An Autumn Prayer

Trees make a tunnel,
red and orange foliage,
branches arched over roads.

Headlights cut haze,
that crawls across streets
leaves give themselves to wind,

dance and tumble in decay.
This warmth reminds me
of mid-May, when crocuses

reach up like tiny fingers.
I study the sky, the widening
blue canvas pushing out gray.

I want to raise my hands, reach
towards sunlight. Foolish, maybe,
to whisper a prayer to prolong

the warmth, and stretch these days
before winter’s howls and gusts,
when I will wake and clench bed sheets,

the way I squeeze the steering wheel now,
driving through mid-morning fog.

©2018 Brian Fanelli
Advertisements

Facing Late Autumn

In light of the winding down of Summer—oh, the sad, sweet departure of blue skies and dazzling colors and wistful stray clouds dancing along the horizon and lazy afternoons at the swimming hole—and the coming of, dare I say it, Fall and, ultimately (arg!) Winter, I am re-posting this seasonal poem by the incomparable Brian Fanelli.

The leaves lay like a wound,
red and deep across the lawn, while what remains
is frightened away by bursts of November wind.
I look at concrete-gray clouds and sigh,
knowing it is time to cover flower beds,
yank out roots of annuals,
their petals shriveled and frail, as fine as dust
released to the air.
Soon I will cut back roots of perennials,
until everything in the yard is brown,
until birds no longer chirp,
but vacate their nests,
more visible now as branches of trees
shake against the wind
and scrape against windows like angry fingers,
while the house creaks at its joints.

©2016 Brian Fanelli

“The Ballad of Reading Gaol”

Oscar Wilde (1894-1900) wrote the following poem while in prison. He is most noted for his novel The Picture of Dorian Gray, but he also published numerous poems. Wilde had the Marquess of Queensberry prosecuted for criminal libel. The Marquess was the father of Wilde’s lover, Lord Alfred Douglas. The libel trial brought to light certain evidence that convinced Wilde to forego his complaint in court and led to his own arrest and trial for “gross indecency” with men. After several retrials, he was convicted and sentenced to 2 years hard labor. He died destitute at the age of 46.

Oscar Wilde Pic

I never saw sad men who looked
With such a wistful eye
Upon that little tent of blue
We prisoners call the sky,
And at every careless cloud that passed
In happy freedom by.

 

Ghost Story

In a field near the lake
stands the ghost of a dead oak.
The ghost is black and very tall.
It never speaks or moves.
The sky wants to take it.
The earth wants to eat it.
But the ghost is strong, it does not want to move.
So it argues half its tongues into the dirt,
and grips hard against the sky’s glutton lung.
It whispers the other half into air,
and weathers the white earth’s thirst.
Like a frayed black suture it binds earth and sky together.
In this way the ghost stills its universe:
the sky can never rise nor the earth fall
out of their coupling’s grave jurisdiction.
The lake will breathe its atoms to the clouds,
the constellations will pageant
the lucky patterns of their composition
until they break and fade,
but the ghost will stand
contented with the silence,
with the snowfall,
with the stalemate of its own device.

-Art Zilleruelo

What If?

What happens in the chamber
of a narrow mind?
Does the air grow thin?
Does the dim light flicker?
What would happen if
a door opened?
If they dared to look beyond it? If they viewed the world as it is, cracked but not broken?
If they acknowledged not only voices that speak with the loudest inflections, but those small voices that bend?
Imagine if they saw liberty as
not just a ruse but something
that belongs to everyone?
The axis of the Earth not
just them, but you and me too.

©2018 Tosha Michelle

To read more from Tosha Michelle or follow her blog please click here: https://laliterati.com/2018/06/20/what-if/

Just a Simple Soldier

He was getting old and paunchy and his hair was falling fast, 
and he sat around the Legion, telling stories of the past. 
Of a war that he had fought in and the deeds that he had done. 
In his exploits with his buddies; they were heroes, everyone. 
And ‘tho sometimes to his neighbors, his tales became a joke, 
all his buddies listened, for they knew whereof he spoke. 
But we’ll hear his tales no longer, for ol’ Bob has passed away, 
and the world’s a little poorer, for a soldier died today. 
He won’t be mourned by many, just his children and his wife. 
For he lived an ordinary, very quiet sort of life. 
He held a job and raised a family, quietly going on his way; 
and the world won’t note his passing; ‘tho a Soldier died today. 
lest we forget
When politicians leave this earth, their bodies lie in state. 
While thousands note their passing, and proclaim that they were great. 
Papers tell of their life stories, from the time that they were young, 
but the passing of a soldier, goes unnoticed, and unsung. 
Is the greatest contribution, to the welfare of our land, 
some jerk who breaks his promise, and cons his fellow man? 
Or the ordinary fellow, who in times of war and strife, 
goes off to serve his Country and offers up his life? 
The politician’s stipend and the style in which he lives, 
are sometimes disproportionate, to the service he gives. 
While the ordinary soldier, who offered up his all, 
is paid off with a medal and perhaps a pension, small. 
soldier kneeling cross rifle.png
It’s so easy to forget them, for it is so long ago, 
that our Bob’s and Jim’s and Johnny’s, went to battle, but we know. 
It was not the politicians, with their compromise and ploys, 
who won for us the freedom, that our Country now enjoys. 
Should you find yourself in danger, with your enemies at hand, 
would you really want some cop-out, with his ever waffling stand? 
Or would you want a Soldier, who has sworn to defend, 
his home, his kin, and Country, and would fight until the end? 
He was just a common Soldier and his ranks are growing thin. 
But his presence should remind us, we may need his like again. 
For when countries are in conflict, then we find the Soldier’s part, 
is to clean up all the troubles, that the politicians start. 
If we cannot do him honor, while he’s here to hear the praise, 
then at least let’s give him homage, at the ending of his days. 
Perhaps just a simple headline, in the paper that might say: 
“OUR COUNTRY IS IN MOURNING, FOR A SOLDIER DIED TODAY.”
©1985 A. Lawrence Vaincourt

 

Directions to My Muse

Undo the four screws
on the plastic back

of the transistor radio.
Lift off the square with care.

Let the tiny people blossom
in the cup of your palm.

Hold the music, its weight—
write what you see,

It isn’t about writing—
it’s about opening, knowing.

©2018 Sarah Dickenson Snyder

About the Poet. Sarah Dickenson Snyder has two poetry collections: The Human Contract and Notes from a Nomad. Recent work will appear or has been in The Comstock Review, Damfino Press, The Main Street Rag, Chautauqua Literary Magazine, RHINO, The Sewanee Review, Front Porch, and Whale Road Review.   https://sarahdickensonsnyder.com/

Rowers on the Schuykill

Let us be early medieval or late Renaissance,
spike-featured Norman Christ
or bone-faced Dureresque peasant,
skeleton staining the flesh.

Let us descend the granite steps
and gather at at the river’s edge
for today is an Eakin’s day on the Schuykill:
boat races, festive crowds, spontaneous celebration.
See the strong young men lift their sculls
from the racks and carry them overhead
like slender varnished beetles
to the murky and opaque waterway.
See the girls sleek and oiled cheer them on,
the losers as well as the winners.
See the geese that summer and winter here
spring up over the island. See them sport
with one another in raucous feathery
gaggles and announce to the daily horde
the absence of human frailty.

For all seems well under the cutting sun:
Joan of Arc is heroically bronzed
though even she cannot halt traffic along the drive
and Mad Anthony Wayne rears on his horse
with the famed golden testicles.
How miraculous we seem to ourselves on this fair mountain
as cyclists weave round us, in and out
of joggers and skater and strawberry mansions.

There is more: deep in the earth
an orchestra plays something lush,
romantic, called back and tempered
by the limping Hungarian.
And there on the bank I see
an old black man-
fishing for catfish, stepped from a genre painting.

But remember, we have come to watch the boat races-
the crews in their sculls on the Schuykill,
2-man, 4-man, 8-man and coxswain,
barking his rubbery lips stretched
over a frightening oracular beak:
Stroke! Stroke! Stroke!
And the coach puttering around
effortlessly in his motor boat,
looping lazy figure-eights about them
as they rain sweat, snap ligaments, and groan.
But this is only practice,
the race is soon to run.
Only then will these young oarsmen show
an old and tired Charon the ropes-
how to run his ferry faster
on this one of many rivers,
stroke by stroke by stroke.

By Leonard Kress (1987)
From the anthology Common Wealth: Contemporary Poets on Pennsylvania

Life’s Poetry

April is National Poetry Month. Typically, I celebrate by sharing poetry with my blog followers. If ambitious enough, I will be posting a new poem each day for the remainder of April. Below you will find a poem by Tosha Michelle. I discovered the wonderful, brilliant, persuasive poetry of Tosha when she first commented on one of my poems. I started following her blog immediately. I am sure you will be swept up by the imagery of “Life’s Poetry.”

I sit. Heart in hand. I
create. Some of you
may turn away from
the blood. The red
spilling over. It’s OK
if you do.

Sometimes it scares
me too, but still I
hold it. Palms out.
I’m giving you what
frightens me. This
is me saying, yes, I’m
still here.

I give you my less than
moments, my insecurities,
my madness, my ideas
about life and love, my
shrine of longing.

My heart slipping from
my hands, falling past
my knees to the floor.

Falling toward your
shadow I hope you
will pick it up.
Feel the hopeful
beat that wars
with my still
soul and chaotic
mind. I give you
my wounds.

We connect through
our pain, my friend,
my reader. Through
the hornets in our
coffee cups. Our
syllables of what
we can’t forget.

As we suffer together,
fear becomes less.
Our hearts beat stronger.
Place them on the
dashboard like a
plastic Jesus.

It’s doesn’t matter if
they leak on the
floorboard. It only
matters that we travel on,
even if we’ve misplaced
the map, even if our sanity
becomes displaced, even if
we drive down a reckless road
on a moonless night.

Understand, if we want
heaven and angels,
sometimes we have
to ride around with
our demons.

Understand, sometimes,
darkness is the heart of
life, of beauty, of art.

-Tosha Michelle

Please click on the following link for more of Tosha Michelle’s engaging poetry: https://laliterati.com/category/poems/