sing about this

for all of the women we cannot or do not defend

Perfection transforms, its single minded commitment
to an oppressive obsession,
a robotic answer
to a rmuezzin's call

prompts the quest, elusive
as a light on a pitch black night when
barn owls snare
hapless mice and rest comes fitfully,

the imagined thrashing, its impossible
escape,
machine like claws, dreams
that grab in the dark

like invisible pincers,
like perfection

unreconciled with its adversaries,
daylight
love
sharing
democracy,

justice when the obsession
drives men mad,
turns them into grasping rakes
that clasp

like thoughtless talons.

(c)B. Koplen          December 24, 2009

Hunting Orion's Nebula

The Orion Nebula is a diffuse nebula situated south of Orion's Belt.  It is one of the brightest nebulae and is visible to the naked eye in the night sky.

The lazy hunter of the western sky
Spreads himself
From north to south for all to see.
His three-starred belt's
Among the first to shine.
But below his belt
Swirls his coyly hidden nebula,
A colossus far above my feeble reach.

Tonight
He's teasing me again,
Blinking beyond the city haze
Playing his game of late-night hid-n-seek,

He need not worry.
His secret's tucked away
Safe between his legs
Beyond my naked eyes,
Without a telescope for help.

Orion, why so bashful?  Why so discreet?
I've tamed orphaned cats to come inside to visit.
I've picked wildflowers in the field, and stuck them in a vase.
Even rocks and reeds grow in my hallway corner--
Yet unlike them you shy away, unwilling to submit.

Earthly life and heavenly love
Would rather roam untethered,
Eluding capture.
Cats go hunting,
Flowers wither,
Rocks turn to dust,
And like any other man,
Orion's far too independent
To run home free
Upon command.

(c)Christy Lumm     1996

Cleanly as mountain snow

Now that a crone
peers from my mirror
I dream
of the babies--
the sons  the girls--
I never birthed.
I hold
their tiny warmth
in my arms
tenderness flows
like the milk
I never gave.

I wake
to empty rooms
as I would if
my boys
my adventurous daughters
were grown and gone--
one living with the love
who will break his heart,
one pulling her belt
against wealth's hunger,
one who disappeared
so I don't know
if he's sleeping on silk
or a sidewalk.

My womb
casts no shadow
on the future.
I will die cleanly
as mountain snow
melts in spring.
Only ghosts
of the unborn
will mourn.

(c)Serena Fusek          2009

Match point

White laces tied,
pleats smoothed, I push
the door; Grandma, flour-dust cloud, morning-
coffee kiss--
"Have a good time, Dear,"
...a whisper:  "Let him win."

Four years of tennis lessons!
Hour of training daily!
Custom-crafted recquet!  Let him win?
Let Him Win?
Grandma cannot know
what fire she kindles.

You saunter Country-Club painted
concrete, spin
your handle, confident -- wavy ginger
hair, dark-brown
eyes, long legs -- like Daddy's
retriever.

Whack!  That's for Grandma!
Aced the first serve, easy point -- Whack!  That one's
for you!
I let you win knowledge you face
an adversary
who will not
melt, not
lie.

Whack!  That's for pleasure!
two inches over the net -- where were you?
Whack!  Safisfaction!
I let you win the sight
of legs almost long
as yours, but faster, cover
the court as freckles
cover you, but better.

Whack!  That's for honesty!
One-hand backhand rapid
as thought, powerful
as sweat stinging
your eyes.
Whack!  That's for women!
Sorry about your thigh, put
ice on it.
Whack!  That's to reiterate,
Love means Nothing.
I let you win the lesson,
Practice, not testosterone, makes perfect.

"And did you let him win?"
Kitchen smells of baked
apples and cinnamon.  Someday,
Bulldog tennis-players
well be champions, thanks to Georgia girls
who will not let them win.
"Grandma, he won more
than he expected."

(c)Patsy Anne Bickerstaff     2009

Shuziko Miyasaka

Rife with unsorted hues and leggy stems,
the woman's arrangements were unrestrained;
the native patrons of her shop delighted
in calling them floral derangements.

Her winged friend was a wash of iridescence
among autumn ferns and lacquered urns, like kami
bearing whispers from Nagano.  His bamboo cage
stayed open--like her, he was not indigenous

to a cage.  Holding only the words she'd learned
as a child, she left all doors ajar.  The bird would
bob and tilt in time with her moving hands, until
once more she'd shoo him through the morning window.

Like her, he was not indigenous to California streets:
by noon he'd return to shelter in the maple's rust-
red leaves; and by evening, back to the sill he'd glide
to watch her turn the sign on the door:

Hai, she'd sigh, as he lingered expectantly near,
reminding her of the mountains near her home.

(c)Allen M Weber     2009

K.T. K.T.

K.T.  K.T.
Married lady, What is this ado?

Where did it come from
This perfect conundrum
This bolt out of the blue?

First a stolen glance
Then a foolish chance.
Talk about taboo!

No, it is not right.
No, it is not bright
To fall in love with you.

K.T.  K.T.
Married lady, What is this ado?

Are you with me,
Do you miss me
When I'm not in view?

What say, Lady,
What say, Baby,
To a rendezvous?

Just a little walk,
Just a little talk,
Some repartee for two.

You can trust me,
Please don't bust me,
Keep this entre nous.

K.T.  K.T.
Married lady, What is this ado?

To R.S.V.P.
Affirmatively,
Next time, keep time in blue.

To get rid of me
Immediately,
Eschew the peek-a-boo.

(c)Jeremiah A. Denton, III      1999

She Rests by a Manger

She rests by a manger
under a choir of stars
warmed by the birth
of her newborn son
as he quietly suckles
his mother smiles
dreams hope in her heart
three men they journey
to pay tribute to her joy
a prince of the earth
whose words and actions shall inspire
as his mother tenderly strokes
the smoothness of his head
together they slumber
in the night's solemn bed.

(c)Kent Miller     2009

Filing Singly

What if he had not come, the Other?
What if I'd never had a lover?
What if there had not been the bed,
Hands in my hair upon the pillow,
The inclination of the head
Beneath the shelter of the willow?
Would I have dwindled into grayness,
Cool and careful, chaste and seemly,
Accepted the withered end with grace,
Not missing warmth, without lament,
Not reaching toward the empty space?
But I was loved and loving, spent,
Well spent, and wanted in my place;
Though now I'm half where I was whole,
I would not trade my cherished pain
For all the calm of unknown shoals,
For all he will not come again.

(c)Bea DuRette          2009

Waiting for Atticus

You'll never know
how long I've watched you
as you pass my house at dusk.
You sweep your children up
into your arms
and disappear inside.
I dream as
your scent lingers, faint as
lacy curtains turning in the breeze:
an August day's honest sweat,
Old Spice, talcum and starched shirt.
You comfort me;
we cuddle in your rocking chair at night,
my strong oak and I.
Though I know you put your gun away in youth
you're still a shooter
sharp enough to kill a rabid dog, single shot.
Take another risk, my love.
Let's give them all some gossip.
Walk into my shoes
and crawl into my very skin.
Maycomb is a slow, hot town and
I've got lots of time.

(c) Christy Lumm     2009

The Peasant Woman above Tarifa

The shadow is bluest when the body
that casts it has vanished.

Rafael Alberti

Without warning she appears
in coastal hills, sea winds
blowing, no trees to calm
the land that sweeps like a luminous
shadow under the strait and into
the foothills of another country.

Clearly she has come for flowers,
gathering cluster upon cluster,
her apron swollen, overflowing.
Spanish lace for the children,
she marvels, then loosens
her blouse, uncovering a pendant,
circular, ornate.  For a long
time she twirls the necklace
in the sun, and it shimmers.

Light blue, color of mist,
translucent, a Mediterranean moon--
it blues in the eyes of her children
when she returns home, covering
the table with rustling blossooms.

And when she reads to them,
it flutters, a seabird longing
for the slopes above Tarifa,
where it would rinse in the litght
this woman left behind, vanishing
into town, her shadow blue,
the earth bluer.

(c)Carolyn Kreiter-Foronda

"The Peasant Woman above Tarifa" from her book, Contrary Visions [Scripta Humanistica, 1988, under the name Carolyn Kreiter-Kurylo].  The poem first appeared in the journal, Poet Lore.

The Pangs of Motherhood

after sitting across from a mother and a rude child at a banquet


A mother cried, when her child was born,
With the hope that its future be bright.
She lifted and toiled, sacrificed and taught
So that her baby may be brought up right.
At night 'for she slept, she wept and she prayed
That her child may have a good start.
And her child grew and was good
And the smile on her face showed
The gratitude felt in her heart.

But as the child grew, it became rude to the mother
Who grieved at every harsh word,
But she loved her child, so she never said, "No,"
And only a moan the child heard
Seeing a victory, the child's coarseness grew,
And each deed that the naughty child did
Put a scar upon his poor mother's heart
Which she so fervently hid.

Not seeing her pain, the child, with disdain,
Continued to go his own way.
And the scars on the heart of this mother grew
And the pain would not go away.
And before as a man on his own legs could stand,
He had caused his mom so much grief
That all the scars engraved on her heart
Made it impossible for her to breathe.
So she prayed and she cried
Then she lay down and died.
Now, from the grip that the scars
Had placed on her heart,
At last she had found relief.

(c)Margaret Shearin Bell 2002

Women of a Certain Age

Don't think of yourself as getting older
Think of yourself maturing, a fine wine
Growing in complexity and flavor
Appreciated by those discerning
Few who pass by the beer kegs of life

(c)Frieda W Landau 2009

Bedlam

Bedlam tuning instruments inside my head
discordant before the concert ever starts.

Raucous flashing psychedelic color scape
wheels complaining over rails to the moon.

Chaos in this poet's riddled-iron skull
pushing order seeking meaning forcing words

to mean what they don't want to mean yet can't resist
these images that will not fit what someone else

would rather fix to other words. But you my love can see
beyond these jumbled words this raw cacophony

and shapeless images accumulated through
these nine and thirty years. I do not know how you

have managed to bring order to this poet's mind.
You are the meaning I've been seeking long to find

You give me peace and love and patience wihthout strings,
my turmoil turns into an instrument that sings.

You have loved me free without constraint. I say
with love that you complete just who I am today.

(c)petefreas 2009

Mother Earth

Some treat her as if she were feeble
weak and defenseless
they shout about her virtue
as if she is silent and mute
yet, she's endured the trials of the universe
the cycles of her nature
are we so arrogant to believe
we are capable of her ultimate destruction?
as around the star christened Sol
she dances another turn
until the sun consumes her
then, perhaps, the waltz begins again
in her wisdom she'll outlast us
touched by cosmic winds
she'll give birth to new creatures
who'll compete for kingdoms
erected on her valleys and mountains
perhaps coveting her body
as she seems to remain silent
yet mindful of all that dwell within her
maybe she'll even wonder
who will survive or whose existence will end
but it is she who is the mistress
we are merely pawns in her ancient hands.

(c)Kent Miller 2009

Mothers' Day 2005

I don't honor mothers for perfection.
Mine's too complicated for such praise,
but she has lent me brave reflection
to a part of me for all my days.

She was my most resolute protector
as I played my wearing, erring part.
Though she could be a disciplined corrector
I had trust in her good will and heart.

She was raised to be a deep South lady,
but a soldier native to Virginia's shores
persuaded her in manner far from shady
to come north with him and share his chores.

Slyly, shyly Mama tells the story
of my start when she and Daddy mixed
a rousing week and accidental glory
at the Beach in nineteen forty six.

Men may flex their muscles and connect with intellect,
but women learn their timing and so subtly use their minds
that sons are stunned by what they must describe as devious.

I think my mother missed that equal measure of respect
enlightened people pay without regard to gender's stamp,
but she was honored as a leader in her Baptist church..

Mama sewed and cooked and used a broom
with industry and sure economy.
She somehow even made me paint my room!
but spoke no physics or astronomy.

Oh, she'd listen through my wildest phases,
mostly heard my pitch, intensity, and rhythm.
Now she only hears my louder phrases
as she fails to span her deafening schism.

Mama is a reader, scanned these lines
(for those who chafe at personal detail).
She showed me that no one should be maligned
for skin tone, lack of wealth, or past in jail.

She might be a solemn matriarch,
but even in depression she is light.
My words will never wholly find their mark.
I love her, but I'm darker than her flight.

(c)WW Yoder 2009

Scattered Leaves

With joy, I gave birth to three
and now, they are all gone
scattered as the dry leaves
of autumn on the sunlit hill
where one roams no more

(c)Anne Darrison 2008

U R TV

I see you at the supermarket
reading about a two-faced baby.
Been a few months since
I gave up praying
you would call. Maybe I hit
too close to home and those
hidden things that a guy
has to find out sometime.
Through those teardrop glasses
and the sweaty shorts from the Y
I like it when you blush
when I call you
beautiful but you never call
back; you write a letter
telling me you're interested
but slow.

Go to hell I said
after a while until
the supermarket and the blush
and the mile-wide smile
and I wished you would
have dinner with me
but you are tv
and the remote has no batteries]
and I never can figure out
how those movies of the week
get to me

(c)Daniel Pravda 2009

Nurse Lynn

Quietly, softly, she slips into my room
like a sweet, lovable burglar.
She needn't be worried about
disturbing my rest.

My simple awareness
of her presence
is more calming,
much more restful
than any sleep,
as I recuperate
from open-heart surgery
and a double-barreled bypass.

Certainly, the other nurses,
Jennie, Benny, Caroline,
all of them are caring,
competent, professional;
but Lynn exceeds expectations.

This sneak-thief steals admiration,
always calling me sweet names,
making me feel more like a lover
than just another patient.

I knew she did the same things
for all the patients in her care,
but that did not matter.
I anticipated her forays
like a thirsty household plant
awaiting a watering.

(c)Bill Carroll 12/2009

Side by Side

Pulling cotton, in a burlap dress,
you smile while tying my bails,
memories that lack a street-life distress.

Shaking peanuts, holding back hunger,
you smile, then empty my pails,
memories that back our joys when younger.

Winter fire-wood we chopped together,
bedded when angry with each other,
matching all odds that we would falter,
watching folks wonder how we survive
those vows we spoke at the altar.

Put notions to rest, no city test,
farm women love without urban chains,
work with their man stride for stride,
share all his gains, share all his pains,
woman's love lasts longer when side-by-side.

(c)toni 1984

Luv Poem for Ann

Tell me that you love me
and I stand astride the world;
I ride upon its back and break it as a wild mare;
Deny me and I'll have the world stand up and rend itself apart,
but ask and I'll mend it for you once again.

With you I'm weightless,
a feather in the wind;
I'm quick, a flash of light in darkness;
I am a song sung but for you.

So speak to me,
look at me,
touch me,
tell me that you love me, Ann,
for I am yours
and yours alone...
Forever.

(c)petefreas 12-12-2009

In the Company of Women

I like the company of women
which is fine since they compose
half the people on the planet.
I sure don't want that many foes.

Some of my best friends are women;
a suspect line but true for me.
When they're not seduced by pretty
we should be able to agree.
(this seduction's equal opportunity)

I rollick in the look of women,
large and small, fat and tall.
Most will live more years than I,.
more time to chat and shop the mall.

I try to warn all friendly women -
don't race against testosterone.
There are few winners, many losers.
The best just use it for a hone.

Soul is sexless; men and women
who divide themselves are cursed
to living life as halves of beings.
Seek all of self and quench your thirst.

(c)W.W. Yoder 2009

Evensong for Mothers

This moment is mine
This moment of silence
A sleeping household
Tucks the corners of
The night around me

Cocooned in peace
I sit secure from
This day's marauding
The steam of cocoa
Banishes tensions of my day

Dust in the corners
Sits quietly waiting
Stir of a new day
For a moment I breathe
Air that is mine alone

Precious stolen this
Solace and solitude
End of conflict
Stress and anger
Time of healing

Strength to face
The coming dawn
For a moment
This life is mine

(c)Anne Sellesky-Morgan 12-2009

Rib

"I am...
that solitary teardrop ---
....truth to light,
stagnant on frozen face,
showing that
rare trace of emotion,
all I need to know,
You are Man.

......................I am
abundant tears flooding spring ---
....fresh insight
clears innocent blindness,
uncovers
dejected erosion,
all I need to know,
You are child.

.....................I am
pruning thorns as you grow ---
....lonely fight
melting etched delusion,
then hover
expected devotion,
all needed to show,
I am Rib."

(c)toni tyler 2005

Great Grandmothers

My Great Grandmother.
Redundant, don't you think? Aren't
All Grandmothers great?

12-7-2009