Posts for June 13, 2015

Len Lundh

An After Thought

After they first made noisy-joyous love
(moving from the kitchen to the carpet 

to the couch and ending in her bed)
she kissed his nose and he laughed. 

Be careful, she scolded in a whisper.
We don’t want to wake my children.


Ange, recently widowed

Poem 13, June 13


Ange, recently widowed


I see you when I go outside to start the Ford.

The air is crisp,

but I can’t see my breath when I breathe out.


I wave at you, but I do not shout

to get your attention. A wisp

of a poem begins to form.


I cross the street,

coming close before you spy me.

You turn toward me & my heart is sad.


In that moment I wish I had

the ability to look into your heart, to see

the entirety of your stress, your discreet



You say,” I wish I were not a human being.”

I ask, “Would you rather be an inhuman being?”


You do not answer.

I say, “You have a young son

who will need you for many years.”


When I say, “Sometimes it is best to cry,”

your tears

flow. I am an unhappy man


& nothing more unless a poet

with no better advice,

counts for something.

Bronson O'Quinn

he wants to sing like Thom Yorke

instead of just

Carole Johnston


midnight butterfly
silver moon fritillary
following her bliss
savior in the summer dark
of our collective minds
a seer beyond the myth

Pat Owen

Old Friend

                                                Old Friend

It cheers me to think of her camping–
setting up her easel–
her camp stove
having coffee with neighbors
totally at ease wherever she is.

It gives me hope for myself
marching to the beat
of my own drummer
as she does.

How I miss the comfort of her being–
comfy as an over-stuffed chair
soft in her smile —
her connection to others–
heart centered.

How opposite we are–
how drawn I am to her.


Preparing: Nick Carraway

Prepare for golem-eyes,
and jewels that only shine
at night.

Gaby Bedetti

Narrow Road

A farmer lent Basho a horse.
Basho remembered him
with a poem.

On a moonlit walk
we think of our children on an island
on the other side of the globe.

Next morning
from our daughter’s i-phone
we get a hoped-for video call.

They are walking empty Tokyo streets
on a Sunday night
buying neon-bright T-shirts.

Our son promises to
talk about his trip
when he gets home.

Basho was born to wander.
Awestruck by a cricket singing under a helmet,
on his journey he found his soul.

Our millennial son says,
“I’ve done more travelling than I’m used to”
and ”You know how I get without Wi-Fi.”