Poetry: Chava Hudson, Editor

Suellen Wedmore

Suellen Wedmore, Poet Laureate emerita for the small seaside town of Rockport, Massachusetts, has been widely published. Her work has been awarded first place in the Writer’s Digest rhyming poem contest and she was an international winner in the 2006 Atlanta Review poetry contest. Recently her chapbook Deployed was selected as winner of the Grayson Press annual chapbook contest and she was selected for a writing residency at Devil’s Tower, Wyoming. After 24 years working as a speech and language therapist in the public schools, she retired to enter the MFA Program in Poetry at New England College, graduating in 2004.

DILL PICKLES

I plunged Mason jars into a scalding bath
and brought a jar to Rocky Neck
the day he painted me,
a young woman then,

smiling beneath a red umbrella.
I didn’t know much about him
except I liked the way he scooped the sun
with his palette knife across the canvas,

and that he had cancer.
I had children,
outgrowing their shoes,
begging for ponies. My life flared

beginnings. Everything
has an ending, he told me,
but when I searched
his face for self-pity,

he swirled his sable brush
through the dazzle
of his colors, threaded daises
into the portrait’s tumbled hair.

Later, he opened the jar I’d given him
with one twist, devoured a pickle
in a few quick bites,
and when juice trilled down his chin,

he wiped his face
with an embroidered cloth.

Jill Herrick-Lee

Jill Herrick-Lee The Wizard of Blizzards is a funny old chap. He's tall and broad and wears a pointed hat. Whenever he wishes it would snow or hail, he waves his wand that never fails. By the time Jill was ten years old and wrote this poem, she had already begun to suspect larger and unpredictable forces were at hand. She has written poetry ever since, as a way of trying to make sense of things. Jill is also a mixed-media artist and has shown and read her work in several locations around New England.

PHOTO OF YOU, AGE 12

I make you stop
for this moment with your father
one that arrives so infrequently
during these years of your childhood

Daddy is happy to stop if only
for this fleeting opportunity
to let me capture the two of you together
before the sun sets by the lake

But you lean hard against him
with your arms held
straight down at your sides
in a posture that says
I don’t want to do this

Still he stands beside you
with his hand on your shoulder
looking proud as he always does
announcing to the whole world
Here’s my beautiful daughter

Over the horizon
the sun rages into evening
filling the sky with red
It burns a fiery reflection
across the water

Your father doesn’t see
the disappointment on your face
the way your eyes plead
Let’s get this over with

every time he has to leave

CAUGHT

When I first see him
I think of a branch half-fallen

suspended between two trees
whose trunks lean dangerously apart

His teenage arms are awkward
hanging down at his sides

He wants to hold on
for things never to have changed

He remembers the tree of his childhood
the climbing upward

the center where he could rest
and his dream of the far-reaching branches

He doesn’t want to forget
but it’s all so different now

He knows that I know

As soon as he sees me he looks down
as if to be careful not to fall

He steps over tree roots
pushing up all around him

Sina Evans

Sina Evans is an emerging writer who enjoys writing from a fly-on-the-wall perspective, offering her readers quick and often shifting glimpses of those micro-moments that fill our lives. She is also an avid photographer. Sina spends her days teaching art to elementary students, and spends her nights exploring the intersection between the visual and language arts. Sometimes on cold nights you can find her crocheting kooky scarves for friends. A native desert dweller, she and her dog Miela currently call Tucson, Arizona home.

contact Sina at gracieshoots@gmail.com

Untitled

angry stomping overhead
sky peels itself apart.
if it were a tree, i would say
limb from limb
but it isn’t. it’s bigger, vast
and blue except during night
when it is only vast.

* * * * * *

kitchen morning

he looks at her
he sighs
he says “it’s over”
he looks down at his feet
which have turned to anchors
and moored him

same kitchen, different morning
she clears her throat
she looks away
she mumbles “i know”
she remembers a time
before her kitchen
became a shipyard

* * * * * *

Post-Katrina Hobby: Collecting Corners

we collect our corners
keeping ourselves busy
this way.
scattered as we are
by wind and by water
busy we stay
pinning our pasts to the map
and wondering
exactly where
we went wrong.

Suzanne McLeod

Suzanne McLeod is a Creative Arts Therapist practicing in Woburn, Massachusetts. Primarily a painter, she works words into her work whenever she can. Suzanne received her MA from Lesley University, Cambridge, MA, and when she's not at work with patients or in the studio, is busy with 2 dogs who get into everything, and an 11 year old daughter who is soon to get into everything.

On Finding His Underwear Under My Bed This Morning

I confess, spring cleaning happens here
not every year.

The evidence has been unearthed:
he was a summer love,
and not last summer,
but the one before.

A long, long time ago.
The summer M found his way to my door
and soon to my half-empty bed.

Of course I sniffed them
but sneezed only18 months of dust, smelled nothing of him
if even I would recognize his scent, so long-gone.

Like the cursed victim who's discovered the hidden totem
(the sliver of fingernail, the tooth, the scab, the snip of hair)
that has held her fate in check
I’ve pulled that ratty rag of cotton from where it’s lain hidden beneath my dreams

All now to the trash, the glory of spring cleaning!
The dust and left-behinds from long days and nights and seasons,
now swept fresh and gone.

And now feel the push of warm spring air
swelling in through the window just cracked open!

Mike Confort

I have spent the best part of the past 40 years chronicling life’s struggles and their corresponding spiritual path. Having continually succumbed to the walkway of the least resistance, My work reflects the ongoing battle between good and evil…an examination of the “Human Condition”.

Secret Trees

When you’re young
Plant a tree…
Water it, nurture it…
Be amazed by its beauty.

Talk to it…
Tell it your secrets,
Listen carefully
To what its leaves reveal.

Take a picture of it
File it carefully in your mind.
As you walk your path
Let it be your shade
From the hot afternoon sun.
Let its roots hold fast
The memories you bring along
On the winds’ whispering song.

And having seen
Many a winter come and go
Smile…
Remembering all of those
Youngsters you got to show
How to plant their very own tree
To tell their secrets to.

Foot 10/11/07

For Sale

The For Sale sign
Is planted in my front yard
Dwarfing the emerging tiger lilies
Smarting like an erroneous hammer blow

The droplets long since dried
Escaping my brow
Rushing past my smile
And dropping scattered underfoot

These salty traces
Were followed by ones
Squeezed from sore eyelids
Mopped by a shirtsleeve
Or absorbed by my pillow

Pad upon pad have been
Filled with my feelings
Because writing it down
Just seemed to help

Taking hold of those
Ping-pong balls slamming
Around in my head
Organized rather quietly in ink

And now realizing
It all had purpose.
Now I don’t see the sign
The lilies have my attention

And the greening grass growing
Like a velvet carpet
Laid out before me
Welcoming my first steps
On yet another journey.

Foot 4/27/2007

Jeff Haynes
Jeff Haynes is a writer and photographer living in Norwood, Mass. His writing and photos have appeared in numerous newspapers and publications, primarily located in New England and northeastern Florida. Recent projects include blogging about the Greater Boston art world at www.jeffhaynes.wordpress.com, and shooting portraiture photography at jeffclicks.com.

vanity prayer

a simple drop of life
a microscopic cosmos
complete and unique
falling where the wind blows
one of a crowd - from unending clouds
how quickly those drops become ghosts

let me fall in the desert
what’s a raindrop to the sea
with billions just like me - i’ve no identity
uniformity will drown me

so let me fall in the desert
let me leave my fleeting print
let me splash out, soak in - received like a lost friend
such enormity when i hit

a single drop of life
a microscopic cosmos
complete and unique
falling where the wind blows
one of a crowd - from unending clouds
one by one those drops become ghosts

Josiah Bardsley

Josiah Bardsley is a native of Westborough, Massachusetts, currently living in San Francisco. He enjoys rooftop gardens and foggy mornings, and finds the best place to write is in the living room by the window.

The Legend

I am Legend, hear my call
Of winters past, of time’s sweet crawl
The wisdom deep within the cracks
Of roads I’ve traveled, of deep worn tracks
The grace of years, the span of time
The heart of knowing what’s yours was mine

Through forests, fields, streams and farms
Through times of need, in times of arms
Through fast and slow and steady still
The arc of time, the test of will
I’ve kept it close, I’ve held it dear
With warming arms forever near

I’ve told your story, I’ve lived your past
I’ve nursed your tears down to the last
I’ve held your hopes, and sent your dreams
To heights so high it would never seem
Possible to dream alone
What you could do, what you could own

The child, the man, the woman you are now
Is but the passing of this some how
The knowledge of who and what you are
Is more than a secret in a jar.

I am the author, the poet, the scribe
With years of truth on history’s side
For what and who and how you see
Is a personal record of history
Passed along but not alone
I am your hearth, I am your home.

I am your legend, I am your grace
I’ve given you strength and more to face
Whatever comes your way and then
You’ll pass along your own legend

Eva Glazebrook

Eva can remember penning short stories when she was eight years old and has recently embarked on a personal journey involving the rediscovery of her love of writing, especially poetry. She's a member of the Arts League of Lowell and has exhibited her 3D artwork in Lowell gallery shows since 2008. Eva's lived in Massachusetts for the last 23 years has raised four children.

Within the Circle

The ancient earth spins,
Tiny points within its’ green unveiled.
*
Out of these knotted cords and broken sticks,
Life comes, shiny and steamy,
A thousand champions its’ sire.
Beamish and growing, winding around,
Taller and wider, gulping the air.
Halfway from start, roaring above.
Pregnant with living, now potent and full,
Bursting breathless onto the earth,
And sealed safe by the omnipotent eye.
*
Faster becomes slower, a pause to look.
Spent and done, laying down.
To rest, to sleep, to wait in between.
*
The ancient earth continues its’ rounds.
Death may be the collector of its’ beginnings and ends.
But life is what starts it again.