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Posts for June 27, 2022 (page 5)

M. Wells
Category
Poem
6/27/22

Goddess Morrigan

Goddess Morrigan,
I pray to you:
My friends are many,
And my enemies few–

But they are powerful,
With callous hearts–
Goddess Morrigan,
I beseech you
For your wisdom,
A raven’s eye soaring above the battlefield,
For your strength,
Sword stained true in the blood of conflict,
Goddess Morrigan,
I ask for your blessings 
On my endeavors,
On the endeavors of my sisters,
On the endeavors of my brothers,
On the endeavors of any who would be an ally. 
Goddess Morrigan,
Help us to hone the edge of our rage,
To draw from the wells of our tears,
To build upon the earth-deep connections between us all. 
Goddess Morrigan,
May we achieve victory,
And reign with compassion,
Unstained by hate,
As you would. 
Goddess Morrigan, bless us,
Please. 
 
Mya Sophia
Category
Poem
6/27/22

untitled

There is this energy that runs
through my veins when I hear
that song
It lights up every part of me
till I’m as bright as the sun
I can hardly explain the feeling
except it’s a joy that is
as close to perfect as it can get
Greg Friedman
Category
Poem
3
6/27/22

Monsoon 3

aftermath pools
soaks seeps desert percolator
pushes green miracle

Meredith McCurry
Category
Poem
2
6/27/22

Day 716

Sometimes it’s still. 

A rope swing at rest.
Porch of empty rocking chairs.
Outdoor chapel of cedar and stone. 

Occasionally our love is quiet. 

Sipping coffee.
A silent car ride.
Sleeping cocooned. 

Gentle reminders our souls are one. 

Lennart Lundh
Category
Poem
4
6/27/22

Earth Breath

Warmth morning found me dancing
                        prancing
       through the even rotting moss.
Sky thickquickening cloud and tocome rain.
High&skyway pouring
     sound down
     from still
          bare trees.
But to find me now:
                   Ah, they would have if could
     to chase me in the life beneath the swallowing cliffs,
     scrumbling down the damp dirt slope and
                rock to fallen tree along curving
                quick(clear)ly running stream
     past silver glow of cans and
          shinely green wine bottles
     with the single leaf that earth
                               breath picked                                                                  kicked
     down to greet me.   

Natasha Lee
Category
Poem
2
6/27/22

Olive

I spent my childhood sitting at your feet
Reading the TV Guide for pleasure
Painting your nails, fluffing your cloudlike hair

On the porch we’d play make believe
Pretending you were a Hollywood starlet
Now aged, reflecting on your storied career

Then you were gone
And my days were no longer spent 
Expanding my imagination

I grew up too quickly
Forced to accept that my best friend
Wouldn’t want me to mourn

No more pretending
No more make belive
No more easy summer memories

I lost my innocence the summer you left
Enveloped in a grief I didn’t understand
A feeling no one would explain

My best friend was gone

Beverley Byers-Pevitts
Category
Poem
5
6/27/22

Trelle II

On the way to your master’s
degree nursing class
you dropped your little boy
off at my house
to play with my small son

saying “Take care of my babies,
the girls are at the Thanksgiving
Parade.” I said “Of course” not
knowing the import of that
commitment. We could not know.

The oncoming car swerved
while the driver reached for his
dropped coke can, hit your car head on
tossing you from one side of the car to the
other causing massive head injuries
the state patrol officer
who first reached you told me
you spoke to him
of your children prior
to slipping into a coma.

I picked up your
teenage daughters and brought
them to the hospital, my
husband kept the little boys. You
died without the girls being able
to talk to you. The doctor came
to tell us, asked me to go
with him to call your out of state
husband saying he would
explain what happened,
then have me speak to him. We
went into a small room with a
phone on a desk, the doctor
punched in the numbers then thrust
the receiver to me saying, “you tell him.”

Adyson Reisz
Category
Poem
2
6/27/22

Sleepless Summer

I don’t know why 
But the nightmares are always worse in summer. 

I’ve dreamed that by wife died 
because my friends and I
made a deal with the devil.
I’m not married.
And what would I get out of that deal?

I’ve dreamed of jealousy
getting the better of me.  
That I hated the girl who won their heart.
Though in waking reality I’m happy for them.
And never even met her.

I’ve dreamed of being trapped 
in a store on halloween.
With Ezra Miller and some other guy.
That one was more weird than scary.
Why was I a child actor?

I’ve dreamed of barely missing love.
Of being the eternal third wheel
to people I don’t know when awake.
While Carnaval del Barrio from In the Heights
was playing in the background.

I’ve dreamed of friends dying
and being unable to save them.
CPR performed in vain.
Waking worries that a reckless driver
would take them away from me.

I wonder why 
Nightmares are so much worse in the summer.

Philip Corley
Category
Poem
2
6/27/22

True Forgiveness

is recognizing
how powerful
the fear of death is.

How you can rarely accuse
another human being
of a sin of omission.

Jesus never said why
a certain Priest or Levite
kept walking passed a beaten traveler.

Could they have done more? 
That’s between them, God,
and bandits hiding in caves.

Full vulnerability
is as beautiful
as it can be deadly,

to cast aside self-preservation
for the sake of a man
on the brink of death.

We have all withheld our love
at some point or other
because the giving cost too much.

Even the man who commits the sin
only got there because he didn’t care
enough for his soul to change his fate.

In one moment, we fail.
It only becomes a problem
in repetition.

My worst enemies
have all been people
who stopped working on themselves.

Evil men who
at some point or other
should have been called out.

None of this is to absolve the sin itself.
Maybe it’s more my search
for a way to let trauma go

to admit that my enemies
are also human beings
with the same weaknesses as me,

weaknesses I have also caved to.
I may be my story’s hero, but
that doesn’t mean I’ve done only good.

Good can still be found, though
if my victims
would for once call me out.

In absence of that, the broken will always remain
when nobody willing comes along
to mend.

Alissa Sammarco
Category
Poem
5
6/27/22

Cello – An American Cinquain

sing,
hypnotize them,
those lovers who listen from balconies
before falling like angels through the divine gates
of mortality.

(inspired by Susan Glassmeyer’s book, Fair Blue Eggs, American Cinquains)

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