One Birth

...all the parts, though many, still making up one

single body...and all the parts share its joy.           

(1 Corinthians 12)

          Let us suppose once more:

The ant has scurried back

into earth's loins,

sweetness on its back.

It hurries past; we recognize

its coveting, the white-gold burden

of its satchel -

and we bundle ours more diligently,

twice.

          A scattered fall

has given way to tight, appointed

frost.  Our workshoes press

a lode - the gopher's tunnel, dragged

time and time again, bloodless

and bloodletting in its maze.

     Once more we recognize

the corridor, purest

always when our heel strikes hard

and opens up a vent.

The burrow air will wish its way

unchecked, zealous in its ache

for exits, smooth or rough-

edged at the ends.

          The breeze relies on them....

          All that seeps in will outpour,

manifest in fresh aroma, sour

in a bone's delay,

the consummation real

in each death.

          Let us suppose we all consume,

will be consumed, and consummate

our living with the heart pressed

hard against the freeze.

A child cries quietly.

We cannot hear the call,

unless an icicle, drawn-out and

patient, close to mouth, melts

with the rush of heartwarm particles

puffed free.

          Their carom crazes the cave -

all shells, all crystal, carbon,

lode of iron hidden in the shaft,

gem and no-gem breached

and treated to the same birthing.

          The wall is clean eruption,

burst of steam that thaws a single

glacier, single stream -

a single exodus of people....

          Ah, how they tug; how we

tug: open at the wrist, digit and thumb,

yolk and tip fingering each other -

tender now, most tender.

          And the nerves band into one

          ascension, out to spring.

(c)Sofia M. Starnes     2008

from Corpus Homini

Wings Press, San Antonio, TX

Strangers in the Wind

They keep
mimicking
the seasons,
volatile fragrances,
elusive winds

with gentle, but
heavy hands.
She,
          she,
she,

          them,
sentimaental lights
burning in child-
hood dreams, past
landscapes with

innocence's fruits.
They place their
visions in time's
unearthly possession
and distrust man's

intentions.  I'm
surrounded by fleshly
angels that don't
recognize the origins
of my wings.

(c)Synnika Lofton                    2005

from The Burden and the Gift, Vol 3

The Poetry Juggernaut Movement

The Turning Time

My friends talk of recipes
and clothes, swirl ice in frosted
glasses, whisper of affairs.

Idle men are so divine,
they confide.  I pause, toss
it all off with a braceleted wrist,

and as easily as breathing slip
into thoughts of you; coaxing
me down winding paths,

resurrecting me like a vintage
champagne.  The improbability
bewildered me.

Such a feeling can only come
once.  It's the turning time,
my friends say, sipping

white wine spritzers.  Intoxicated,
I see you in everything, feel
the same flush of heat that passed

between us when I wrapped
myself around you, all too
ready, unbuttoned my blouse without

a care.  The beauty is,
you'll soon forget.

(c)Ann Shalaski               2007

from A World Made of Glass

San Francisco Bay Press, San Francisco, CA

A Place Apart

I lit the votive candle
in front of the plastic Virgin Mary,
hung with rosary beads this morning;

the morning after I buried my father.

Watched the wick lick
the air, a hot flame dot
holding in the blessing it gives.

the morning after I buried my father.

Aged furniture creaked,
musty dust filled my nose,
someone else's life,
lying loosely on bones.
The day grayed itself into the window,

the morning after I buried my father.

I mourned like the dove
singing itself into the world again,
tasting the trickle of dew,
and willed myself to walk in the daylight.

The morning after I buried my father.

(c)Nancy Powell                    07

from How Far Is Ordinary

Mindworm Press, Chesapeake, VA

Ithaca, 1945

My love, some evil wind blew you astray.
We carry on alone, my son and I,
Watching, each night, Apollo's horses die
Across the western sea, I can't betray
The anger in my heart at being prey
To unknown armies, horrid in their pride,
Taunting me with fears that you have died.
We know the gods must blow you home some day.
These three brief years alone can seem a score,
Weary waiting with a heart of stone.
Your son and I yearn for some God-sent sign
Saying the sea-spent sailor comes ashore,
Bearded and brown, wind-whittled down to bone.
My absent love, you list too long a time.

(c)Philomene Hood                                2003

from Ride Home Through Scented Grass

Pearl Line Press, Zuni, VA

Thoughts of the First Apple Tree

(It is highly likely that this view of the fruit comes from a medieval     
pun:  the Latin for "evil" is malum and the Latin for "apple" is malus.

--Paul Edwards)

The lonely first apple tree of all time
     [grew from seed?--too hard a question]
     [maybe from another species' seed--apple trees
     are sluts--everyone knows that]
had a decision:  where should I stash my seeds?
Should I stick 'em in my fruit
or shoot 'em from my leaves?
     [apple trees appear from 8000 BC
     in the Tien Shan mountains of eastern Kazakhstan]
     [the apple invented gravity--everyone knows that]
I'll stick 'em deep down in my core!
Why?  Protection from predators?
Or bribery of the very same
squirrels, horses and monkeymen
so the devious tree's seeds would be branched
     [with free fertilizer] around the world?
Damn slut apple trees [always naked] keeping
doctors away with a big scoop
of Cool Whip liqueur and a porn flick
of Ron Jeremy with Granny Smith.
The "first" apple tree of all time took Eve down
     ["translated" into English in 1382]
has a bad rep because she was sweet and thoughtful
and just wanted to be loved.

(c)Daniel Pravda                    2011

A Bird in The Hand Is a Dumb Bird

Poetica Publishing Co, Norfolk, VA

Do I Really Know Who I Am?

So long I have wondered
Now I know - I am a misplaced person.
Things around me are dissonant and strange,
I seem to belong in another time, another century.
I cannot imagine how it happened...
Someone else's skin encloses me-
I dont think I can give it back.
All right, I will accept this body
But my mind is what
I really want to keep as me.
My ideals for this space I occupy
Stay with me, hopefully to nourish changes
And foster respect one for another.
Oh, I enjoy being who I am-
Born to play the part of a thorn.
My convictions cause a lot of laughter
And disagreement when I speak
Of how I wish we would present ourselves.
Ah well, this old body
May not last long enough
To see my young friends become misplaced, too.

(c)Beverley Isaksen     2007

from I'm Not Leaving Yet

9.5 on the Richter Scale

He curled
opposite-ended from me
his head to the foot board
his body on top of the covers
mine tucked below
and we became the San Andreas Fault
the re-enactment of an earthquake
forms that had just touched
accidentally beautiful
tragically timed

Left with the perilous topography
of a queen-sized bed
and our natural tendencies to avoid embrace
our mutual denial of anything that could be stable
upright everlasting or secure

We avoided the center as if it had become the Grand Canyon
I almost whispered feelings aloud
knowing that the echoes would reach him
because my arm span can only conquer single beds
But I feared sound could
reawaken the ground
knocking Richter to his knees
and my fragile heart into the river rapids of sheets that
separated my skeleton from his exposed brick facade

I had never seen him as vulnerable as then
Legs pulled to his chest, fetal position
as if crouching below his desk at school
like they taught him to do in case of an emergency

I wanted to spoon him--hold him
like he had always wished someone would

But I do not know his wishes
and I have saved all my sudden movements
to get me out the door
before alarm clocks and aftershocks
threaten my internal structural system

Sadly, I am not insured for earthquakes or
breakfast in bed

(c)cheryl snow white     2007

from snow white lies

For a Man She Never Knew

In her nightgown,
she stood by the sink
washing mint leaves
for a fresh cup of tea,

and while sipping
the morning news
died in an ambush
caught her attention.

The Israeli flag flew
at half-mast as his body
lowered to El-Maleah
Rachamim prayer.

Mother took into her
heart the ancient words,
seared with pain, for
a man she never knew.

(c)Michal Mahgerefteh     2009

In My Bustan                        

Poetica Publishing Company, Norfolk, VA

My Sister's House

My sister's house sits by a pond,
a mirror to the woods;
from the deck we listen to the birds
chat with the ducks and geese,
our favorite alarm clocks,
raucous and reliable.

Arriving here is to dip into
a warm relaxing bath,
preamble to exchanged massages
after sunning our nude bodies
in green country privacy,
soft breezes our sweet music.

At my own house I can never
sleep quite so peacefully
as here with lavender morning light
as backdrop to friendly crowds
of tall deep purple trees,
nature's calm protective fence.

Her gleaming hardwood floors reflect
my sister's shining spirit,
her timeless beauty lingers longer
than the full grown pink hibiscus
blooming by the guest room window
blessing my sleep.

The beavers in her pond could never
be fonder of their lodges
than am I of my sister's home
where love and conversation
are more tasty and satisfying
than her gourmet meals and wine.

My city house cannot compare
in terms of natural beauty,
but I'm hoping when she visits
her heart will feel the welcome
radiating from my hearth
as I always do from hers.

There is no sibling rivalry
in my dear sister's house,
her mother was not my mother,
'though it often seemed that way
through these many treasured years;
this sister was my heart's choice.

(c)Mary Curro                                  2009

published in Skipping Stones Vol VI

Mindworm Press, Chesapeake, VA

Church Ladies

Ladies of a certain age
listen to the sermon,
Nod heads in approval
Of the preacher's words,
As if their assignation
Gave the Lord permission
To multiply the fishes
And heal the leper's wounds.

(c)Beverly Outlaw)                      2006

published in Skipping Stones 2006

and in Ripples

Mindworm Press, Chesapeake, VA

As I Fell Asleep

My mother screamed while smashing my daddy's face
With a chipped plate she had to stretch to reach
I know I saw her fingers dancing to reach it
lThe one plate on the edge of the table
My mommy smashed my daddy's face
And I stood still in the corner
Seeing words coming out of
My daddy's face
his words were bleeding
Flying streams of blood
I turned and ran over my tears
My mouth opened wide
But only silence came out
So I went outside cried
While walking in circles
Pulling my hair
I hurt but can't find the hurt
Then something wonderful
Something strange
Happened to my tears
Falling to the earth
I paused at the strangeness
At the tears falling
Tears falling
Changing into rose petals
The more I cried
The more rose petals
Fell into a heap
Of softness
Beneath my feet
I covered my ears
As I fell down
Burried myself
Into the mound of petals
I covered myself in rose petals
Clung to their slippery sweet smelling
Fragrance then smiled
As I fell asleep

(c)Joaquin C. Richardson                    2009

published in Skipping Stones Vol VI

Mindworm Press, Chesapeake, VA

Cute

I saw her in the train station
Outside of Prague

Elated; much to my American surprise
She smiled and I smiled back
Oh my what remarkable teeth

Her significant shadowed other clubbed me
Aside my head with a pipe
Broke my jaw
And then roughed me up; stole my things and wallet
not that I was aware

I woke up the next morning
In a foreign hospital

Damaged, much to my American surprise
Not knowing where I was
I looked around and thought

Man
she was cute
As cute as a cobra

(c)Patrick Carr                                      2009

published in Skipping Stones Vol VI

Mindworm Press, Chesapeake, VA

Before the Ball Falls, I Will

finish the last poem, clear clutter,
fold pigs into blankets, roll cheese logs,
find the sheet music to Auld Lang Syne
bite my lip, chop almonds, hang clothes,
empty hampers, trah cans, superstitions
clamoring to be met with everything new,
though all I can think of is you, and then,
not this bleak year to come, my birthday.

I'll never get the house clean by five pm
much less midnight, I should have started
after Christmas, should have said yes, left
that night when plowed snow blocked
all the parking spaces, black sky quilted
with lights, you against the angled car
to apologize, we'd wait for some sort of magic
on nights like that, tonight, here's another

year gone and to come making do, holding
memories like a chalice to my bloody lip,
I am dizzy with awareness, with regret,
a child who doesn't get what she wants
because she never asks, chopping onions,
for help, chopping, chopping, rolling, humming,
to better remember I will close my eyes, wish
away the kiss at midnight, that sad song.

(c)Shann Palmer                         2009

published in Skipping Stones Vol VI

Mindworm Press, Chesapeake, VA

Before Winter

On Giles Street, buying fish
          and chips from a child at a kiosk
who asks me "salt and vinegar?" repeatedly
          until I understand and draw back the news-
print wrapper for this absolution over my food--
          later, in the doll museum, among cases of broken
and found limbs, the knitted sock some nineteenth
          century child pulled over sooty boot-sole or dry
bone, the mouth and two eyes she must have marked
          with coal to make it easier to clasp the skeletal
figure closer to the bosom, that place we hollow
          repeatedly and out of habit, from need or love--I see
your form and shadow and leave always something on my plate,
          a slick of water on the windowsill, the smear of yellow
blooming on the hills, wild mustard glimpsed from the angled
          roof where I spread a towel and write, read books in stolen
sunshine.  Afternoons, walking, I see myself walking
          and these years, fallen away:  I remember the sting of chilies
stroked across my breasts to wean you from the table
          of my body.  Loosed like arrows, birds skim the nearly
wintering horizon, preparing to enter its other page, that
          parallel world I wonder now
how you inhabit.  Here, the paths cut through the woods in
          different ways; it's by my doorstep where I feel sometimes
the weight of distance--how hard to plant in letters,
          words, the sharp smell of wild onion, the milky tufts
of scattered seeds, the leathered hull of what remains,
          what I've tried to keep for you, the grain of wood on
my table--cup, stained bowl, dried pomegranate.

(c)Luisa Igloria               2005

from Trill & Mordent

WordTech Editions, Cincinnati

The Whole World in my Pocketbook

Where is my wallet?
Where are my keys?With my big ole purse
I cannot find either of these

My lip gloss glows
Like the stars at night
If I can't find my mirror
Me and this pocketbook are going to fight

Some safety pins
My hand sanitizer to cleanse
All of my wants and needs
Band aids just in case my nephew's boo-boo bleeds

Body spray
Lotion
Cream
I pelrpetrate to seem like I am rich living the American
dream

My phone book
Check book
So many things that I do not want to look

Some tissue
My CD player
My spiritual book about God and prayer

So many ink pens
A journal to write
You'd think by my strut that my purse was light

Everything stuffed inside just in case a situation occurs
So much so my mind blurs

Clear nail polish for when my stocking has a run
My camera to take pictures when times are fun

I only have room for one more thing to fit
My beauty agent, my make-up kit.

(c)Danielle Vannall                         2009

published in Skipping Stones, Vol VI

Mindworm Press, Chesapeake, VA

Full Circle Flower

Your name, I do not know.
Yet, here you are, in my heart.
In the forefront of my dreams.
My arms shall embrace you,
My hand will guide you.
Through the rows of my garden.
And teach you the flower's names.

Will you call me Grandma?
Perhaps Nana or Grams.
I can hear your voice.
The sound of your giggle.
Oh, years of the young,
Like the bud of a rose.
As it bares to blossom.

Your name, I do not know.
A gift from God you will be.
Grand-daughter to thee.
Enter this arbor,
My full circle flower,
May I watch you bloom.
While my garden grows golden.

(c)Dona M. Kalinski          2010

Ebb Tides

He looks at her and sees
the pain of yesterday's existence
as her eyes reflect the darkness of his
illicit past, emotions crest and ebb
like the tides along the sandy shore
when he can look no more he walks away,
recalling her eyes' reflection of the
stranger he'd become, knowing he's
no longer the Adam in her garden.

(c)Bulah G. Skinner                            

published in Skipping Stones 2004

Mindworm Press, Chesapeake, VA

She Smells the Roses

(A Padre Pio Visitation)

we wait.
tucking demons behind doors,
the skeptics and saints reveal
their mysteries in brazen piety.
this is art.

whispering, softly whispering
behind gnarled hands curled in rosary beads,
she stares out the window,
as vague and poignant as the virgin's somnolence
set in stone.

she folds in moments
and rocks herself to sleep;
finished with the mockeries of daily hope.
delicious is the stagnant air of the past.

He is here.
the stigmata tickle like butterflies
with the rush and birth of life.
sweet delirium lies in dim hues and shadows.

we wait.
ladies under veils bow deeply
and imaginary church bells chime.
the humble are moved by His infinite grace.

Padre Pio is here;
with a sweet mint on his tongue,
cradling our fear of mystery.
the kinives are surely blessed
and no bitterness is left to find
under the burnt carpet.
she's as pure as regret.

gardens come alive
in the damp cold on the hill.
bountiful, heavenly blooms of plenty,
dripping with blood and pain,
blaze through the snow.
so red.
can you smell the roses?
she whispers, softly whispers.

(c)Stephanee Howell

published in Skipping Stones 2007

Mindworm Press, Chesapeake, VA

The Adoptive Mother Thanks the Biological Mother for Their Daughter

There is something
in my body
that breeds
loneliness
every month;
It makes
my body
want;
Complacently
Persistently,
it reappears.
Over and over
and over
each month
a new one.

Don't you know
by now
you stipid egg?

Nothing--
Nothing--
will be
coming!

(c)Sharon Weinstein          1995

from Celebrating Absences

Road Publishers, Painter, VA

The Poet

She is staring over my shoulder
I feel her burnt kiss snag my ear
Trying to suck my earring off
Her ash mouth, black with cornbread sweetness
Like music and rose quartz longing
She whisper, that ain't right.
Frowning at my mislanguage
Always a disappointed sigh.
She too much like my aunts
Who drank their livers into roaches.
Drank their daughters into slivers.
Why do I hold my breath for you.
That you'll come for me.  Through the
Pen.  Like I'm chosen.
She whisper.
Think again.

(c)Shonda Buchanan                    2010

Poem of the Month for www.writersatwork.com,January 2010

copied from http://www.ShondaBuchanan.net/poems/

The Shoes

The left was securely attached
To her slender foot.  The sole
Was caked with mud but the
Pink Nike logo stood out against
The white leather background.
The lace had been tied for a day
At work?
At play?

The other was found some distance
From where its twin now lay.
The white leather crusted with dried
Blood and draped with a broken
Lace that had started the day with
The same intention as the other
But was now rendered useless.

The Nike logo was no longer
Pink but brown with its point
Holding three blades of grass
That must have come from some
Other place than where it sits now.
Size 7 shows on the tongue that
Is no longer restrained by its white lace.

These shoes had been wrapped and
Placed underneath the Christmas tree
Last year after much pleading for
Something not necessary but trendy.
Now they sit in a storage room, dirty
And adorned with a tag that places
Them at the scene of a crime
That we all try to forget but cannot
Because we can no longer see her smile.

(c)Michelle Bullock                             

published in Skipping Stones 2007

Mindworm Press, Chesapeake, VA

Warm Blanket

Above the surging sea
Hangs the dying sun.
A sparkling spectrum of colors flow
Across the gleaming waters.
Seagulls, arcing through the dusk
Cry piteously
To a dully darkening sky.
Warm waves lap
Upon sand glistening wetly,
And the softly blowing breeze
Tickles the skin with its soft caress.
Tranquility lies
Like a warm blanket
On chilly nights.

(c)Lisa Kendrick                            2009

published in Skipping Stones, Vol VI

Mindworm Press, Chesapeake, VA

Synesthete

To experience everything squared
Intensified
An explosion of sorts.
To hear music and see color
To read letters and see different hues.

And yet there must be a synesthete
In us all.
To discover this within ourselves
When we fall in love
When everything is amplified
Like an electric guitar.

(c)Phyllis Johnson          2010

A Dark Safe Place

An order to clear out

is given

discard, reorganize a

graveyard of evidence

Lifetime not forgotten

a lifetime ignored

lived not too long ago

Neatly in piles

each box a decade

childish, childhood memories repressed

buried in parchment

Barbie's friend Whitney,

brunettes not worthy of THE name,

sits in her car

57 Chevy convertible

turquoise, pink interior

better than a red Corvette

gently shielded by a veil

her friends all in boxes

Drunken engagement present

decapitated

wedding day Barbie

the others sit pretty tucked away

between

toys of rebellion

feminist anthem

Jars full of doll parts

faint scent of flowery

incense

prayer beads,

barbed wire

decor of my day

 A pile of things to burn

old pictures

claim they're all strangers

deny their true roles

Tired in--of every single picture

glassy eyed wild hair

smile hides heartbreak

first to burn on the pyre

yearbooks

Present day belongings

grownup's trophy case

dinnerware, glassware

waiting for their day at the ball

not being used

never heen used

place card holders

ok to use

linens, toil prints, damask

have to assure my guest of that

in a stern sweet voice

guarded with a smile

Set aside the old

they'll find a new home

bury the keepers

a new tomb

a dark safe place

visited only to relive

chosen moments

(c)Mayra O. Armetta

published in Skipping Stones, Vol VI

Mindworm Press, Chesapeake, VA