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.
|
"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
PLEASE STAY TUNED FOR VIRTUAL POETRY EVENTS or for IN-PERSON EVENTS ONCE THE PANDEMIC IS UNDER CONTROL. 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. |
JANUARY 2022: Selected Poetry
Poems this month by Ingrid Bruck
Poems this month by Ingrid Bruck
|
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.
|
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.
|
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
|
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.
|
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.
|
MAY 2021: Selected Poetry
Poems this month by Peggy Turnbull and Victoria Twomey
Poems this month by Peggy Turnbull and Victoria Twomey
|
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.)
|
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.
|
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...
|
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.
|
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
|
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
|
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.
|
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.
|
