Archive | Poetry

and he sleeps by Æverett

Everest(1)
and he sleeps
with the View in his Eyes
sinks into an Abyss
the safe Darkness
a numbing Cold
they kiss him goodbye
the Night is soft
a tender kiss
he dreams of that Sight
his waking Eyes remember
his Breath comes easy
but soon not at all

(2)
he sinks in the Water
cold River
the Stones kiss his nude Feet
the Current caressing his Rest
and between the Stars
the Moon is weeping
her dying Son swept away
his Skin as pale as hers
Tears hide in Water on his Face
take him to the Fall
a Roar – he cries out not
in weightless Envy his Wings don’t work
a Stone falls though Water
drenched upon the whirling Surface
the Eyes no longer open

(3)
moored upon a rocky Shoal
River-stones sing to his naked Back
his Head laid in the Grass
a Lark is singing
his Brother dead
and the Clear-river kissing
the Body run aground
eased upon the warm Bank
and he sleeps
the Reality is a lovely Nymph

Image Copyright: arsgera / 123RF Stock Photo

About the Author: Æverett

ÆverettÆverett lives in the northern hemisphere and enjoys Rammstein and Star Trek. He writes both poetry and fiction and dabbles in gardening and soap making. She has two wonderfully old cats, and a dearly beloved dog. He also plays in linguistics, studying German, Norwegian, Russian, Arabic, a bit of Elvish, and developing Cardassian. Language is fascinating, enlightening, and inspirational. She’s happily married to her work with which she shares delusions of demon hunters, detectives, starships, androids, and a home on the outskirts of a small northern town. He’s enjoyed writing since childhood and the process can be downright therapeutic when it’s not making him pull his hair out. It’s really about the work and words and seeing without preconceptions.

On Loss and Rejoicing by Patricia Wellingham-Jones

alderforestcreek2I grieve the loss
of the riverine forest,
the alders Nature bestowed
after the great flood.

Yesterday they were cut down,
turned into firewood,
victims of the canker disease
sweeping the globe’s northern tier.

This morning I mourn their passing,
slowly survey my changed domain
and discover that in this loss
I have cause to rejoice.

Now I see the creek stretch
from above the bridge
to more than a mile downstream,
trimmed by young sycamores left standing.

On a snag high on the far bank
a bald eagle overlooks his kingdom
and air swishes freely through the new space
to cool my flushed face.

About the Author: Patricia Wellingham-Jones

PatriciaWellingham-JonesPatricia Wellingham-Jones is a widely published former psychology researcher and writer/editor. She has a special interest in healing writing, with poems recently in The Widow’s Handbook (Kent State University Press). Chapbooks include Don’t Turn Away: poems about breast cancer, End-Cycle: poems about caregiving, Apple Blossoms at Eye Level, Voices on the Land and Hormone Stew.

I have written so often, by Æverett

rumbledbedsheets

I have written so often about your voice, but the feeling

remains, ever present, like a ringing in my bones. The taste of

your words as they leave your lips, like honey on my

fingertips… I wish to hear your whispering words, close

enough to feel your Tongue. The music from your mouth

amoung the sighings there in silken sheets. The sighing of my

dying Lungs, you steal my breath, with only a sound, a

whisper, a word. Your verses only make it worse.

 

About the Author: Æverett

ÆverettÆverett lives in the northern hemisphere and enjoys Rammstein and Star Trek. He writes both poetry and fiction and dabbles in gardening and soap making. She has two wonderfully old cats, and a dearly beloved dog. He also plays in linguistics, studying German, Norwegian, Russian, Arabic, a bit of Elvish, and developing Cardassian. Language is fascinating, enlightening, and inspirational. She’s happily married to her work with which she shares delusions of demon hunters, detectives, starships, androids, and a home on the outskirts of a small northern town. He’s enjoyed writing since childhood and the process can be downright therapeutic when it’s not making him pull his hair out. It’s really about the work and words and seeing without preconceptions.

The Bone Gatherer by Imelda Maguire

The Bone Gatherer (photo of woman in field)

(in memory of Seena Frost)

She set me to gathering bones,

the ones I’d lost;
set me to travelling
old roads,
and off the roads,
into wild spaces,
long-forgotten.

My basket began to fill,
and she set me to naming the bones,
feeling the places from which
they’d fallen,
marking the spot where they landed.

She set me to minding the bones,
sitting with them,
rubbing their ridges and spurs,
looking and watching and noticing…
This is the shape of that bone,
there is the mark of its pain.

She set me to seeing the whole,
to piecing the bones together,
the slow and gentle work.

As I sit now with the bones,
look at this strange harvest
of mine, I hear a humming,
a chant, low and gentle,
and know, she is with me now,
watching over the bones.

 

About the Author: Imelda Maguire

Imelda Maguire bioImelda Maguire has lived in all four provinces of Ireland, and now resides in Donegal, the far north-west of the country. Her poetry has been published widely in journals in Ireland, and she has read at many literary festivals and events throughout the country. A practicing counsellor, she facilitates creative and personal development activities with individuals and groups. Her first collection, Shout If You Want Me To Sing, was published in 2004 by Summer Palace Press. Her second, Serendipity, was published by Revival Press in 2015. They are both available by contacting her on Facebook or by email at imeldacmaguire@gmail.com.

Ireland Professor of Poetry, Paula Meehan, says “There are many ways Imelda Maguire will lure us into her world…”, and poet Denise Blake recommends Serendipity as a “collection to cherish, (to) keep close at hand.”

A Night with Hathor by Pat West

Full_Moon

Sky goddess whose long curved body
touches the earth only with the tips of toes
and fingers. Queen of the sun, sky,
music and inspiration, it was her starry belly,

men saw shining in the night
above them over Alexandria or Cairo.
Here in Portland, I lie on the wet grass,
the bright beam of a waxing

full moon illuminates the inky night
like a silk lantern held high. I ask
for some mystical mojo.
These days I can’t get over being old.

It’s new to me, that my life like a book
has to end. Is tonight any different
from all the others? I know an answer
is as likely as hearing the famous gap

in Nixon’s tapes, still I ask.
Why do I hesitate to leave this place,
even though certain
this is not where I’m meant to die.

My tribe. My people: all dead,
gone decades ago to heaven or hell
or just plain done with me,
barely in my dreams any more.

Tell me Hathor, if I give a few falsetto yips,
switch into maniacal laughter, string together
a chattering howl, can I call the pack—
my family group—back together again?

Where is my final home?
What about Seattle, Atascadero
or Philly?

In the clearing, I lay stones
so they point at each of the four directions.
Jade to the west, smoky quartz north,
hematite south, and to the east tiger’s eye.

About the Author: Pat West

PatWestBioPat Phillips West lives in Portland, Oregon. Her poems have appeared in various journals, including Haunted Waters Press, Persimmon Tree, San Pedro River Review, and Slipstream, and some have earned nominations for the Pushcart Prize and Best of the Net.

Jump Dive Leap by A.R. Hadley

Clouds forming all around me
Afraid to be myself
Afraid to write
Want to take flight

JumpLeapDiveWriteInto the unknown
Deep
Where no one can find me
Can I find me
Can I see myself there
In obscurity
Is what I have worth sharing

Myself
Losing the ability to trust that mirror

Forming words out of fear
Contemplating
Is it good enough
Reminding myself
That it is for me
To live
To breathe
To tell
To testify
To be alive
It is for the positivity
It is for the energy
It can only be truly seen
By those with an open heart
By those free
By those unafraid
By those willing to leap

About the Author: A.R. Hadley

ARHadleyBioA.R. Hadley has been a creative writer since elementary school, however, she all but gave it up after her children were born, devoting herself to the lovely little creatures, forgetting the pleasure and happiness derived from being imaginative.

No more.

She rediscovered her passion in 2014, and has not stopped since — writing essays, poetry, and fiction. A.R is currently working on a set of novels as part of a romantic trilogy, and also dabbles in penning short stories.

Day or night, words float around inside her brain. She hears dialogue when awakening from sleep. She is the one who has been awakened. Writing is her oxygen.

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Play to the End of the String by Imelda Maguire

Playing-violinist

(after Beethoven’s 3rd string quartet, Contempo quartet)

Draw the bow down,
and when you think
you’ve wrung out all
the sweetness that melody
offers, go on.
Play on.
Play to the end of the string.
Play what you know,
then what you think you know,
then what you don’t know.

Play it, let it fall from your bow.
Play to the end, to the last
of the string.
Play on,
play on,
play on.

 

About the Author: Imelda Maguire

Imelda Maguire bioImelda Maguire has lived in all four provinces of Ireland, and now resides in Donegal, the far north-west of the country. Her poetry has been published widely in journals in Ireland, and she has read at many literary festivals and events throughout the country. A practicing counsellor, she facilitates creative and personal development activities with individuals and groups. Her first collection,  Shout If You Want Me To Sing, was published in 2004 by Summer Palace Press. Her second, Serendipity, was published by Revival Press in 2015. They are both available by contacting her on Facebook or by email at imeldacmaguire@gmail.com.

Ireland Professor of Poetry, Paula Meehan, says “There are many ways Imelda Maguire will lure us into her world…”, and poet Denise Blake recommends Serendipity as a “collection to cherish, (to) keep close at hand.”

What Comes Next by Patricia Wellingham-Jones

confidentgreycurlsShe wandered past the perimeter
of midlife, replaced blond curls
with natural iron-ore gray.
At this new stage of life
she wondered
at all those efforts
over all those years
to be the aunt with gifts
she thought her sister’s kids
would love. To be the person
expected.
Tired of trying
to satisfy others
she sighed and slid with relief
into her next decade.

About the Author: Patricia Wellingham-Jones

PatriciaWellingham-JonesPatricia Wellingham-Jones is a widely published former psychology researcher and writer/editor. She has a special interest in healing writing, with poems recently in The Widow’s Handbook (Kent State University Press). Chapbooks include Don’t Turn Away: poems about breast cancer, End-Cycle: poems about caregiving, Apple Blossoms at Eye Level, Voices on the Land and Hormone Stew.

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