Who Is She?

Her face is familiar,
Her voice is too.
I think she's someone I once knew.

Memories fade or are buried deep,
In dreams of wake and sleep.
Do I recognize her eyes of blue?
I think she's someone I once knew.

It's in the heart some memories live,
With all the joy and pain they give.
Her hair is blonde, with grays a few.
I think she's someone I once knew.

The years bring change, but at what cost?
Should love renew or should love be lost?
Are memories real?  What is true?
I think she's someone I once knew

Now tears clear the haze from my mind.

Oh memories, how can you be so unkind?

For now it is the truth you tell:

I think she's someone I once knew.

(c)Frank Kosusko                         

published in Skipping Stones 2007

Mindworm Press, Chesapeake, VA

Honey That's You

You're cute,
You're dashing,
But oh, so exasperating,
You're the manly man
               With dark looks and a strong jaw,
You're the one-night fling
               Not the forever and ever kind of thing,
Yet here you are
               And the latter is what you offer.

Forgive me, but I can't help
               But look at you askance,
The dark, dashing guy
               Interested in a lasting romance?
I'm not naive or a fool
               So pardon me, while I giggle and snort,
There's such a thing as too good to be true
               And honey, that's you.

(c)Clara Van Eck                         

published in Skipping Stones 2007

Mindworm Press, Chesapeake, VA

Size Zero Beauty

Soft, plump
voluptuous woman
embraced by the breeze,
by the breath
of my warm face on
the old photograph.

Comfortably leaning
on her thickness and strength,
resolute against the fabric
and the amorous air which
caresses her ample shape.

Forgotten mother
of misbegotten children
borne in sickness and despair,
emaciated models
sustained by Diet Cokes
and curious looks
that prelude the inevitable stares.

Diminished bodies
and souls.  Frail
frames of discontent
staring blankly as from
the Second World War,
walking awkwardly
from their gas chamber
to the lifeless lights
of the runway floor.

Starving in magazines,
in destitute dreams,
not people, but hangers
for clothes (and souls)
wasting away
on size-zero beauty.

(c)David Lucas                                           

published in Skipping Stones, 2007

Mindworm Press, Chesapeake, VA

Man in the Box

His face appears
old, white, weathered and cruel
his lips are pursed
his eyes stare straight ahead
show everything
tell the story of his life
the crimes and more
the emotion
pure hatred
the knowledge sends a chill
makes me stop in my tracks
stop long enough
to see the tiny face next to mine
my daughter's tiny hands
play with the strings on my shoes
and then she turns her head
her bright eyes catch a glimpse
of the killer on display
and her lips form a smile
the same smile she gave
the old lady in the store this morning
and it is then
I realize
the knowledge that sends a chill
has not found her yet.

(c)Ruth Lewis                             

published in Skipping Stones 2007

Mindworm Press, Chesapeake, VA

Persistent Yearning

Grandma Rachel, a Holocaust survivor,
got a job in the 50s at Chicago's
Ida Crown Hebrew Academy
as the cafeteria's cashier,
yearning for the company of
rabbis-teachers, and their students
consuming verses of Torah.
She so missed the learned and
little ones who used to surround
her in Poland, continuing in the
New World to be faithfully
nourished by their spirit.

(c)Rabbi Israel Zoberman                  2008

published in The Poet's Domain, Vol 24

Live Wire Press, Charlottesville, VA

Out of Nowhere

Seemingly out of nowhere
I suddenly began greeting
All whom I encountered with
"Hello, Darlin!"
Puzzled, I reflected on why
This might be happening
When, out of nowhere,
I was zapped with an epiphany!
Oh, my God!
Those were the last two words
She said to me
As she began the next leg
In her spiritual journey home.
So, I began repeating them daily
In the hopes that
Out of nowhere
She would appear to me in a dream
As she had once before,
Or perhaps in the gentle caress
Of an evening breeze
Or the kiss of the sun
Upon my face
Or by the wonder
On a young child's face
As he witnessed the birth
Of a butterfly or tadpole.
She was sweetness personified;
The honey in a honeycomb.
Her cup always overflowed
Whenever she smiled,
Said a kind word,
Gave a comforting hug,
Or an intimate embrace.
So, seemingly out of nowhere,
Mommy,
I hope you hear me when I say,
"Hello, Darlin!"

(c)Mary Martin                                  2008

published in The Poet's Domain, Vol 24

Live Wire Press, Charlottesville, VA

Rain Moon

Wan, wispy moon,
shredded with ragged leaves--
the coming rain
could not shade the earth
with more obscurity
than that now untouched
by your pale presence.

No Pied Piper to the stars are you,
no pervader of dreamless sleep.
Your unmoving, unheralded ascendancy
dissolves into darkness,
masking the indulgent countenance
that once encouraged lovers,
leaving relief from sterile stillness
to come only with the silent rain.

(c)Shirley Nesbit Sellers                          2008

published in The Poet's Domain, Vol 24

Live Wire Press, Charlottesville, VA

Don't Make Her Cry

When I was young it was fun
to find the bed gently rocking,
waking me in the middle of the night.
Little quakes occurred regularly
in the continuing collision
of the Pacific and continental plates.
Often the walls, joists, or rafters
or our house would complain:
groaning, snapping, or banging
in the uninvited movement.

I liked earthquakes until age
twenty-six.  While eating
lunch at my drafting board
I heard a loud rumble, then the
ancient brick walls of my
building began to move,
shake, and groan as plaster
rained down from above.
Terrified, trembling, crouching
under my drafting board I felt
the floor rising, falling, shaking
as the building groaned, banged,
and screamed for its life.

I cried, "Remember, God,
I am Ruth Kelly's baby boy.
Have mercy on her.
Don't make her cry!"

(c)Robert L. Kelly                          2008

published in The Poet's Domain, Vol 24

Live Wire Press, Charlottesville, VA

Time Traveling

They say gazing at stars
is like time traveling,
light reaching our eyes
from distant nebulae
that may, by now, no longer
exist.  The radiance
they emit navigates
an ocean of space
over millions of years,
showing up on Earth to
play a part in our cosmic show,
one point in a constellation's
connect-the-dot pattern or
a bright and solitary pinprick
in the universe's
velveteen fabric.

That's how it is
when I look in your
face; instead of
blots and wrinkles
earned from a life
well spent, the image
I see comes to me from
years ago.  I gaze
back in time
at a person who
saw the future,
convinced me
to be deeper than
superficial swagger,
captured my heart,
still holds it
in her hands.

(c)Bill Glose                               2008

published in The Poet's Domain, Vol 24

Live Wire Press, Charlottesville, VA

Airborne

I rode my two-wheeler down Summit Avenue
Past the sissy girls.
Mother covered her eyes,
Father nibbled his moustache.
I urged my steed into the air with a passionate
Squeeze on the pedals,
And I was flying, head thrown back,
Laughing into the sizzling blue sky.

I did not ever have to come down.
Not if I didn't want to.

(c)Laura J. Bobrow                          2008

published in The Poet's Domain, Vol 24

Live Wire Press, Charlottesville, VA

Sarah Swifthawk

Sara Swifthawk in faded brown moccasins
walks three miles to Oljato trading post
--Place of the Moonlight Water.
The frost is heavy the cold bites,
her turquoise and silver jewelry is to be pawned for food.
Sara Swift hawk, jet hair sprinkled with white,
face a network of wrinkles, needs food more than fuel.

The trader smiles kindly as he gives her
canned peaches and beans.
Sara walks home slowly.
She builds a fire of pinon logs,
puts on a kettle of beans to cook,
then settles down in a warm blanket.

Sara Swifthawk passes into a dream world
bright with desert flowers that lift the heart and spirit.
When she was young, she herded sheep in canyons and mesas.
She danced the squaw dance with young men who gave her money.
She rode her palomino pony to sings where she was allowed to chant.
Sam Begay, Sara's husband, married into her clan of many waters.
She gave birth to three children; all of whom

have left the reservation.

Sam Begay died some years ago of the hanta virus sickness.
Now, Sara Swifthawk lives by herself.
She gathers yucca with which to wash her hair.
She weaves colorful rugs to sell.
The harshness of winter has surrounded her.
Sara Swifthawk is too weak to gather more wood.
Sara now in her dream, rides her pony across an arroyo.
She hears the desert owl, small and lively in his cactus nest.
The cold wraps around her,
She is spirited away.

(c)Elizabeth Urquhart                   2009

published in The Poet's Domain, Vol 25

Live Wire Press, Charlottesville, VA

While Dancing

An ekphrastic interpretation of Pierre-Auguste

Renoir's A Dance in the Country (1841-1919)

She wears a broad smile
One hand rests on her partner's shoulder
The other holds his hand and a fancy fan
A red bonnet tied under her chin
Adorned in a flowery flowing
Bustled evening gown
With ruffled bottom
Her dark bearded partner's
Profiled nose leans in
To breathe in aromas
Of her perfumed flaming red hair
Is she smiling because of her partner
Or flirting with someone else's dance partner

Barbara Drucker Smith                    2009

published in The Poet's Domain, Vol 25

Live Wire Press, Charlottesville, VA

Falling Back Into Life

Happy late in life,
they're not afraid to let the quiet in
or mix living with dying.

There's hushed talk of what they'll find
on the other side, who will be there
to lift them over the threshold.

That it's best to give everything away now,
her demitasse cups, his silver pocket watch.
How little it all comes to.

Patiently arranging pansies in clay pots,
beneath clouds shaped like blossoms
bursting into the unknown,

they fall back into life again, edge
the garden path with simple stones.
Knowing, little else matters except

this familiar ground of home,
and the end that they see
so clearly.

(c)Ann Falcone Shalaski                             2005

published in The Poet's Domain, Vol 25

Live Wire Press, Charlottesville, VA

Underwater Ballet

The sea cocoon
born of raindrops,
of rushing rivers,
caresses the land.
God's other world.

Not always
in harmony with its silent depths
but beautiful in
its secret dissonance.

A world of rainbow-dipped
creatures
performing an
underwater ballet
in ever-moving liquid motion.
A jete
pas de bourree
pas de deux
God's
underwater ballet

Known
but to those who
break through
earth's watery cocoon
to reach its noiseless depths.

(c)Betty Maistelman                    2009

published in The Poet's Domain, Vol 25

Live Wire Press, Charlottesville, VA

Starlight

I stand still and watch
as the high bridge lights compete
with the twilight stars.
Now, with Father Moon,
each challenges its siblings in a sparkle race.
In vain, Mother Cloud blankets
her children for bed.
They just laugh and glow.

(c)Shirley Nesbit Sellers                         2009

published in The Poet's Domain, Vol 25

Live Wire Press, Charlottesville, VA

Secret Funds

It's not time to go
But already
My substance
Is melting
And trickling down
The highway
West,
Sniffing
Like money
On the trail of a Swiss bank,
          A proper place
For quiet accumulation
While my resources ripen
Until the time is right.
          Then they'll find
My exoskeleton, an empty
Skin of Lycra Spandex,
Along with dust and dog hair
Upon the kitchen floor.

(c)Anne Meek                    2009

published in The Poet's Domain, Vol 25

Live Wire Press, Charlottesville, VA

The Last Room

Here I am, Love, left behind
In this old house you loved and had so briefly.
You are close enough to touch today,
Alone in this old house with paint and plaster;
This is the last room, cleared away.
Square feet with me is still disaster,
And not a chance I've figured right.
If you were here, math would not matter;
You would look up, your eyes alight,
And grin at me, perched on this ladder.
You would be seventy and nine.
I can't imagine your quick body
Even so frail as it became
Before the end when death was kind:
A sleep within a sleep and no awaking.
Or did you, as I long to think, arise,
Delighted and surprised, as light was breaking
And come to kiss me, sleeping, one last time?
That would be sweetness undiminished;
But I have walls to caulk and prime
and this last room in your last dream
To finish.

(c)Bea DuRette                    2009

published in The Poet's Domain, Vol 25

Live Wire Press, Charlottesville, VA

Choose Something Like a Star

When the heart needs
something to hold on to--
an anchor to cling to--
a safe place to regain peace--
I'd like to choose a star
as Frost advises,
but I find them, first of all,
too far away.
I'd rather something to look at,
feel, hold, or touch--
you can't always see the stars--
undoubtedly human frailty
on my part.
I sought advice and was told
to speak to trees.
Out loud.
Okay.
I've done worse.
I found three trees,
planted in a triangle.
I stood in the middle
and spoke my heart.
They said I was the first person
to speak to them.
They took my tale and carried it home.

They are black locust I found,
the bark of which is used
herbally as a cathartic;
metaphorically--letting go.

The city has decided
to down these trees
to make the street wider.

Maybe a star . . .

(c)Patricia Adler               2009

published in The Poet's Domain, Vol 25

Live Wire Press, Charlottesville, VA

Snow Storm

By the time I reach
the apple tree
on the far side of the field

the sparse, lazy snow
has grown thick and fast
on a shifting wind blowing it
in wide, blinding swirls

that turn me around until
I don't know which way
to head for home and cling
fearfully to the old, arthritic tree
so serenely anchored there.

Of course, the tree doesn't count time, afraid
of being caught with night coming on.
Of course, it doesn't worry about being lost--
it's already home--

but there's comfort in the way
it allows the storm to unfold,

the way it stands by me, our edges blurred
with those of fences and posts, foxes and crows,

in the storm's smoky whiteness and falling snow,
its tissue-thin wings whispering and humming
like a buzz of electric voices
hidden in wires on telephone poles.

(c)Sunday Abbott                         2009

published in The Poet's Domain, Vol 25

Live Wire Press, Charlottesville, VA

February Moon

Lo!  The ice pale February moon

scarves of clouds across her face

serene, round glides across the sky

She admires her progress in the lake

cold, motionless, a shining mirror

reflecting back her light, betraying

Two lovers in the shadows

(c)Anne Darrison               2009

published in The Poet's Domain, Vol 25

Live Wire Press, Charlottesville, VA

Ave Maria

Scent of sweet
impatience, the melon
husk holds August

in its pulp;
          Hail Mary
          full of grace.

The Summer sores,
once close to festering,
now flower thickly,

freely where they
wept; the grove and
graveyard bear

similar swells.
Full are the tombs,
fuller the womb,

the ovum opening'
to strange gust
in the middle of its

breath.
We fail
to understand,
          Hail Mary,
          Mother of God.

All we recall
is ripeness, long
awaited in the stalls,

plum, peach,
or apricot still firm
against our thumb.
          Pray, pray for us
          now and in the 
          hour

Wait, it is not yet
time.

(c)Sofia F. Starnes               2001

from A Commerce of Moments

Pavement Saw Press, Columbus, OH

The Ripening

I was in my gold skin
you in your tan,
and we danced
over housetops
across parking lots
dangled our feet from
neon signs while raindrops fell
into our mouths
like fake jewels
from Second Ave
and everywhere you filled me
with miracle.

Like a new
Artemis,
we chased winds
to fields beyond Hoboken
that greened beneath our feet
and we harvested
each other.

(c)Virginia O'Keefe                    2005

published in Poet's Domain, Vol 22

Live Wire Press, Charlottesville, VA

I Rejoice in Being What I Am

How long did it take me to rejoice
in being what I am?  For twenty-two
years, I'd been looking, searching
for that elusive being who
I felt was there, but I couldn't
quite get a hold of it--or them.
I tried when my children were in school,
I hid it in dresser drawers, beneath
bras, slips, and panty hose.  When
they were gone, when housework
almost got me down, I'd take it out,
scrutinize it, and put it back, gently.
Now, there is no need for that;
My time is in my hands alone.
I can sit, dream, and write
to my heart's content.  I have
found wheat I looked for:
I Rejoice In Being What I Am.

(c)Marvel N. Mustard                    2005

published in The Poet's Domain, Vol 22

Live Wire Press, Charlottesville, VA

Who's Rejoicing?

Nobody's rejoicing in his being what he is
Mean old man, always has been,
Younger, he was meaner still,
What gives him the right
To be so ornery and cantankerous?
She ought to know,
'Been with him all these years.
Did they ever have a really nice day?
Alone, maybe, but not together.
How can they stay in the same house?
Miserable with, miserable without,
S'pose she understands him.
And maybe in those earlier years
When they were very young,
They did love each other
And shared their dreams,.
He is what he is . . .
And she is still holding on.

(c)Beverley Isaksen          2005

published in The Poet's Domain, Vol 22

Live Wire Press, Charlottesville, VA

My Own Skin

Give me bittersweet dark chocolate to sink my
teeth into,
the soft strains of Paganini,
the wriggling ruff of a devoted collie,
a stack of novels with lines so well crafted
I'm swept away by a literary tsunami,
and I will never want to die,
or think I have already died
and departed
to a blissful afterlife

and then
give me your hand
and I'll remember
who I am.

(c)Terry Cox-Joseph          2005

published in The Poet's Domain, Vol 22

Live Wire Press, Charlottesville, VA

The Moon Is Everything Tonight

The moon
is everything
tonight    not the
lamp shining
on the page
not the TV's blue glare.
The moon
white lady
rides the night
like a woman
astride a black stallion.
She peers at herself
in the pond
and the bullfrogs flood
her light with thrum
and twang.
We stand
under the dark sky--
her brilliance floods
our vision  seeps into
our blood.  Her silver
flows through our bones
and our tongues taste
swelling tide.

(c)Serena Fusek          2010

Red Moon

The moon
is everything tonight.
Red and swollen
it crawls up
the east
looms over houses
and the strip mall.
It overwhelms the sky
swallows the stars.
Red as Kali's rubies
it climbs through the trees
gleaming cold fire
in bare branches
and--like the wolf
with blood on its muzzle--
begins to follow me
down the lonely street.

(c)Serena Fusek          2010

The Moon Is Everything

"The moon will be everything tonight."

Jack Callen, Stream Road

The moon
is everything tonight;
I brought no
battery-clunky
thousand watt-lantern
on this camping trip--
nor firewood.
I pitch my tent
in the meadow.
The dark rises
from the grass
with cricket and
katydid song
as the the last sunlight
slides off
tree tops.

I sit under heaven
no bonfire flames
with glittering shadow plays
to divert my vision.
The moon
that scarred old lady
wise in her silence
lights my meditation.
By the tree line
shadows of deer
browse.  An owl calls.

When I crawl
into my sleeping bag
the clockwork cradle
of stars
rocks me
and the midnight dew
pattering on the tent fly
becomes a lullaby.

(c)Serena Fusek          2010

November Moon

Tonight's full moon
is called Mad Moon
Mourning Moon
Snow Moon.   Now
is the time
of the long dirge
the lament.  Daylight
thin as fever dreams
sinks into shadows
twisting out of
tangled roots.

The oldest goddess reigns:
Kali of the skull necklace,
Morrigan, queen of carrion crows,
Baba Yaga.  Along
the blood rimmed
edge of twilight
the west wind wails
or is that
the howl of hounds
running down
the white deer?

But when the scarred moon
escapes the tree's black fingers
it drags a cloak of stars
into night pure as
angel song.

(c)Serena Fusek          2010

Tuesday Morning

Within a candid moment, I thought
how I like it when she moves 
about the house in various
stages of undress.  Confessing desires 

comes easy in the early hours.
Sometimes she’ll sigh

how she is calm when 
I am near her, and I am moved
to say something like: Me too.

Instead I smile and sip my secret 
(whiskeyed) coffee—

once she’s dressed for the day
I must provide my own 
comfort.  Maybe layered cloth and 

shoes that hurt her worried feet
conspire to cover what should be 
exposed: Though we inch daily

towards dying, our bodies are warm;

we get what we need; life gives
enough, when it’s simple.

(c)allen weber                  

published in Loch Rave Review