Poetry Corner
Mare Leonard
This section was inspired by prolific poet and retired educator Mare Leonard. She is a longtime mentor and friend of our executive editor, Myrna Haskell. Mare published several chapbooks and was a finalist in the Hill-Stead Museum's Poetry Contest. She also won first prize in the Lucy Cady Lamphier Contest.
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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 often dismissed in our culture. With Poetry Corner, we are hoping to share a taste of poems that will make you think, laugh or wonder."
~ 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. |
November 2023: Selected Poetry
Poems this month by Elizabeth Fowler Sullivan
Poems this month by Elizabeth Fowler Sullivan
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I Belong to Me Now
by Elizabeth Fowler Sullivan I belong to me now. Folks lament; “She is all alone.” But I’m never lonely, I’m just simply not one to own. I have never walked here where the path appears wild and strange. Still I’ll stumble forward Through a dark and unwelcome change. I will be returning, for there’s need to pass through this way. And I’ll grow familiar with the steps that I take each day. There will be decisions that were never called mine to make. They’ve been well decided and designed for only my sake. Being left without him, I will not be an anguished soul, or forever grieving in the thought that I’m less than whole. When I search for answers to the questions I’ll surely find, I’ll converse with me and will continuously change my mind. I will need his laughter and the warmth of his dear embrace. I will miss his presence and the longing upon his face. But I’ll hear the calling of the birds that he loved in flight and recall he told me he’d be near as they flew from sight. There’ll be peace in silence and contentment in quiet things that can hum in rhythm and allow me a song that sings. Till breath’s gone, I’m breathing and responding to what will be. In this space, I’m dwelling. And while here, I belong to me. |
Waiting in the Wings
Words & Music by Elizabeth Fowler Sullivan Waiting in the wings - I’m just waiting in the wings, shivering and lis’ning all alone, for my curtain call. I have learned my ev’ry line – oh, I hope I’ve learned my lines, and I want to walk out on that stage and give the crowd my all! I’ve felt like this before - known fears like this before, still I keep coming back again for more! ‘Cause when I get it right, and I know I got it right, There’s a joy I can’t describe…a longing that is deep inside. (Repeat from beginning) Waiting in the wings, I’m just waiting in the wings, shivering and lis’ning all alone for my curtain call. 
Photo Courtesy: Elizabeth Fowler Sullivan
Elizabeth Fowler Sullivan was born in California during the Great Depression to parents that in her words, “Went to California in search of fortune, but all they got was me.” When she was two years old, they returned to Oklahoma City. While attending Heronville Grade School, she met Jim Sullivan. They married in 1947 while still attending Capitol Hill High School, and in 1950, their first child, Michael, was born. Before moving to Norman in 1968, they lived in Boggy Depot where five of their eight children were born with whom they shared their passion for music. Elizabeth received a degree in music years later from The University of Oklahoma, but her goals took a new direction. At the age of 76, she received her degree in English with an emphasis on writing and literature. She is an accomplished and published writer, composing music, poems, and essays. Recently, at the Cowboy Hall of Fame, she received the Lifetime Achievement Award from Capitol Hill High School. She continues to study, write, and plan for future performances around the country. “Mother of Singers, Mistress of Song,” has performed in New York City at venues such as the Oak Room at the Algonquin, the Weill Recital Hall at Carnegie, Helen’s, the Metropolitan Room, and Zankel Hall at Carnegie. She has also participated in the Brownville Concert Series in Nebraska and has sung at Town Hall for the Cabaret Convention. Bob Dotson featured the family on NBC’s Today Show.
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October 2023: Selected Poetry
Poem this month by Erin Jamieson
Poem this month by Erin Jamieson
Dusty Halls
by Erin Jamieson
by Erin Jamieson
I swallow the moon
and paint my skin
in crimson sunset
wading in clouds
so depleted of
color I disappear
like for years
I longed to--
only as I gasp
& shadows nestle
in my chest
I miss my heart
the ability to love
and long
& your voice
echoes
in dusty halls
and paint my skin
in crimson sunset
wading in clouds
so depleted of
color I disappear
like for years
I longed to--
only as I gasp
& shadows nestle
in my chest
I miss my heart
the ability to love
and long
& your voice
echoes
in dusty halls
Erin Jamieson holds an MFA in Creative Writing from Miami University. Her writing has been published in over eighty literary magazines, including a Pushcart Prize nomination. She is the author of a poetry collection (Clothesline, 2023) and four poetry chapbooks. Her latest poetry chapbook, Fairytales, was published by Bottle Cap Press. Her debut novel, Sky of Ashes, Land of Dreams, will be published by Type Eighteen Books in November 2023. Follow Erin on Twitter.
August 2023: Selected Poetry
Poem and Artwork this month by Lona Tarakji as Part of our 8th Annual Focus on Youth Special Issue
Poem and Artwork this month by Lona Tarakji as Part of our 8th Annual Focus on Youth Special Issue
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From Fear to Security
by Lona Tarakji I am from a curious eight-year-old in a new country to a young teenager comfortable in her new home. I’m from fear of being killed in civil war to living a peaceful life, where I can dream of becoming a pediatrician. From worrying about will I get hit with falling metal to being excited about each new day. From one adult landlord friend in Turkey to a dozen RAMP volunteer tutors and friends. I am from a neglected pupil in Turkey to inspiring teachers in Boonton and Wharton guiding me to be an Honor Roll scholar. I’m from a playground in Turkey where only one cousin would play with me to being on my school’s softball team. From no friends to having Salma a best friend, who shares my faith traditions, my first language Arabic, and who helps me with my math homework! From confused to excited. I am from a pencil and sketchbook in a bunker to an inspiring art teacher, oil paintings, a wizard sculpture, and family portraits. I’m from imagining a peaceful life to living it. From fear of losing relatives I love to being thankful my parents and siblings are safe today. From not knowing what I want in life to imagining my journey and the road to get me there. Lona's poem captures some of the highlights of her experiences moving from the culture and traditions of the Middle East to the United States. She began to write poetry in fifth grade. Her first poem was written following George Ella Lyon’s I am from template. Lona expanded on this format adding the to component. She hopes the reader will gain insights into how different her daily life in Syria was compared to her life now as a Syrian American teenager.
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Self-Portrait
Acrylic, Yarn & Sewing Needle © Lona Tarakji In Lona's Words...
I decided to paint my 2021 self-portrait with a mask covering my face for a few reasons. I was confused about what I was feeling creating an image of me, growing into blending two very different cultures, the Middle Eastern traditions and foods of my birth country, Syria, into what I’ve been learning for the last six years about becoming an American. Conveniently, the mask-wearing mandates of the coronavirus pandemic, still in effect in the spring of 2021, allowed me to hide most of my face, so I did not have to decide which emotion to reveal in this painting. The mask covers my confusion. The crescent moon on my mask represents the crescent moon of Islam and is symbolic of progress. My name Luna or لونا means moon in Spanish and Italian. I painted my gold necklace with my name in Arabic لونا at the suggestion of my tutor, Marie. To symbolize the way I feel in my heart about becoming a Syrian American, I created a background for my portrait, using the coastlines and the flags of both of my countries. Then, with the help of my art teacher, Ray Vikete, I was able to show how I feel about pulling together two cultures by sewing the two flags together. You will see the sewing is not all the way to the top because my life as a Syrian American is a daily work in progress. That’s also why the needle is still on the painting. The green on the United States side represents a new chapter for me, a new form of life, and nature. The lavender on the Syrian side is a very light shade, a calming color. But to create this beautiful shade I needed to add some dark values to represent the dark times in Syria today due to the civil war and the recent earthquake. Syria is a very good country with rich land, but there are some dark sides to it right now. |
Since Lona Tarakji was old enough to hold a pencil, she loved to draw. As she grew, so did her passion for art. At MacKinnon Middle School in Wharton, New Jersey, Lona experimented with a variety of artistic methods. Currently her favorite medium is painting - especially with acrylics and watercolors. In seventh grade, Lona received her class’s Outstanding Academic Achievement Award for Art.
Lona learned how to start a business through TREP$, an after school workshop, where she learned the basics of developing and implementing a business plan. Lona’s first product line is inspirational bookmarks, with original watercolor backgrounds. Her second product line is Lulu’s Pearls: beaded necklaces, bracelets and rings.
Lona brings her artistic talents to baking by the detail she paints on holiday cookies. She loves to run, so she joined her middle school cross-country team after being introduced to the joy of running by participating in Girls on the Run when she was in fourth grade.
Lona finds inspiration in poetry – initially in Arabic, and since coming to the United States from Syria in 2016, in both Arabic and English.
Lona learned how to start a business through TREP$, an after school workshop, where she learned the basics of developing and implementing a business plan. Lona’s first product line is inspirational bookmarks, with original watercolor backgrounds. Her second product line is Lulu’s Pearls: beaded necklaces, bracelets and rings.
Lona brings her artistic talents to baking by the detail she paints on holiday cookies. She loves to run, so she joined her middle school cross-country team after being introduced to the joy of running by participating in Girls on the Run when she was in fourth grade.
Lona finds inspiration in poetry – initially in Arabic, and since coming to the United States from Syria in 2016, in both Arabic and English.
April 2023: Selected Poetry
Poems this month by Sydney Edmond as Part of our Autism Awareness & Acceptance Special Issue
Poems this month by Sydney Edmond as Part of our Autism Awareness & Acceptance Special Issue
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Tree Outside My Window
Featured in The Purple Tree and Other Poems by Sydney Edmond There’s a tree outside my window
It’s there for all to see But she knows And I know She’s there for only me. She only speaks in whispers That no one seems to hear But she knows That I do When night is drawing near. I love our conversations They fill my heart with joy But she knows That I know They’re just my wishful ploy. I am the tree, it seems Am really on my own But she knows So I know The seeds they have been sown. Like her I’ll pass the test of time I’ll ready, make my mark And she knows what I know It started with a spark. Outside
by Sydney Edmond I am outside, want to be inside A place for everyone. I am the other, the odd No one asking me to come. To put a person quite alone To make them ostracized To turn your back, your face, your ears Will make them realize That they are on the outside Where others like them dwell. They are on the outside Within a living hell. We want to be included A partner in the play. We want to be included In a very unique way. We will offer color We’ll brighten up your day we will play the other When everything is grey. And when the day is done And all are in the cast A smile will live on every face And we’ll forget about the past. |
Sydney with one of Her Paintings
Photo Courtesy: Sydney Edmond Sydney's Journey
Sydney Edmond is a 30-year-old woman who is a poet, a painter, an autism advocate/speaker, and an adviser to the Autism Society Inland Empire in Southern California.
At age 21, a visit to the San Diego Museum of Art inspired Sydney to pursue painting. She paints in both watercolor and acrylic. Sydney’s artwork is frequently exhibited in her hometown of Temecula, California and has also been exhibited at the Artscape Exhibit in Riverside, California and the Oceanside Museum of Art.
Her future goal is to combine her poetry and artwork into a book.
"I am inspired by many things when I write poetry. The most frequent topic has to do with disability. When I write, I experience a wonderful sense of sharing myself with the world. When I write, I share my inner voice and educate people about those of us who are not typical, yet have so much to offer – those who want to live a life rich in purpose and creativity." ~ Sydney Edmond |
March 2023: Selected Poetry
Poems this month by Roberta Curley
Poems this month by Roberta Curley
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Beauty Issue
by Roberta Curley I open up warily, slowly -- like any May rose waking to its own intense beauty is the coast clear of interlopers who pilfer crimson sweetness? touch-touch they stroke, sniffing my velvet petals -- without permission I display my thorns -- my privacy at stake, my very rootedness can’t I boldly bloom? oh, the pitfalls….. of exquisiteness |
Howl From Hackensack
by Roberta Curley No tryst or travesty -- I need a proper bedmate To elate my pheromones Confuse my kaleidoscope Drown me in dandelions Canoodle my crevices Unearth my undulations Bask in my balmy berth My bed is no liar’s lair -- Hail a Renaissance man Honest as the moon With Satchmo brilliance Add Ella reverberations Tony’s silk pipes -- A man to clutch A man who comes back Cross me and I’ll Burn like a comet in Your rival’s arms -- They’ll hear you howl From Hackensack Growling to break free From the doghouse |
Roberta Curley has lived in Greenwich Village, New York City for forty-five years. She started writing poetry sixteen years ago when a rhyming poem popped out while journaling. Her work has been published in West View News, The New York Times Metropolitan Diary, Thrive Global, Q Review Anthologies, Tamarind, and Jefferson Market Library Poetry Workshop Anthologies. Her poem “Palm Fronds” appeared in the spring 2019 issue of Penn Review. She has written approximately 150 poems - subjects ranging from pineapples to the pandemic. Contact: rdcurley@gmail.com
January 2023: Selected Poetry
Poems this month by Elizabeth Fairleigh
Poems this month by Elizabeth Fairleigh
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Fighting Spirit
by Elizabeth Fairleigh Crying bird What is wrong? This is not a happy song. Something’s wrong. You’ve lost your way. I want to help But can’t today. It hurts my heart to leave you there So distressed Deep despair. What can I do to ease your pain? No more of this can you sustain. Grim reality setting in. No idea where you’ve been or what to do. Now tide is high And nature paints her blood red sky. I must leave you now. But first a prayer. It’s not because I do not care. Hope to God you are spared. And home you fly. Your soul laid bare. |
Reflection
by Elizabeth Fairleigh Mirror, mirror on the wall, Looking back at me. I stare into the crystal ball. Strange reflection I recall. Who is this I see? Mirror, mirror on the wall. Spirits floating in the hall, Dying to be free. I stare into the crystal ball. Now I’m standing six feet tall, Towering over thee. Mirror, mirror on the wall: This is not my face at all. Do one and one make three? I stare into the crystal ball. Will you catch me if I fall, Or will you let me be? Mirror, mirror on the wall, I stare into the crystal ball. |
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Elizabeth Stevenson Fairleigh is a former journalist and award-winning 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. When not writing poems, she runs a PR firm, thE Connection. She lives in Atlanta, Georgia with her husband of 27 years. Together they have a daughter who is a senior at the University of Georgia, a leopard gecko named Leona, a fire bellied toad, and an aquarium full of tropical fish! |
ARCHIVES 2022
November 2022: Selected Poetry
Poems this month by Irene Backalenick
Poems this month by Irene Backalenick
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Migration
by Irene Backalenick The story of all peoples Is the story of migration For ten thousand years or more We’ve swept across the globe Seeking hunting grounds Or lands of milk and honey Sanctioned by our gods We’ve spread our seed Reaching aborigines With conquest, rape and purpose Or with more gentle unions Mixing language, sperm and culture Thus we’ve changed the planet With endless immigration Multi-layered, multi-colored Neither good nor evil But a history of mankind Holy Cow!
by Irene Backalenick A Sicilian tour So memorable Glittering moments Dizzying views And cliff-hung towns But tummy cramps erupt My own Mt. Etna Within an ancient church Following directions I rush to find the lav Flinging wide the door There he sits, man of the cloth His cassock pulled up high Skinny shanks, ancient buttocks Wrinkled face quite bright Eye to eye we meet A moment of eternity Then I close the door And softly creep away |
Survival
by Irene Backalenick We walk the lavish gardens Its owner at our side A courtly handsome man Who serves as escort And points to special plantings A thriving population Within his far-flung kingdom. But etched upon his face Are lines of history. Irony and skepticism Burst forth in sudden laughs Aimed mostly at himself. How far this man has come From early Polish days Born amidst the Holocaust A ragged child who survived In hidden haystacks, hovels, caves Entombed…or nearly so He now commands a paradise And his statements hurled aloft Defy the ancient gods Curling upward through his trees These prayers…if indeed they’re prayers… Soar skyward, ever higher A mix of wariness and joy. |
Irene Backalenick is a poet and retired, longtime freelance journalist and theater critic from Connecticut. She began writing poetry in her early 90s and has since published two books of poetry, Rueful Reflections, Book 1 and Rueful Reflections, Book 2. Irene wrote for numerous national publications, including The New York Times. In 1975, she received a New York Times Publishers Award. Irene was also selected as Sanctuary's Featured Artist this month.
October 2022: Selected Poetry
Poem this month by Roberta Curley
Lingering Voices
by Roberta Curley
Now I listen for their lilting voices….
my three brothers — my rocks.
Always a blessing in my life,
They steer a course once
captained by Mom and Pop.
Back then we kids sprang from
our mattresses each morning.
Our folk’s king-sized bed served
as playground and trampoline.
Bursting to life like butterflies,
we trembled to seek flight - - -
buoyed later by midair breezes.
Moving forward - - my folks
snoozed like crazy in
their nineties.
The naps a dress rehearsal
for the Big Sleep to come.
Soon I was a one-note nightingale
tooting a flat song.
Mom and Pop’s death a bulldozer -
I, rubble in its path.
My parents abandoned me —
so I felt.
It hurt to look at my bros,
to gab with them,
to capture their tones.
But Mom and Pops’ voices linger.
Family voices heal.
Poem this month by Roberta Curley
Lingering Voices
by Roberta Curley
Now I listen for their lilting voices….
my three brothers — my rocks.
Always a blessing in my life,
They steer a course once
captained by Mom and Pop.
Back then we kids sprang from
our mattresses each morning.
Our folk’s king-sized bed served
as playground and trampoline.
Bursting to life like butterflies,
we trembled to seek flight - - -
buoyed later by midair breezes.
Moving forward - - my folks
snoozed like crazy in
their nineties.
The naps a dress rehearsal
for the Big Sleep to come.
Soon I was a one-note nightingale
tooting a flat song.
Mom and Pop’s death a bulldozer -
I, rubble in its path.
My parents abandoned me —
so I felt.
It hurt to look at my bros,
to gab with them,
to capture their tones.
But Mom and Pops’ voices linger.
Family voices heal.
Roberta Curley has lived in Greenwich Village, New York City for forty-five years. She started writing poetry sixteen years ago when a rhyming poem popped out while journaling. Her work has been published in West View News, The New York Times Metropolitan Diary, Thrive Global, Q Review Anthologies, Tamarind, and Jefferson Market Library Poetry Workshop Anthologies. Her poem “Palm Fronds” appeared in the spring 2019 issue of Penn Review. She has written approximately 150 poems - subjects ranging from pineapples to the pandemic. Contact: rdcurley@gmail.com
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.
