In This Garden Tonight...

Promises are best made by moonlight,

Especially hand-in-hand,

Especially in this garden tonight,

Lovely tonight,

We hope for new beginnings on the new moon,

Do we dare whisper promises?

Gazing at the moon like two who believe,

The slender, sharp edged new moon,

A silver dagger piercing the curtain of velvet sky,

And shining bright beside the moon,

Her companion, Venus,

A Goddess who can grant or ignore wishes,

By those who wish upon a star,

Those desperate to find true love,

Or even those desperate to escape the pain,

I am not the Goddess of love,

You have only mistaken me for her,

On a night when I wore white robes and gold sandals,

Because you wanted someone to worship,

I am only flesh, all mortal, tied to earth,

Will you love me more truly than worship me?

Whisper to me what you have wished upon a star,

Do you dare promise me a future?

Does the moon make us believe?

Or is this all a mirage?

Then the silver dagger moon cuts me,

And it hurts because I don't believe anymore,

I don't believe a lot of things anymore,

When reality dethrones me as Goddess,

When this romantic delusion fades,

Even then, will I be of all others the most enchanting?

I wished upon a star that love never dies,

Do you believe?

(c)Dona M. Saprisiti

from Skipping Stones 2007

Billy Collins

My lover wishes I were Billy Collins,

that I could shape words with his carefree

elegance, describe the beauty of her face,

her eyes, not mentioning, of course,

bifocal lenses or crow's feet

caused by squinting

from not wearing aforementioned

glasses.  She'd like me to pen lyrical

couplets that praise the sculpture

of her body, shaving off excess pounds

she always talks about losing,

smoothing out cellulite, lifting

anything that sags.  She wants me to craft

a poem that's clever yet deep, passionate

yet thoughtful, spontaneous yet rhythmic;

she wants this though I am a mere limerick

among sonnets, fumbling with words

that spill gracefully from other mouths;

she wants this

          but settles for me instead.

(c)Bill Glose

from The Human Touch, 2007

For Betty, Gloria, and the Gang

Smaller, less upper-body strength,
Burdened by gravid belly
Or babe or child,
Through history we were controlled and bullied
Possessed against our will
Beaten and punished
Burned at the stake,
Shut up in madhouses
Married without consent
Forbidden to own property or inherit
Have custody or guardianship of our children
Our brains declared too small
To manage our own money.
Yet a woman designed the first card computer,
And Nathaniel Green's widow was already using
The first rough version of the cotton gin;
Harriet Tubman led through deadly darkness
Aspasia wrote Pericles;' speeches;
Hepatia taught in Alexandria
Till torn limb from limb,
Boaddicca led the Britons' doomed uprising,
Zenobia and Cleopatra held to the last
Elizabeth, not crested but cloven,
Outmaneuvered everyone.
The children hang on the fence, shouting
Mama, it's Susan B.!  And Stanton hurries,
Baby on her shoulder, pen in hand.
What do women want?  Freud wonders
I only ask, said Angelina Grimke
For my brother to take his foot off my neck
So I can stand upright.
Look, look, Abigail
We have fomented a rebellion.

(c)Bea DuRette          2010

Praise the night

for curtis


listen to me.

praise the night.

my spouse walks in
with a hundred bags of groceries,
with his
I have gone into the night and returned to you
with a hundred bags of groceries.
I do this for your love
look on his face.

his face says
I am through, don't give me another list for a very long time.
it says further
I require televised sports.
Sports alone will make me forget my hour at the supermarket
and that they tried to cheat me at the register once again.

we briefly embrace in the paperbag sea,
for fred hickman will soon enjoin doc rivers
to endorse his analyses
de hoop.
socrates and plato
on tnt.
Blah de dah! says hickman.
Absolutely! responds doc, crisply attired
on the split screen.

hallelujah!

praise the night.
I do this
for your love.

(c)Toni Wynn          1993

from the place within where the universe resides

A Prayer

from clay are born great urns where
in design
barefoot maidens dance,
in serene timbre
circle upon circle
in etched unity.

from clay vessels fragrances rise,
crushed rose, lemon verbena,
mint and thyme,
these scents
hold aromatic
memories.

transposed upon porcelain
they wear
mortal costumes but
each dancer's life is,
outside the truth
of finite time.

in celadon glaze they dance away the star filled night,
circle upon circle
the moment is fluid grace,
each maiden's breath
a prayer.

(c)Elisabeth Arrington Cox          2010

On Being 80+

I think I have entered

the prime of my life -

getting beyond four score years

makes me thankful

for what has gone before

and anxious for what is to come -

not anxious 'fearful,' anxious 'happy.'

Perhaps I've done something right -

doing unto others, et cetera,

reading more, absorbing more.

I find most things interesting

especially if called by Thespis

and fine tuned by Sondheim.

Gray hair may be limiting

but I'm learning to use

age and gray to make this prime time

palatable as possible -

so far I'm enjoying the ride.

(c)Beverley Isaksen

from I'm Not Leaving Yet, 2007

Mother's Turn

I can't believe she is eighteen

Standing there in her cap and gown,

Anxious to leave me

Straining hard at the starting gate.

I can't believe she is thirty

Standing there in her wedding gown

Bound to another

Galloping toward her future.

I can't believe she's a mother

Standing there with her newborn child

Nuzzling her offspring

Awaiting her turn to let go.

(c)Beverly Outlaw

published in Skipping Stones 2007

Tulip for a New Millennium

Find what way, you sing,

we each are made to catch and release

(like your tight cup of petals)

more, oh more, long-needed light

after all the torn, wounded

centuries under all those darkly wed

to themselves, to Self only, while we waited

while we wept and sang, dear tulip, we who

once lived lost in your beauty:  we

are no longer so tender or weak

we hear and feel now the desperate red

whip of the ache of this time:

and together, just now possible:

together what we gather--syllable

brush stroke, bold note swelling

and sailing over and through--

what we make and gather enough

at last, an ocean against all rivers

dark and void, this ocean greater

gracing hands that open and release

image after image over the mass

graves and palaces of history and out onto

a dazzling plain (far, near) where finally

we walk, weaponless and unafraid.

(c)Vivian Teter

from Edge by Edge, 2007

Quick

My mamma used to go dancing on Fridays

She would spend extra time putting on lotion after the shower

curl her hair
and let me pick out her top
She would tie us to the hip of a babysitter and
bribe our good behavior with pizza money

Other times she would corral us into an old beat-up brown Toyota
and haul us downtown to the park with free TGIF concerts
and cheap Miller Lite
She would slide out of her shoes and dance with us
in the grass while the late summer sun kissed the river good night
She would twirl us until we fell
dizzy and giggling into the backseat
half asleep before we even got home

I still believe that women are the most beautiful when spinning

outside

And people always talk about the music making them feel
but the best music makes you move
Alters your senses
Inhibits inhibitions and weaves you into nights that will leave
you pondering your ability to drive home responsibly
Nights where boot soles meet floor and tap out familiar patterns
Where hips sway like infinity signs left to right and back and forth
Where eye contact is an invitation
and strangers become partners who already know the steps

So quick
before we run out of time or worse
discover more time to think things through
and change our minds
Let's dance
Let's dance like it is Friday night
and the sun is sinking into the river
Dance like you just broke up with your boyfriend
and moving your feet is just another way to move on with your life
Dance like your body is cymbal
heart pounding to chest

Let's dance like white people when they hear disco
Point finger to floor then sky freeze then hustle
Let's break-dance
wiggle worm and spin like teacups at
an overpriced theme park
Let's dance like single mothers
family able to have a night on the town
Let's reenact scenes from Footloose and Flash Dance
Let's dance like strippers when they know the rent is due
Let's dance like the boys don't even know your real neme
Dance like you aren't going home alone tonight

Let's dance
like you are listening to your favorite band play live
at a free outdoor concert
with grass between your toes
a beer bottle in your left hand
and some fine tall man
twirling you under the stars
making you suddenly beautiful

(c)Cheryl "Snow" White

published in Skipping Stones 2007

Symbol

My Jewish girlfriend
Gave me a rose,
A yellow rose
With red petal-tips
As if it were bleeding.
Identical to
Another yellow rose
With red petal-tips
That she gave me
A few weeks before.
The first rose is in its
Vase still in full bloom
But the yellow has bled
To a dry-blood brown:
It has given me the
Joy of its color.

As I remove the rose from its
Vase carefully to
Preserve its bloom--
Preserved even in death,
And before I place
The new rose
Vibrant, alive
In the vase,
I realize today is
Good Friday.

(c)Nelson Farley

published in Skipping Stones 2007

Indigo Blue

Clouds of indigo blue smother me,
You're next to me in my mind,
But miles away in truth.

Why do you persist in haunting me?
I wish to be with you, but am lost, alone.
(You always had a way of disjointing my feelings.)

I thought when I left town to be free--
Free from you and all your wiles;
But I guess memory is my private Hell.

How can I disentangle my soul from yours?
I can't live with you or without you.
you are my devil/guardian angel.

Clouds of indigo blue smother me,
You're next to me in my mind,
But miles away in truth.

(c)Anne Gray

published in Skipping Stones 2007

Lilith and Chava

*In the garden of Eden, long before the eating of the apple, the Holy
One created the first human being -- a man named Adam, and a 
woman named Lilith.  Lilith said, "We are equal because we are
created from the same earth."
                                                                 -- Alphabet of Ben Sira,  2 3 a-b

Lilith, swayed by the serpent's
hiss, No man is my master as I am
as strong as he, no man will tie my
lips as I have tasted sun and fruit,

echoed above the Trees 'til God
shackled her tongue, binding her
name to the shores of the Red Sea.
But when Chava bit into the Bitter

Fruit, Lilith rushed to assist:  Sitting
within a circle of stones on a mat
of reeds, she cleaned Chava's gypsy
curls with oily wool, perfumed tawny

skin with orchid petals, and fed her
on goat milk, pomegranates and roots.
As the Garden awaited, Lilith gracefully
wrapped her Skin around Chava's,

implanting the Infinite Life into the
unborn child.  The First Cry rushed
out of her womb and with a stream
of blood became the House of Israel.

(c)Michal Mahgerefteh

from In My Bustan, 2009

Double Solitude

Across the hall my husband
talks on the phone
about a crane, its certification

needed by noon.  I open
my notebook, finally after six days,
stare at the words last written.

His previous conversation
concerned a fire on the Eastern Shore.
Heard him say, neon,


plastic, electricity.  I argue back
and forth with myself about the necessity
of isolation--the possibility of double solitude.

Suppose I had a garden of delphinium, day lilies,
and peonies outside our back door.
Suppose we had a back staircase to the kitchen.

Suppose I didn't know he was writing a report
about a collapsed bin and damaged wheat.
Who or what defines fault, failure?

Earlier I lingered in bed, waiting
for him to return.  Heard him say,
failed brick wall, crumbling mortar.

(c)Elaine Walters McFerron

from Double Solitude, 2004

The Bedroom Clock

Reads 2 a.m.
Red digital lines
of today.

The day closed,
still as a locked church
before even the stained glass

has come to life;
shut against the sunlight
and the news that will

break into my life, a thief
who steals my time,
measured out

in pieces.
They make no sound,
except to breathe,

intake of air so silent
my lungs hurt to stay quiet,
and then, rise only by degrees

inches that cannot be heard
for fear the news will be bad,
and the alarm will sound.

(c)Nancy Powell

from How Far Is Ordinary, 2007

Command Performance

I should be sleeping,
but the giant moon
tracked my every move
with spotlight precision.
Is mine the Seventh House,
or am I supposed to be
performing in some
cosmic stage show?
I saw it earlier
at my office window,
thought its message
was quite simply
to put it all aside
take a long break,
give my work a rest,
vacation in dreams.
My eyelids are too thin
to block the tireless strobe
determined to wake me now
at four in the morning,
insisting I meet its call,
insisting I meet its call,
to appear on cue,
take the stage,
play a roll.
I turn my head away
but there's no escaping.
My bed is slashed
by a stream of light
sharp as a laser
burning my body
'til I have no choice
but to surrender.
There's no 911 number
for this emergency,
no moonstalker patrol
to rescue me, make  arrest,
no neighborhood watch
to protect me against
a nighttime intruder
such as this.

Beaten, I stumble
to my bedside window,
armed and ready with
curses and gestures,
prepared to shut it out,
when it kisses my face
and charms me
with its brilliance.
Seduced, I'm persuaded
'to celebrate the night
with moonlight cocktails
of milky inspiration
that make me giddy
with morning poems,
as my new friend
steals away at dawn.

(c)Mary Curro

printed in Skipping Stones 2007

Almost in Love

Like mirror images reflecting
each other's ego needs,
drawn together yet frightened
by the possibilities,
we pretend to trivialize,
to focus on the practical,
the business at hand
to get us safely through.
We peek into the mirror
holding one eye safely closed,
avoiding the fiery tales
years of memories have told
leaving ears red and sore,
eyes red with tears unable to
quench embers that won't die.
So the fortresses are strong,
the moats dug wide and deep
around each of our castles.
Still, we call to one another,
pay our visits frequently,
lowering the ramps
for an afternoon or night of
forgetting whys and wherefores.
Quickly we retreat again
as dawn sneaks a laser beam
revealing all our fears of
how frightening it can be
to meet our match in the light
of so many painful lessons,
to face the scary prospect
of accepting ourselves.

(c)Mary Curro                        2007

published in Skipping Stones 2007

MIdlife Chrysalis

Midlife crisis

sounds too serious.

A hurricane is a crisis,

a train wreck is one too.

But a crisis for age,

not me or you.

Let's call it instead

midlife chrysalis.

Much softer

sister butterfly.

Spread those wings,

it's time to fly.

(c)Phyllis Johnson          2007

from Hot and Bothered by It

Comfort

Today I'm wearing my old comfort clothes
The draggy pants, the torn, moth eaten sweater
My relics from days when formal dress wasn't
So de rigueur and I didn't don polyester
Now full of memories, now not fashion sense
Just perfect for black coffee and delayed attic trips
With dust and photographs yellow with age
Tiny snips of hair from angels that passed by

We don't need the armor of society
To enjoy the things that comfort us most
The old, familiar, useful, worn, but faithful friends
Who remain so stolidly with us today
Embraced by memories I hold most dear
I'm wearing my old comfort clothes today

(c)Anne Darrison          2009

Push Me

Push me
too hard
and
i crack,
splintered
pieces
skittering
across
the floor.
Back me
into a
corner
and
i react,
spluttering
shrapnel
'til only
shards
remain.

(c)Lisa Kendrick          2009

But When She Sings

To only hear her whisper

is to enjoy a cool breeze

in an Arizona desert

Yet never realize

it was once a tropical storm

blowing from the south pacific

But when she sings

every beautiful sound in nature

rides the wind

and every creature and man

on earth are kin

When she speaks

her voice is soft and kind

Yet there is only a hint

that the souls of men

have given her the rights

to their song

But when she sings

angels flood the sky to listen

and mortals imagine themselves

dead and gone to heaven

yes in her breath

ordinry people fly with angels

And to only hear her laughter

is to never know her pain

And to only hear her cry

is to never know the joy

But when she sings

the tragic and the true

the happy, the blue

all comfort one another

in the revelation of song

that even death is nothing to fear

for life itself

is forever changed

(c)Nathan Richardson         2001

from Likeness of Being         

Tokyo Christmas Cake

The Tokyo Office Ladies
sip their tea and whisper
as a coworker goes by,
"Kanno-jo we kurisumasu
kekki, so desho-ka," meaning
"She's  a Christmas Cake, yes?"
They hold their hands up
to their mouths and laugh.

I ask my guide Miss Sato
what it means, and she says
"Shoppers only want to buy their
Christmas Cakes before December
25th, after that they're useless!
And so also the saying goes, no
man looking for a wife will want
one over twenty-five years old."

Then noticing my ringless hand
and graying temples, Sato San
sets down her cup and bows.
"Sorry, Sumimasen," she says.
"That's OK, Daijobu desu,"
I tell her, not in the least offended,
only--by that calculation--
several decades stale.

Later, in the Ladies Room, I see
the object of their scorn, applying
liberal make-up with the deft hand
of a geisha to her young and lovely
face, making lashes long and curled,
cheeks bright, unsmiling lips plum-pink
and full.  She sees me in the mirror,
says in perfect English:  "At least they
can't say I'm not good at frosting."

(c)M. Lee Alexander          2007

from Observatory   finishing line press

My Hair is

too long
too dark
too curly
too wild
for my mother
She wants
oh
how deeply
she wants
me to cut
cut
cut it

(c)Sharon Weinstein          2010

Mother at War

My vanity is long forgotten,
The mirror tells me so.
I used to care, but I don't anymore;
I'm a mother at war.

I dreamt you were in a black robe,
It was graduation day.
I try to sleep, to dream some more;
I'm a mother at war.

A rifle as your best friend?
I can't imagine you.
No longer the boy, I knew before;
I'm a mother at war.

Each battered bastard's blood shed,
That of an enemy's son.
I once cried a little, but little no more;
I'm a mother at war.

My soul has torn and tattered edges,
relentless conflict rages.
A heart wounded woman, battered and sore,
I'm a mother at war.

Today is my tomorrow,
'Til you walk through that door.
You will be as you are, as I am no more;
For I've been a mother at war.

My vanity is long forgotten.
The mirror tells me so.
I used to care, but I don't, anymore.

(c)Donna Kalinski          2010

In an image from a wake (circa 1921)

another century's tireless girl awaits
off-center, calm on the homestead porch,
and presses the palms of downcast boys.

The door behind hangs indistinct, ajar
perhaps to free their house's nervous spirit
on indecisive breeze.  Her charges tilt

as if in prayer:  Let us toss our Sunday hats

into the trees, hang go-to-meeting clothes; Lord,

please don't take our sister, our Mary, too.

Young Mary must have seen a western flash

through budding maple, elm and ash--

a wink from Merriman Lake.  Revelation,

grasped silver-bright and sharp, is carried still

like a favorite verse, yellowed and creased

in our matriarch's purse.  This force of faith,

sustained in her throughout one-hundred years,

throws light and hope to all who live in her

enduring scope.  New generations come--

an endless flood of tangential blood--

to gather at her seat.  So let us pray

that when she sleeps, age-rippled days reflect;

gray hair again acquires a copper glow;

her freckled skin grows taut; and mischievous

brothers return as children freed from all

portents that blind the present.  So enjoined

they'll weave past brilliant trilliums arisen

from generations of moldering leaves.

Unshod, three wraiths may chase the small grey fox

down paths compressed by warrens of rabbits,

sort through the shadows for shy morels, and

find confirmation at the water's edge.

(c)Allen M Weber

published in Skipping Stones 2007    

and in the anthology Peninsula Poets 2008

Dirty House Poem

there is poetry in a dirty house.
the way a sweatshirt is flung here
or there
the way dust settles
books pile up
and fray, the top book,
a flippery paperback,
the bottom, a hardback
long forgotten
in the sink, the layers
of toothpaste and saliva,
without which it would seem
no one has ever spit
on the blue porcelain,
slides past the chrome
we have traces in this house
lives leaving footprints
let's not forget ourselves and sweep
the drying grass off the foyer
let's not forget the night before
and make our beds
the way the creases fold,
the way the blanket tangles
some record of tosses and turns
some indelible love
we call the swirls of our bed linens,
art
we call a note from our child
scribbled on blue lined paper,
literature
shame on us
to disturb the masterpiece

there's poetry in a dirty house,
a triangle of striped shiry
caught in a drawer
shoes strewn
patriots being born

I fear the vacuum
lest some vital record
of our existence be erased

I say let the artists live
and let the house grow on

(c)Jill Winkowski          2009

Cinderella

In my dreams
I am young, beautiful,
But often, I am wearing
An old bathrobe
With belt missing,
That has seen better days.
Trying to be invisible,
I clutch the robe around me,
As I slink through a room
Full of well-dressed people.

I wish I might stroll elegantly
Among the glittering crowd,
Dropping "bon mots,"
But no--
Always I am the princess, unrecognized,
Searching for my prince
Who will see beyond the shabby clothes
To the inner perfection.

(c)Margaret Peck Latham          2010

Summer and Smoke

My Momma was running hot
bleached blonde crazy,
a crap shoot of slaps, hugs,
ambiguous permissions, it didn't matter
it had all been done before,
              -Look at her wild eyes, Charlie-
I was bad enough to earn distrust.

Then she dug my white cotton panties
our of the hamper to check
for what? I didn't know,
               -We were talking, that's all, Momma-
mired in real-life drama,
it was the night she wasn't there.

I played Blanch Dubois, won second place
in half the whole damn
state of Texas, second place!
Can you imagine that?

Looking for her face through
the red curtain slit, I was
wrapped warm in applause
and the kindness of strangers
               -Shut her voice up inside-

Kenny was back from Tulane
on his way to Viet Nam.  Top down,
we had burgers in his Corvair,
I sobbed in big gulps, he tried
to make it right, fondled my breasts.
I felt beautiful, returned
his wide-mouth tongue kisses,
                -but that was all, I swear.
                 Why won't you believe me?-

The next day we went to East Gate Mall
for new school clothes and shoes,
it was as good as her sorry ever got.

(c)Shann Palmer                         

from Dashboard Fire 2009

Birthdays

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 Landau          2010

Warrior

visions of indecision
queen of hearts
assemble parts
armored
            of
                            jewels
                            boa
                            and dagger
feminine swagger
with bouffant helmet
sporting medusa tiara
the terror revealed
in stiletto heels

(c)Frank Kozusko

Locks

Your hair, this black cascade that falls like time
Upon the pillow, twining into streams,
Leads fingers on an odyssey, sublime
As unencumbered pathways of deep dreams.

To break the spell would be horrendous crime,
But holding silence drives me to extremes,
So I spin lover's wishes into rhymes
As you drift through the land where passion teems.

We lie again beside the surging sea
Whose breeze is scented with a hint of spice--
Embrace those waves with nobody but me!

And as we roll on swells that never end
Discovering that destinies can splice,
My lips decipher every word you send.

(c)James F. Gaines          

No, Sister

Sister Magdalena takes my hand between her wrinkled palms
offers sage advice to ease the throbbing ache between my thighs
as though the raw meat of my womb
were just a bruised knee
pain far removed from her cloistered flesh
beneath ponderous folds in her gblack habit, perfect wimple
that shield her from squalling babies and men's body parts
sweat and the bite of love and self righteousness.

Sister's cheeks crease into creamy wrinkles.
Broken blood vessels embellish my eyes
testament to thirteen hours of effort,
ankles so swollen I am carted in a wheelchair
to lay eyes upon my firstborn.

Sister pats my hand, murmurs
God gives you pain, then rewards you with pleasure--
see, how beautiful it is?

How she twists the adjective
like fabric with mismatched designs--
I would not love my sapphire-eyed daughter less
had she slid from between my legs like a folded origami.

I want to leap up and slap the woman across the face
but I send her off to someone else's room
to spoon-feed platitudes to a willing victim
slong with Gerber applesauce and formula
tested against her virgin wrist.

(c)Terry Cox-Joseph         

In an Assassin's Shoes

They're called stilettos,
An assassin's tool,
They strike in the deepest of nights
Under cloaks they glint like daggers

At six inches
They make the perfect weapon
Sleek and small and
Easily concealed in pretty packages

A swift stab sinks
In and right back out...

It can be days before the victim
Finds his heart on his cuff
And a blade in his back.

They step up, step forward, and on and on
Those stilettos keep
Clipping, slicing, slashing over
Pavement, slicing again and again
They move briskly under
Seamless, silk stockings that glow

Luminous in streetlight.
Eye-catching, striking,
Sharp they say.
Whistle.  Stare.  Stop.

The stilettos silently turn, sizing up
Their next victim.  Watching eyes travel
Slowly up as the heel
Taps the ground first
Then the toe, tightening the calf.
Muscles straining towards the flexed thigh,
Taut
A lesson.

Those stilettos wiped clean lay still
In the back of the closet wondering why
No one ever tells men
Most women have knives.

(c)Kindra McDonald                         

published in Skipping Stones 2007