hug the same, Nor have her eyes and smile, Or make our birthdays shine. But a dog can be sublime. Barking her way into our hearts, Barking away the pain of parting. Vern Fein is a retired teacher and published poet and author. He explains, "I wrote a poem as part of a play when I was ten. The class put it on, but I got measles and could not attend to my chagrin, and there was no way to take videos. At 75, I wrote my next poem when my daughter, due to her music career, moved far away. "Fairy Tale Daughter" is our lament.
Dying for Crumbs
By Sergio Ortiz (Puerto Rico) that's how the west was won crossing a trail of blood to bathe in the ocean of forgiveness that's why we're so silent esa es la muerte Mictlantecuhtli al acecho castigo por no haberlos matado a todos la primera vez *translation of Spanish: that's death Mictlantecuhtli (Aztec god of the underworld, hell) haunting us punishment for not killing them all the first time Sergio Ortiz is a retired English literature professor and bilingual poet. His recent credits include Spanish audio poems in GATO MALO Editing, a Spanish Caribbean publication, Maleta Ilegal, a South American journal, Indolent Books, HIV HERE AND NOW, Communicators League. His poems are also forthcoming in several journals and anthologies.
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I Would Photograph You
By Bob MacKenzie (Canada) This poem is based upon the image presented by Andrew Wyeth's 1948 painting "Christina's World" for a friend… I would photograph you in just that way, you reclining among the windblown grain, the sun winnowing its light through your hair, your cotton summer dress soft in its light. You would be resting there in the sunlight gazing up the hill at that warm farm home inviting you to come when you’re ready like that shining city you see in dreams. I would add colour to this photograph, clover perhaps or daisies in the breeze, and bright paint on that old grey house and barn, and add a bright print to your cotton dress. I would photograph you in just that way, lit by sunlight in a world of flowers where songbirds sing and the sun seeks you out but, most of all, I would photograph you. First published in That Not Forgotten (Hidden Brook Press, 2011) Bob MacKenzie’s poetry has appeared in more than 400 journals including Literary Review of Canada, Dalhousie Review, Windsor Review, and Vallum Magazine. He's published seven volumes of poetry and has been in numerous anthologies. Bob has received local and international awards for his writing as well as an Ontario Arts Council Grant (literature), Canada Council Grant (performance), and Fellowship for the Summer Literary Seminars in Georgia. With the group Poem de Terre, Bob has released six albums.
My Queen
By Karlo Sevilla (Philippines) "My" and "queen," you find feudal. But the flowers in this hidden garden don't know any better. See all the red roses keep their petals tightly clustered. They stoically suspend their bloom. Only when they see you approach the grass carpet lain as verdant lance in their midst, will they start in unison to unfurl their silken petals one by one. Karlo Sevilla of Quezon City, Philippines is the author of three poetry collections: “Metro Manila Mammal” (Soma Publishing, 2018), “You” (Origami Poems Project, 2017), and “Outsourced!...” (Revolt Magazine, 2021). Recognized among the Best of Kitaab 2018 and twice nominated for the Best of the Net, his poems appear or are forthcoming in Philippines Graphic, Ariel Chart, DIAGRAM, Small Orange, Black Bough Poetry, The Minison Zine, and elsewhere.
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MAY 2021: Selected Poetry
Poems this month by Peggy Turnbull and Victoria Twomey
Poems this month by Peggy Turnbull and Victoria Twomey
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The Fifth Graders' Rebellion, 1963
By Peggy Turnbull When we saw Mr. G. play foursquare with the boys, we stopped skipping rope, left blue-haired trolls in our pockets, joined the game. Slapping balls into corners, we began to best the boys. One day Tracy traded her limp skirt for a pair of slacks. At home for lunch, I modeled her. One by one, saying nothing among ourselves, girls swapped gingham dresses for corduroy pants. Told our puzzled mothers no skirt today. We awoke sizzling. We galloped to school. Two and a half days passed before Mr. G. announced that girls must always dress like ladies. The game at recess changed to boys chase girls. Boys shoved us hard, made our skirts flip up. Girls once glowed like beacons in the fog. Now we watched our new-found zeal flicker, low on fuel. We had to bank our fires. Peggy Turnbull lives in Wisconsin in the city of her birth, along with numerous seagulls, geese, squirrels, and groundhogs. She is on the Manitowoc-Calumet Library System and is the treasurer of St. James Episcopal Church. Her poems have recently appeared in Rats Ass Review, Sheila-Na-Gig, and are forthcoming in Your Daily Poem. Her chapbook, The Joy of Their Holiness, is forthcoming from Alabaster Leaves Publishing. (This poem was first published in Writing in a Woman’s Voice.)
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If Only, a Poem for Mother’s Day
By Victoria Twomey All I have is this flat, lifeless photograph of you, frozen in shades of black and white, imprisoned by this wooden frame, like a window looking out on the past. You, on the other side, behind the glass, 50 years ago, wearing a light gray dress, and a shy smile, in front of a garden gate. If only I could press a button, and unfreeze the frame, unlock the reel, so you would animate, like an old silent film. I could watch you tend the garden beyond the gate, smelling the gray roses, pruning, watering, happy. Perhaps at the end of the film, as the reel runs through to its end, you would catch me in the corner of your eye, turn and smile with delighted recognition, raising your gray arm, waving hello, waving goodbye. Victoria Twomey is an award-winning poet and fine art illustrator specializing in original colored pencil drawings. Victoria is the author of several chap books, including Autumn Music Box and The Feminine Voice. She has appeared as a featured poet at various venues in Long Island, NY, including “First Fridays” at the Hecksher Museum of Art, The Poetry Barn, Barnes & Noble, The Pisces Cafe, Borders Books and local radio. Her poems have been published in several anthologies, in newspapers and on the Web, including poetrybay.com, "For Better or For Worse" (PoetWorks Press), "Haiku One Breaths" (Allbook Books), “PPA Literary Review,” the Northport Observer, the North Shore Woman's Newspaper, and many others.
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APRIL 2021: Selected Poetry
In Celebration of National Poetry Month, the editors collected poems from emerging and published poets alike with the theme "Women's Empowerment." And the Editors' Pick is...
In Celebration of National Poetry Month, the editors collected poems from emerging and published poets alike with the theme "Women's Empowerment." And the Editors' Pick is...
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signposts and sole entities.
By Shannon Ellis for you my legs are signposts for your misplaced destination, for me my legs are sole entities, they sing to me at night. they accelerate for me amongst dark shadows when other legs come too close. my legs are gateways, steel doors, heavy vessels. they carry torso and torment, they grow crops harvested each day. they speak to mother nature in earth tones. i wish i understood them. my legs translate my joy in hard and softs, steps, movements, swaying languidity. |
Shannon Ellis is a poet from Scotland who focuses on writing about personal experience centering around love, loss, relationships, forgiveness and tackling mental health issues and trauma. Shannon’s poetry collection, Elements of an Adored Mind, illustrated by Rubin Ramires (Riza Press), explores the changing seasons of a love story, as told through the metaphorical language of elements.
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MARCH 2021: Selected Poetry
Poem this month by Ingrid Bruck
Wildfire Blues
By Ingrid Bruck
I sing insider blues
Blues dark and pressing
Cali-smoke choking the sun
In layers of Colorado ash
Blues for my kids
Blues for their kids
Blues for the virus
Blues for the fires
I cough outsider blues
Got gray-blues from no hiking
Got smoky mountain blues
And no views of the Rockies
Blues for no work
Blues for no money
Blues for no rent
Blues out of gas
Got deep blue hues
Burying mountain ranges
I sing closed in blues
Missing my mountains
Blues in a shiver
Blues in a shake
Blues in jambalaya
Blues on my table
By Ingrid Bruck
I sing insider blues
Blues dark and pressing
Cali-smoke choking the sun
In layers of Colorado ash
Blues for my kids
Blues for their kids
Blues for the virus
Blues for the fires
I cough outsider blues
Got gray-blues from no hiking
Got smoky mountain blues
And no views of the Rockies
Blues for no work
Blues for no money
Blues for no rent
Blues out of gas
Got deep blue hues
Burying mountain ranges
I sing closed in blues
Missing my mountains
Blues in a shiver
Blues in a shake
Blues in jambalaya
Blues on my table
Ingrid Bruck, a Pennsylvania-based poet, grows wildflowers and makes jam when she's not writing poetry. In 2019, one of her poems was nominated for Best of the Net and two were nominated for a Pushcart Prize. Ingrid has one chapbook titled Finding Stella Maris (Flutter Press) and is a monthly columnist for Between These Shores Books. Some of her current work appears in Otata, Failed Haiku, Halcyon Days, Red Fez, Quatrain.Fish, Communicator’s League and Leaves of Ink.
FEBRUARY 2021: Selected Poetry
Poem and Visual Poetry Film Production this month by Christine Sloan Stoddard
Poem and Visual Poetry Film Production this month by Christine Sloan Stoddard
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The Dead Girl Artist's Scientific Method
By Christine Sloan Stoddard have you ever read an artist statement written by a cadaver? imagine the photographer typing in her coffin. oh, you thought it was a man? no, this dead artist is a woman. some might call her a girl. she is still willowy. not yet 30. never pregnant, free from the scars that “make” a “woman.” actually, was. past tense. she’s just a buried body now. camera mechanics do not intoxicate me but they enable me to paint with light. here in the darkness, I crave light. in life, I ate too many worms, too much dirt. all because he didn’t love me. i shouldn’t have cared. who was he but a ghostly distraction? a skeletal character too mysterious for me to add flesh. you must know a soul to love it. i photographed my sallow self before sunset. these were not expressionistic portraits. these were scientific documents, photos for the lab and the archives. maybe a microscope could tell me why he did not love me. I would crack the lens to find out. was it my curly hair? did he long for straight? was it my mayan nose? did he want a ski slope? was it my ripe olive tone? did he prefer peaches and cream? obsession does not make for clear thinking and my mind had always been crystal. i should’ve abandoned my lab coat. there are softer things to wear. why live with coarse fabrics? life is coarse enough. i probed too hard with my camera. he doesn’t love you. i stabbed myself with my tripod. he doesn’t love you. i knocked myself out with studio lights. he doesn’t love you. an encouraging friend might say: at least these unrequited affections taught you photography. and now you can write grant proposals from the grave. is that a nobler use of eternity than pushing up daisies? turning rejection and loneliness into art? now that I am dead, my paranoia has died, too. he never loved me because he never knew me. no lab results necessary. |
Visual Poetry: ButterfliesClick above video to view Butterflies, Directed by Christine Sloan Stoddard
Poet: Teri Elam Christine Sloan Stoddard is a Salvadoran-American artist creating books, films, plays, paintings, installations, and more. She founded Quail Bell Magazine and runs Quail Bell Press & Productions. Her single author books include Heaven is a Photograph, Naomi & The Reckoning, Desert Fox by the Sea, Belladonna Magic, and other titles. Christine is a member of The Authors Guild and the Dramatists Guild of America
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JANUARY 2021: Selected Poetry
Poem this month by Robin Wright
Poem this month by Robin Wright
50th Wedding Anniversary
By Robin Wright
Arm skin hangs low enough
to sweep the floor,
stomach stretches, as if to visit
the neighbor next door.
Still, you lie next to me,
soft snores before the roar.
I kiss your cheek,
when you wake,
invite you inside my ruins.
By Robin Wright
Arm skin hangs low enough
to sweep the floor,
stomach stretches, as if to visit
the neighbor next door.
Still, you lie next to me,
soft snores before the roar.
I kiss your cheek,
when you wake,
invite you inside my ruins.
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Robin Wright lives in Southern Indiana. Her work has appeared in Ariel Chart, Minnow Literary Magazine, Ekphrastic Review, Re-side, Black Bough Poetry, Spank the Carp, Muddy River Poetry Review, Rat’s Ass Review and others. One of her poems was nominated for a Pushcart Prize by Panoply, and her first chapbook, Ready or Not, was recently published by Finishing Line Press.
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