The Unraveling

The point of the needle
enters the cloth
pops out again
moving the silver metal
pulling the thread
binding seam to seam
shoulder to shoulder
bodice to skirt
than down the sides
front to back.
and finally
with delicate motion
it forms a hem.
All done, finished, complete
until something grows,
or something shrinks.
There is a feeling
of unraveling
and it is all gone.

The point of the needle
is forced to begin again.

(c)Doris Gwaltney                         2008

from The Poet's Domain, Vol 23

Live Wire Press, Charlottesville, VA

She Was Who She Is

Aline, mother of friend, Barry,
died this morning in her sleep.
2:30 A.M.
He cared for her at his place
fed her, bathed her, stayed
close to the house
watched the Alzheimers grow meaner
watched her gather the small
paper bag of personals
and sit by the door
waiting to go home.
I'm Barry, he'd say, your son.
You are home, he would say.

She'd smile sweetly
and turn to her room.
Those last days
He bought her a hospital bed
to help with the pain
even when softly he lifted her
to hold off the bed sores,
a woman, who,
in eighty some years of life
was likely the first to rise.

He laughed with her
as he bathed her in the tub
splashed water and made her giggle
taking care to gentle all the private parts
just as she had done for him and her boys
when they were little guys.
At the end, surrendered,
she squeezed his hand
and thanked him.

She had nursed her husband, Fred,
through the dark days of his early death
and now had no one left to take care of.
Not even her ownself.

(c)Robert E. Young                    2008

from The Poet's Domain, Vol 24

Live Wire Press, Charlottesville, VA

Bowl of Cherries

Stay with me

spellbound in laughter

believing tomorrow's miracles.

With you I take no notice

of lightning.  Really you say

only Fourth of July sparklers

with chuckles of thunder

minor considerations to the young.

Death grins but stays

on the sidelines

nothing discriminative

just keeping an eye on me.

Oh yes, that old cliche

I'm young in heart

fooling myself.

(c)Doris Baker                            2008

from The Poet's Domain, Vol 23

Live Wire Press, Charlottesville, VA

Rachel

Her name when spoken
was always in hushed tones.
Her name was Rachel.
She was my aunt.
My mother's older sister.

My mother, six sisters, brother,
and grandmother emigrated from Russia.
Mother was four.
The year 1907.

My grandfather had come before.

At age sixteen, Rachel was put
in the crazy house.
Her name became more hushed.
Sometimes still.

At age forty, she committed suicide.

My grandmother is buried near Rachel.
It was her last wish.
She felt no one would visit her daughter
if she were alone.

My grandfather is buried on the other side of town.

When Rachel died, some wondered if
God would open the gates of Heaven to her.
Or would she have to climb hand-over-hand
on a celestial ladder--for eternity.

(c)Betty Maistelman                     2008

from The Poet's Domain, Vol 23

Live Wire Press, Charlottesville, VA

Drive Ins

At drive ins
We'd not go to see
The movies,

But park
In the back row,
And abandon ourselves
To each other's pleasure

In a TR3 so small
We couldn't do
Anything serious
Over the cupped
Bucket seats and
Interfering shifter.

Later
we practiced the full
Rites of love again
And again

Learning
The habit of pleasure
For year after year,

Until we wore
Each other
Like old jackets
Molded to our curves.

(c)Dave King                 2010

from This Side of Forever

Poetica Publishing Co, Norfolk, VA

Beloved (or: The Legend of Noah's Wife)

Instead of  "Is there a God?"                      

the question becomes:  "Will I see God?"

Peter Kreeft:  Love is Stronger than Death

Through the mildest
or wildest of mornings, through the impossible

autumn come swift, in its switch
from nasturtiums to ice, an old longing lives out

its devotion, always a wife.
In a wrinkle too ripe for her skin, in her aging:

a luminous lurker, a bright absentee, night-
fall zeroed in haste, period-fire her desire cinders into --

Ash to salt-ash, her tastebud implies,
and she washes her lips.

Where is he whom I've loved incompletely?

The long deck dips undead, blue-wake

under her ribs; the bowsprit points at risk,
while a pigeon sorts weeds on the mopped boards.

Algae-loose, touch-and-go
is her hope in their land-smell and the smell

of a hand who knolled grass at odd hours, knuckled
after the flood just to cradle

her newborns, squeezed
wisely her heart-valve, worn heart, where it flip

flopped...followed tempest and time-waste,
the red river home,

all is love, all its fishes.
Ah, the inadequate shoremud as platform to pleasure,

the inadequate boulder in blossom.
Inadequate love

for a god slipping westward, clandestine,
all done.

(c)Sofia M. Starnes               2003

from A Commerce of Moments

Pavement Saw Press, Columbus, OH

Vision of the Future

Amid the frolic of giggling children
is an old man sequestered on a park bench,

his loneliness a linen suit, creases
crisp as creeping moan of evening.

Nannies cast suspicious stares, steer charges away
while paper-thin teens in sagging shorts

point, laugh, know age will never sink claws
into them.  Wary pigeons peck

at breadcrumbs he tosses like lost years.
My daughter, 6, spins circles in a field

of purple phlox, yellow Easter dress belling
like a tulip, strawberry hair wild, white stockings

smudged green at the knees.  Ten years from now
when I hear the creak of a windowsill betraying

a foot sneaking outside, I hope I trust the sweetness
of her heart, think of today, see her approach the bench,

a ladybug in cupped hands cracked open
for rheumy eyes filled with wonder,

spring blooming on a face
lost in winter far too long.

(c)Bill Gloss               2007

from The Human Touch

San Francisco Bay Press, 

San Francisco, CA

"every Spark is numbered

On scraps, over backs
and sides of torn
squares, pinned
into fold of dress
or tucked down
pocket, delivered
in secret--
Open me carefully
Emily writes
to her sweet muse.

Dropping
task at hand, stopping
to catch the quick
appearance, quicker
retreat of vision or
image, igniting
missive after
missive in
hot assault,
full pursuit sent
burning over
snowy fields
or blazing through
New England June--

the poet's body
breaking into
fiery verb
singing to one
of similar
essence--
passion for one
sparking
passion for
all the world,
its many daily
dark or bright
amazements:

"O One I cannot love enough
O One beyond all touch:
I will then seduce
your soul, delight
your mind--my words
will surpass those of any,
each verse asking
faithfully to the last
Will you
wholly be mine,
each stanza answering
faithfully
to the last, You will

I will write yes and
yes over and
over, each line
shaping you
immortal, making you
divine, divinely Mine:
Love, Beloved, Lovely
Only One, Only World:
my slashes and syllables
stand bold, unbreakable
against any Zero
for all time."

(c)Vivian Teter               2007

from Edge by Edge

toadlily press, chappaqua, ny

Wednesday, January 12, 1944

A homemade dance frock

with bow at center

takes center stage in your desires.

Supple and limber

you become,

as flexible as

Margo's attitude

toward you.

You, who examines

your own role in

relationships, see yourself,

sometimes the rose,

sometimes the weed.

Phyllis Johnson                    2009

from being frank with anne

Community Press, Virginia Beach, VA

Adolescence

My daughter won't let me touch her
We used to curve together
Our bodies speaking
The language our voices could not.

Now, she has moved away
Though she sits next to me.

I can wait;
I can wait
For the embrace
That would fill me.
She will come back to me, again.

She is preparing herself to love.

(c)Sharon Weinstein            1995

from Celebrating Absences

Road Publishers, Painter, VA

Big Barbie

It's time we had a real-life
Barbie, a doll that looks like me
and you.

One with thighs that swish
when she walks, and fat that sticks
to her hips like glue.

No make-believe cuties, eyebrows arched
just right.  No tiny twiggy dolls, nipped
tucked, everything pulled tight.

Give us a plus-size Barbie, someone round
and warm.  An ordinary female with a less
than perfect form.

We want her to look like us, with mismatched
outfits that are fraying.  Somewhere between 39,
and a senior discount, hair slowly graying.

No need for another bronzed Barbie,
wind blown hair all over her head.
Just give us a big gal with cleavage,

one who has hot flashes and night sweats.
Put a stash of dark chocolates under
Big Barbie's queen-size bed.

(c)Ann Falcone Shalaski                              

published in Skipping Stones 2007

Mindworm Press, Chesapeake, VA

Anniversary

     for Anne since before 1970


Your photograph seduced the sun, projected
on the windscreen of my car your presence,
slashed the span from here in Hampton Roads
to California as our letters had
the distance to he war in Vietnam.

Our love and dining out and working out
our differences reduced the distance from 
our youth to parenthood as traveling 
the world and settling in one place had cut
the distance from our youth to our maturity.

Although we never knew what might become,
we'd never doubted we'd mature together,
though I have no intention to grow up.
Although I may have mellowed some, 'tis you 
who've anchored our relationship with grace.

Nor time nor distance ever shall impose
between us.  We are one together; and 
when we have shed this earth-bound suit, we shall 
be one, together for eternity,
with God, and angels and the universe.

(c)pete freas          2007

Hunting Healing Herbs on James River Banks

Remote and awkward legs weak-wobble-walk.

Dear mistress cannot swallow or sit up,

Our voyage carved thin limbs, sallowed her face--

but herbs and roots will speed recovery.

My brother questions workers about springs

where rushing water spurts a growth of cures.

Distracted colonists continue on

until a man called Laydon stops to talk.

A carpenter, he searches timber sites.

He brags of watercress with rounded lobes;

then names a wondrous tree with magic bark.

And he keeps turning, turning toward me.

Just a layer herbs between the dampened moss,

just lower head and never look at him.

This sawer calls my name and I respond

to one who tries to tease me into smiles.

I focus on his face, his twitching ears.

I stand and stare him down but have to stop

befor a strangeness that I've never seen.

Green eyes hold visions of a form and face.

No lake or mirror shine such imagery.

This man reflects a me who turns around

to grasp my brother's arm and walk away.

All night I hear his laughter--in my dreams.

* In medieval times, girls were warned never to look into a man's eyes.  If you saw your reflection in his eyes, you were destined to marry him.

Patricia Flower Vermillion          2008

from Lady's Maid

Live Wire Press, Charlottesville , VA

Expectation

While peeling peaches
I think of my breasts swelling,
a sign of seed,
but I fear my age
like rot next to the bone
and I can't finish in time
all the peaches in the box
turning leprous with mold.
I wonder at the juice
running down my wrists,
how heaven stabs
when you are in the kitchen
on August 15,
working away at night
with sore breasts
and a sticky floor,
how a summons comes up
from the fruit,
reckless and sweet.

(c)Suzanne (Clark) Rhodes                    1999

from What A Light Thing, This Stone

Sows Ear Press, Abingdon, VA

Inertia

You wake in my arms.
I am the gray wool
of dawn,
the dream that lingers
as you rise
sinking
from my weight.

All day
I am thick
walls or air,
mud
that sucks at your feet,
dried seeds
rattling in your head.

How you fight me,
lugging uphill
sacks of wet sand
as I steal
your breath.

At night
I am the cool earth
and the quiet stars

Rest in my arms.

Jane Ellen Glasser                              1991

published in The Poet's Domain, vol 3

Road Publishers, Fairfax Station, VA

Solidarity Mission

She spoke no Hebrew nor
knew the city's history while

riding secretly in a tourist
bus around Jerusalem's streets

recently quieted by a suicide
bomber at Ben Yehuda market

taking pictures of walls coated
with memorial plaques, mementos

that can be looked at in the
safety of home in Virginia,

like a foreigner so deeply immersed
in exile she can no longer relate nor

enter into the unsettling rapids
of terror, daily resonating the past.

(c)Michal Mahgerefteh          2009

from In My Bustan

Poetica Publishing Co, Norfolk, VA

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                2007

from How Far Is Ordinary

Mindworm Press, Chesapeake, 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

from A Bird in the Hand Is a Dumb Bird

Poetica Publishing Co, Norfolk, VA

Grandmother's Funeral

How the casket gleams
At this shiny funeral
In full sun

With your small laughs
With the birds who know your name

Above the morning pall, you fly
Beyond this tree
Of relatives who assemble here

A burst of sun drives the rain
From the atmosphere

It's high time, Grandmother
To hear your sparrow's tongue

In the afternoon
You rustle the flowers of my plate.

I spy your eye in my napkin ring

With your small laughs
With the birds who know your name

Your wings sweep past the parlor door
And dust the air between
Soul and brain
What better fate than yours
To be clean adroitly

Grandmother, my dreams are made of less and less
They simplify...with time

Then evening rushes darkly
About the sky and farm
Lighting lamps and in the barn

Hurrying ghostly horses

With your small laughs
With the birds who know your name

The chords of sleep make music
...of creaking wheels and slapping reins

Who would ever shoo you?
The scarecrow wears a beaming face
And swears that joy lies in the haunting
-- with your small laughs
-- with the birds who who know your name

And for you, old Wren
That's true, as rain.

(c)Robert P. Arthur                         2006

from Vijas War and Other Poems

San Francisco Bay Press

San Francisco, CA

Monarchs

I don't want to know
The mysteries of Monarchs
Clothed in rainbow raiments
Ready for flight to a winter sojourn as
Cool winds of autumn whisper invitation.

There are those who say
Circadian rhythms stir them to flight
I prefer to ignore scientific research
And would rather believe
A lover awaits in Mexico.

(c)Beverley Isaksen        2007

from I'm Not Leaving Yet

her chapbook