Poetry 1 Spring 2019

 

                                                                                                                             

Green Cadence

     by Tom Sheehan

 

It starts out with sod, this sense of greening,

sprouting from earth 1000 lashes to whip air

marked about my head. God’s green growth

and mine thus matched, siblings from womb,

related and elated us in one scheme so grand

we're envious; they own green furrows, lawn

or their tree of shade and I await a look-alike,

to bring the clan along. But one is green, one

is not, though plagued by choice, roaming to

put down new roots, simply set for one of us,

yet the other rarely moves.

 

 

Frog Lake

   by Tom Sheehan

 

Frog Lake is nearly dry,

all the children wonder why,

and how frogs will swim again

and children ask where frogs've been.

 

Do they fly into trees,

or go suddenly on their knees,

and pray as we do for water more,

or is that too much for Nature's chore?

 

Frogs, all kids can conspire,

give you warts of which you tire,

though they last until summer's cure

comes with school, and that's for sure.

 

Warts and frogs play a game,

though it's never had one name,

though they always itch and bump

and leave your fingers with a lump.

 

When the lake, on cloudy days,

regains once more the coves and bays,

and frogs swim with such crooked strokes,

kids will become the happiest of all these folks.

 

Bio: Tom Sheehan’s 37th book was Alone, with the Good Graces and soon comes Jock Poems for Proper Bostonians, both from Pocol Press, and just received the first copy of his latest book, Small Victories for the Soul VII from Wilderness House Literary Review. In submission process is Beneath My Feet this Earth Slips into the Far-end of Another’s Telescope and Poems Found from Fallen Pages. He has multiple works in RosebudLiterally StoriesLinnet’s Wings, Frontier Tales, and many sites/magazines. He served as a sergeant in the 31st Infantry in Korea 1951-52. 

 

LOON-WATCHING

  by John Grey

 

Going on dusk

when I hear the wobbly laughter.

A disappointing Maine day

ends on a note more like a yodel

than bird song. Out there,

on the lake: white-spotted back,

erect black head, slate bill,

the loon at last.

The sun makes its

final skirt of the surface.

What is seen now

is all that will be seen.

 

Bio: John Grey is an Australian poet, US resident. Recently published in Midwest Quarterly, Poetry East and Columbia Review with work upcoming in South Florida Poetry Journal, Hawaii Review and Roanoke Review. 

 

 

 

Invitation

  by  Joan  McNerney

 

Would you like to unwind

an afternoon at the lake?

 

Solar sparks spilling over us

in showers of golden sizzle.

 

Put on short shorts, skimpy tops,

stick our toes into oozy mud.

 

Breezes will shake treetops

while we listen to birdsongs.

 

Why not float on new grass

facing an Alice blue sky?

 

Read celestial comic strips

from mounds of clouds.

 

We can count sunbeams,

chase yellow butterflies.

 

Devour bowls of cherries

painting our lips crimson.

 

This noontime is perfumed

with illions of wild flowers.

 

Let’s go away all day...be

embraced by the goddess.

 

 

Bio: Joan McNerney’s poetry has been included in numerous literary magazines such as, Seven Circle Press, Dinner with the Muse, Warriors with Wings, Blueline, and Halcyon Days.  Four Bright Hills Press Anthologies, several Poppy Road Review Journals, and numerous Kind of A Hurricane Press Publications have accepted her work.  Her latest title is Having Lunch with the Sky and she has four Best of the Net nominations. 

 

Not One

        by  Kim Hazelwood Haley

Not one,

Not one of us has the right to be bored,

Dreaming what we’ve been imagining

On this big, green, swirling marble,

The infinity  from gateway glens,

Near the trillion treetop singers warble

Oh, the mighty fine, sweet music.

 

Love it closer,

Where brilliance itself forges ideas,

Where rainforest sprouts lift life to reverie and magic,

Where our own emotional lives twist and turn just to make us bloom,

Cascading  beams of gold, endless flowering,

Tell me how one cannot be blown away.

 

Take a walk somewhere

On the berth of glorious Earth,

Where there are no undecorated spaces,

Just goddess-ness and inclinations of green,

 

Handsome sunlight perfection,

So honeyed and hopeful,

Lucky feet parading this earthen road,

The bliss-joy,

The augustness.

 

How can one not remain enchanted

By the particular possibilities of

The allotment, the gifts of  challenges,

Cast  in a movie about you.

In focus, going deeper with touching closeups,

Into the soulful courtyards of our eyes.

Reflecting   your own heart of special sorrows,

A cultivated,  gorgeous garden.

 

Not one of us has the right to be bored,

With white violet discoveries,

In  voracious   realms  of dreams,  

Playing Rachmaninoff-

It’s Love,

As Grand as you want,

It’s a roomful of books and instruments; art supplies and likelihood,

It’s the sweetest face of the took my heart grandchild.

As we saunter,

Sashay~

Skip!

Towards the magnificent invariant

Lavender sunset.

 

Bio:  The editor! More details soon.