House of Worship

The soul in paraphrase

            --George Herbert

This sister stood up.  It was after amen,
it was after pie.  Wires had climbed, singing
through the wall.  Tin overhead eased the house
upward soundless as smoke, true as fire
at the tip of a steeple.  She stood slowly
like a yawn.  They found her holding
the backs of chairs, red in the cheek like a slap.
She elevated her arms and bent her legs
in suspicious ways; she wanted her toes
in the ground, never yanking free.  Like young
trees not in leaf, she was a sweet threat,
had the acre all angles in the sun.

Full-length she unfolded for their eating,
the parent who smiled, the one who scolded.
She learned insides of cupboards and drawers;
she charted warmth climbing radiators,
trusted in plumbing, the house a cylinder
breezing around her like a reed.  She lurked
in hiding like a joist, but wore the resting
place of every nail.  To use the mouth,
venture words, is to wonder whether
sound is the throat's or the dark's.  She swayed,
newly put up and straightened, in upstairs
windows, rippling the sheerness of night.

The years heaped on chairs smelled of wear as they
spilled their lively logic.  A hobbled one
had to smoke.  The one all groans cursed when she
tried to commiserate.  One smeared ashes
on its brow, the combusted church.  Year
upon counted year pretending like rugs,
shaken, beaten (grit in the mouth) to be
the same.  Steady the ladder on the landing:
Tiptoe, swipe the ceiling web.  It all goes up:
curtains, plates on shelves, the attic trap
swallowing steps.  Clean each spring and cleanse
a year--an organ pipe to pump with voice,

the prayer of habit, the habit a prayer.

(c)Jay Paul                             1999

from Going Home in Flood Time

The Ink Drop Press, Painter, VA

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 Glose          2007

from The Human Touch

San Francisco Bay Press

San Francisco, CA

Picture of Mama on the Cable Car

Caught in a real smile, she'd thought
chance was not in her corner,
but there she was  tweed jacket,
poofed-up hair, ever-present red nails,
in San Francisco stepping to the street.

It had taken all of her fifty-five years,
everything up till then a gamble,
not many wins, bearable losses,
a kind of non-streek.

If she'd been in on the joke, understood
there wasn't much time left,
would she have gone back to Vegas?

She was dying even then, in increments,
cell by cell by cell, but this isn't about that.

This is about snap-shot shoe-drop seconds
when a dream you put aside comes true,
happens right then and is so right,
such a surprise, a friend takes a picture,
a real picture, the kind of photograph
strangers pick up to examine because,
not knowing why, they have to.

It's easy to let opportunities pass
when they are too much of themselves,
like inconceivable sculpture
buried in stone blocks.

Half-blind and single-minded,
we cower in the familiar, recoil
when a fresh idea slaps us hard.

You can't plan for this,
there are no shoulds or ifs.
Choices come and go so fast
it's almost out of our hands.  Almost.

When you smiled at me during lunch,
I thought of Mama, knowing
this was an extraordinary moment
My camera was in my suitcase.

I didn't take the picture,
I wish I had.

(c)Shann Palmer     2009

from Dashboard Fire

FlashPaperPublications, Richmond, VA

The Problem...

The problem
with broken hearts is
that Super Glue is a carcinogen.

Therefore, they can't be easily repaired.

They can only be consoled.

Broken hearts must be closely monitored.
At first, they are stunned
unaware that injury has even occurred.

Often, only close friends can provide diagnosis.

Broken hearts can't speak for themselves
Therefore, they go about as if everything is fine until

they realize something isn't fine.

One morning they wake up,
reach for the place reserved for love,
only to find that
love has left the body.

They begin to wonder if they have died.
And if they are dead,
"Why am I still beating?"

Then broken hearts get scared,
start pounding,
break through ribcages,
often cause nausea or drunken binges.
They actually bargain with bartenders
consult architects and seamstresses,
think that perhaps this is all a joke
or a dream
or a drunken stupor
and they have merely misplaced love
and love will come pick them up if they call.
'Cause love never lets broken hearts drive drunk.
So broken hearts call love at 3 AM
not realizing that love won't answer
and that love will pity their messages in the morning.

By morning, broken hearts are hung over
splitting their wounds deeper than
the sound of their favorite sex song.
And broken hearts begin to lag,
occasionally skip beats,
miss work
provoke tear ducts to random downpours,
contemplate suicide,
and homicide
and lobotomies.

And you can't talk to broken hearts
about how hearts don't have brains
so lobotomies are out of the question
because broken hearts are trying to heal
and healing comes in many forms.

Sometimes broken hearts are more
aggressive with healing
start building walls and damns
keeping the part of the heart that feels
isolated from the part that thinks.
Because broken hears are often the result of combat
and they must choose life over limb.
Who needs that left ventricle?
We have friends who will pump blood for us,
fill our chambers with thoughts like

"It is better to have loved and lost
than never to have loved at all"
or
"Think of all the other fish in the sea"

And sometimes this works.
Sometimes broken hearts take vacations,
sit on boats,
drop lines into water,
and catch some new happiness.
Other times,
broken hearts must consult lawyers,
close joint bank accounts,
take the children and go live with their mother.

Sometimes broken hearts go dancing
their chests as open and revealing as their low-cut shirts
You can spot them on the dance floor
all by themselves moving in a way that you
actually see them replace their heartbeats
with the beat of the music
or the heartbeats of strangers
dancing dangerously close.
Because broken hearts can
easily become kleptomaniacs
stealing any hearts or pieces of hearts they can
because something has to fill the hole
they have in their own

And if Frankenstein can be reborn with dead parts,
"Why can't I use the parts of others to preserve myself?"

Because baby this is war
and this is love
and all is fair here
all is allowed here.

Except quick fixes.

Because what no one wants to admit
is that broken hearts are life-long injuries
Like arthritic knees or leukemia
they can remain in remission for years
only to return on rainy days
or during wedding ceremonies.

They can begin to leak or crack
like teeth fillings
Sometimes what broken hearts consider scar tissue
is merely a scab
and scabs fall off in water
and are hard not to pick at.

So when broken hearts have completed
what they they think is healing
they jump head first into water
or accidentally start to recall love
because they are tired of being numb to life.
Or broken hearts rip open old wounds
to compare this love to that love
or this new love's sprained beginning
to the break of the one that came first.

This is because broken hearts are always uncertain
split down the middle
trying to connect
to all the places they cut off.
And if you thought cell phone reception
caused tricky communication
broken hearts are still using tin cans and string.

Because you can't use cell phones around them
those things could seriously mess with people's hearts.

And you can't reason with broken hearts
They too often experience hysterical deafness
and are incapable of listneing
'cause after all hearts don't have ears.
They have four chambers
capable of living together or alone
yet unable to ever be fully repaired

The problem
with broken hearts is
that we all have them.

The problem
with broken hearts is
that none of us wants to admit it.

The problem
with broken hearts is
that the only way to fix them is to love them

And who has any love left to give?

(c)cheryl snow white     2007

from snow white lies

Zone One Single

Is the ticket they sell you
to ride the London Subway (Tube)
when you're staying close to town,
not venturing out too far afield
then coming home a different way,
not sure where you're headed next,
no need for a Return.
"It's so expensive!" I complain
but my friend Sal, who has always been
a much more savvy traveler than I, says
"There's ways around it."
"Legal ways?"
"Just ways.  I always ride way past
Zone One, and never pay full fare.
If you like, I'll show you how."

And to tell you the truth I think about it,
as the train flashes past and I'm caught
in the warm blast of the dark tunnel breeze,
but in the end I decide to play by the Tube rules.
So I wait my turn patiently at Lancaster Gate
for the couple in front of me to buy their Returns,
and when the ticket vendor asks me,
"Zone One Single, Luv?"
I say, "Yes, very single,"
and use the ticket I was given
which means I'm free to head out,
not sure exactly where,
and I'll stay in bounds--
but I don't have to come back.
And if I do, I know I'll have to pay.

(c)M. Lee Alexander     2007

from Observatory

Finishing Line Press, Georgetown, KY

Tree of Prophecy

In late Summer we walked past
rows of boxwood, houses where porch
swings had folded the accordion
sounds of wind and rocking away.
At dusk, as though to hurry
us along the path, fireflies--
also called June bugs
here--circled our heels.

The hours are always ripening,
like fruit we have chosen
with our own hands.
We climbed the stairs and poured
wine to make the glasses ring,
toasting the future, which means
what cannot return.

At the beginning of the new
year, I slid open all the drawers
in my house and found a nostalgia
which was the color and odor of a different
season in another country--
preserved skeletons of flowers,
brittle as dry wings, sheets of hand-
writing, ambiguous as the sea.

When I lie down to sleep a tree
rises up in the level space
behind my eyes, its arms chalky
like ash, its bodice thin as a paper
shade or the shadow cast by a lamp.
I gather the leaves at its base, I gather
the singing that sings to me, that yet resides
somewhere high up in the branches
that I cannot see.

(c)Luisa A. Igloria

 from Trill and Mordent

WordTech Editions

Cincinnati, OH

Bag of Rags

It was late fall, early in the morning
And she was at her usual spot
In the City Dump.
Sitting on a small crate
Made her search easier.
She liked to pick through
The wonderful variety of rags,
Looking for pieces useful o saleable.
One time she found a pair of gloves --
Not just one, but two and matching.
She felt very elegand that day
As she strolled back to her

She enjoyed the unexpectedness--
Never knowing what she'd find
Or how she'd use it when she did.
It was always a blessing when
She found something whole.
Like that tiny basket made with
Colored glass beads and safety pins.
Mostly she'd look for plastic bags
because that meant 'category'-
Things of a kind that folks would
Throw out on the dump
For discriminating folks like her
Who had known real quality.

She had enough experience
To separate the good from the bad.
Her crate home was comfortably
Done with scrounged objects.
She was daring enough to make her bed
of large bags of plastic bags.
She didn't even explore its contents.
That gave her an exquisite feeling.
Not knowing what those bags might
Conceal in their midst - just imagine,
Her sleeping on such luxury!

This day wasn't going too well -
Nothing caught her eye.
Either it didn't fit or had no style.
But oh, now here was something -
A beautiful lace handkerchief,
Torn on one corner but no matter.
It felt so nice even in her rough hand.
She stopped by the homeless shelter
To shower and to wash the handkerchief.
She pressed it on the mirror and waited
While it dried - noting the envy
Of the ladies as they passed the mirror.

She folded it ever so carefully.
And went home to find a safe place
For her very nice handkerchief.
It was of the finest linen, like silk,
She thought it was the possibly
The loveliest she had ever owned.
She put it on the small box by her bed.
It warmed her heart as the chill of winter
Sifted through the tiny openings
In the walls of her home.
And that's where they found her
Sleeping in death on her bag of rags

With the fur stole and a diamond or two.
Covering her face was the loveliest
Lace handerchief she had ever owned.

(c)Beverley Isaksen          2007

from I'm Not Leaving Yet

If I Could Stretch A Dream

For a moment
I believed I could
stretch a dream
from surreal beginning
to surreal end.

She is a Montreal
exotic, with eyes
the color of a high-
way constellation

we pass inhaling
Canadian haze.
I touch her flesh
with my mental
fingertips hoping

to cross ancestries,
an African-Chinese bop
for the ages, a celestial
pulse vibrating beneath
our skins with

expansive, feathery
wings.  I smell her
reluctance, a feminine
defense mechanism
for sun-worshippers,

rebels with heaven's
residue on their
lips, change up their
sleeves, and Genesis
in their hands.

(c)Synnika Lofton          2005

from The Burden and the Gift, Vol 3

The Poet Juggernaut Movement

The Stripped Paper

It had to dome off the walls.
She knew it when she moved in
that cold November morning.
Sickly, the gulls

did not resemble the ones that
sat on the pier outside her window.
Instead, they hung in mid-flight
against the wall, flat and unfinished

as the room felt.
Years too late, she had the paper
stripped off, pulled from place.
The room, oddly barren,

Devoid of gulls, expanded
and took its first breath in years.
She felt its laughter, gasped to herself
and held her heart fast.

The color would come;
days from now she would see it,
bright and free of gulls.
The idea of tomorrow.

And she left the room alone
to breathe, much like a new lung
adjusting to life

(c)Nancy Powell        2007

from How Far Is Ordinary

Mindworm Press, Chesapeake, VA

One Light - II

II
          The dawn was only grey,
          it was nothing to mention -- 
          Just a grey evening turned upside down.
          I know.

(Howards End:  E.M. Forster)

          Sweet-sharp and biting,
the night when plums spill slick
juice on our paths.

The old man totters up
the front steps to the house (inside,
his cane lazes its hour

against the crook).
He walks, woodless, flattens
a rubber sole against the stones --

then slowly, out of his primeval
dark, he stumbles --
a crippling light against the slabs.

Swift song,

that low, invasive siren bleeding
white, the brittle basin of his pelvis

needling the skin, aurora in disguise.
          Scythelike, that moment
between wonderment

and mourning, half-wakened
pain and closure of the eye.
Clear pupils flower as trout streams;

silver ferntips glint on mountain gaps
to sun-dry on the worn slopes,
calcite stiff.

          The body rocks, rocks upsway,
downsway, hammocking in August
under wings,

each day, papoose of cotton, linen
raiment, blue thread dyes.
          The body roots, roots down-

ward, duskward, stranger
to the motion of its dust, a hollowing
of bone-white summer

          between stars.

(c)Sofia Starnes     2008

from Corpus Homini

Wings Press, San Antonio, TX

One Light

I
          Here at the quiet limit of the world.

(Tithonus:   Alfred Lord Tennyson)

          At three her arms hang,
listless on the chair, the bony fingers
splay as wicker star along the rocker's

side.  She swings back, forth, back . . .
and the beads (neat sunlit peas)
slip from her hands,

dull patter on the vinyl floor.  She sways
with gentle purr, behind an opened
door.

          Where is she now?  In what kind
          halfway house for flesh?  What does the body
          do with aging cells in lengthened dormancy?

We walk by, pick up the wayward
rosary and lay it on her lap.  The lazy
torpor spreads and we are caught

in its seducing slope, down, down
and gently to a road, where no cars run.
          This is where we must yield to faster

passers-by, joggers counting heartbeats
in their belts, relay teams with slim
batons -- crunch, crack, gravel underfoot.

Our daze keeps us behind.
We scarcely catch the mockingbird's first
jig, the nest with ovals breaking,

jerky motions tempting death,
the race begun with feathers flat against
the sides and hungry gawking mouths.

We watch the rise, fall, rise of earth
around her earthly brow, all this
exposing, uninhabited to our nomadic eye.

We wake, and she awakens, too.
Her fingers count:  Hail Mary, full of grace.
Did you have a good nap?

          Oh, yes.  I dreamt I saw a mockingbird,
          a nestling, soaked and wary, and
          the soft anointed head.


          You've never seen as much.  Come.
          Let me tell you. . . . 

(c)Sofia Starnes     2008

from Corpus Homini

Wings Press, San Antonio, TX

Stand by Me

Grief comes
Like a prickle in the mind
Rises in the throat
Wells in the back of the eyes
All before the conscious thought
The song on the car radio
Wasn't even the one he liked.
No reason at all
To stir that feeling
Sharp stick in the still pond
Must mean
I'm still alive

(c)Bea DuRette

published in Skipping Stones, Vol VI

Mindworm Press, Chesapeake, VA

Bleeding Blue

Bleeding blue upon a page my pen races
Wildly through the torrent of a thousand
Tears.

A million people may have died this year alone
My pain is not that tragic

How come your airplane crashed into the tower of my
Heart, leaving the steel-reinforced concrete in rubble
At your feet.

          I am in shock.

          I cannot say one word in
          my behalf.

          My mouth says "why," only

          ?why?

Later, I will know that's useless
What's done is done.  But now I
Stand in ruins.

A year away my happiness has fled into another
Galaxy maybe someone there can make good use
Of it.  I thought I did.

Happiness is not to be enjoyed in retrospect
Through tears.

(c)Wendy Donahue

published in Skipping Stones 2003

and in Ripples

Mindworm Press, Chesapeake, VA

Family Portrait

"Don't cry because it's over; smile because it happened."

--Dr. Seuss

Once a mother
took a shower
when her kids
were napping.
A small decision,
a small investment,
like cleaning out
the closets or
vacuuming the stairs.

The universe, shocked
at her presumption,
inspired her four-year-old
son to climb
to heaven.  Later
she found him
hanging from
the blinds' cord,
her son's last
struggle silenced
by her last
serene shower.

Life support
let him linger
for their last
family portrait,
taken by a fighter-pilot
friend.  The heart
monitor ticked away
the last seconds
of life.
The warrior's hand
shuddered
at their brave smiles.

(c)Amanda Rooker          2010

untitled

I pull back the sheet & kiss her neck.

Because she has turned away from me,
she doesn't move.  She doesn't say a word

when I reach into her hair, touching
until we both laugh.

(c)Jon Pineda   2004

from Birthmark

Southern Illinois University Press

Carbondale, Il

Walking Backwards

Suddenly, sometimes when an April wind

with sweet scent of honeysuckle shoves hair

across my face, or an early sun streaks

sailor red warnings, am I then startled

to find an extra plate on our table.

Turn around!  Stop walking backwards, blindly

stumbling over yesteryears criss-cross roots.

Company thread tangled with sighing tugs.

We unraveled edges to complete shirts

soon found too short.  Joane and I bowed over

for harsh whippings, a public punishment.

Twilight born, life breath shallow, life too brief--

I held; then tightly wrapped our furled too soon.

Joane poured water, spoke him John in the name

of the Father, the Son and Holy Ghost.

We deep buried him under angry skies.

Grief comes unannounced in pale persimmon

buds, in the oval shaped raindrops that cling

to tips of willow leaves--achingly small,

incredibly lovely.  Lacking reason

I hold sorrow until I hear laughter.

Virginia, Alice, and Katherine roll

rough clay balls in afternoon pools of light.

Extra plate back on shelf, I imprison

three cygnets beneath wings for riddle songs

with promises of release in good time.

Loss once again cradles in familiar

hollows.  It hides and waits in solitude.

(c)Patricia Flower Vermillion   2008

from Lady's Maid                                  

Live Wire Press, Charlottesville, VA

One Drink Too Many

Another drink, this time she swears everything is okay
Another drink and she tries to tell herself
She knows who she is.

But we all know the drink is just an excuse
To dull the pain
Awakening nights, she laughs to the rhythm of her dying heart
We know the days and nights she was dying

Wishing things would change
Would one more drink be her last regret?
She tried to save herself in that one last sip
She dropped the bottle and stared straight ahead

Nothing could take the place of how happy she
Used to be
Killing the life she had one bit at a time
With one drink too many

(c)Celisa Hoskin

published in Skipping Stones 2007

Mindworm Press, Chesapeake, VA

the age every girl wants to be

She stands there at age 16 and proclaims
She wrote this poem - "a long time ago"
but what she left me wanting to know was
relative to the average life expectancy
of a female fruit fly, what is the definition
of a long time

Relative to the length of the lines
in her poems her life is but
the twinkling of an eye
You see her childhood lost in tears
her metaphors wise beyond the years
she is the age every girl think she wants to be

Her age of innocence lost you see
she trusted men completely until she was betrayed
Wore her clothes rather neatly until they were frayed
by the very strong hands - she trusted

She sang in the choir with an angelic voice
and should have gone higher but soon became hoarse
singing the very secrets she sang so low
and what she left me wanting to know was
why she loves the sound of her voice
more than she loves herself

Her life is just beginning, already
her hopes for true love on a shelf
This makes her wonder - No
This makes her wanna holla and
throw up both her hands - No
it makes her wanna scream and throw
out the bath water with the man
she is tired of life already

She's given up her virtue to the boy
before they were even going steady and
God knows a baby doesn't make a man ready
for marriage;  she thinks this whole thing
is a miscarriage of justice, She dreams this
whole thing has ended in a miscarriage
But no such luck, she wakes to find herself stuck
in the reality and the finality
of an abortion, she is now officially
the age every girl thinks she wants to be

But she didn't start out this poem to end so tragically
and if she could start it all over magically
she'd write more reason than rhyme in her fantasy
she'd finally find out who she's supposed to be
And she'd write this one great poem so you can see
That getting old before your time
ain't all it's cracked up to be

It's only the age every girl thinks she wants to be

(c)Nathan M. Richardson      2006

from You Are the Subject

Spiritual Concepts Publishing, Suffolk, VA

Her Name Is Peace

She is what we all hope for, what we all pray for;
That which cannot be found without God as our true
          Commander-in-Chief.

She is the enemy of the wicked and contentious,
          Bane of the political and religious radical,
 That which war cannot restore without seeking
          its own demise.

Her essence is not defined by a circle and some lines,
          Her ideals are not served by repression and anarchy,
That which seeks to achieve the aim of peace by missing
          the mark of humanitarianism.

She is God's child...God's domain...God's gift.
          We, the lovers of Peace, eagerly await her coming.

(c)Janeann R. Hoskin

published in Skipping Stones 2007

Mindworm Press, Chesapeake, VA

Journey West

We walked a winding path through tall grass,
Green in the East and sweet as wind on wheat.
Sunrise behind us shimmered the blowing fields,
Softened sharp edges, hid deep ditches.
Casual as yeast and as dependable,
The prairie rose gently toward far mountains.

We were young; stroll or stride came easily.
Morning shadows slid harmless before us,
Summer afternoons ignored the threats behind.

Green became gold with hints of rose in beige,
Our path now black along the frosted foothills.
We smile a mix of rue and roses, face West,
Button our collars high and hold hands.

(c)Philomene Hood                          2003

from Ride Home Through Scented Grass

Pearl Line Press, Zuni, VA

Filling Spaces

My father read Frost and Dickinson to me, played
minuets and waltzes before school in the morning.

Standing in the doorway,
he'd motion me on as I walked backwards,

keeping him in my gaze.  Bright yellow
dress dotted with white, lifting with each wave

of my arm.  Too soon, we laid him gently
into the earth, pillowing the ground with

marigolds, murmurs of prayers.  Year after year,
I find myself planting more golden anchors, filling

spaces, piecing together what I can remember:
shimmering ribbons of sounds,

words soaring from a voice rich,
lush as new gardenias.

A young girl waiting to bloom, listening,
as I do now, for her father.

(c)Ann Falcone Salaski     2007

from World Made of Glass

San Francisco Bay Press

Su Manera De Ser

She was white as the knuckles
clutching the sharp shears.
Her hair the blackness of infinity,
a Guns and Roses tattoo undulating
across her chest to the rhythm of blades
moving through my hair.

Her hair caresses her face as
she sways to New Wave music
piping through Les Belles Femmes
the sole chic salon in Suffolk.
So comfortable in her painted skin -
the shocked stares of
bee-hived seniors returned
with a sly wink and smile.

Sipping her wine as we shoot the breeze,
her pencil-thin brows highlight her points.
Soy milk, yoga, and agnostic beliefs concur;
we are distinct from the conventional world.
When she bends over to reach for a brush,
she exposes the mermaid swimming up her back;
but without the slightest tug of shirt,
she cuts again.

My children giggle and point as she ruffles
their hair.  Her question uncomplicated:
"What cut do you want today?:
My oldest replies, "Like yours!  It's cool!"

"Make sure it's you and not me
that you want," her smile radiates
the confidence of all she is.
I admired how she flashes her uniqueness
For all to behold -- not smothering it inside
as my circumstances dictate I must.
How easily she wore su manera de ser.

(c)Martha Maurno

published in Skipping Stones 2005

Mindworm Press, Chesapeake, VA

Silent Prayer

a cardinal
perched on the cedar
     at the edge of the woods

he is,
awakening  me
to the gift
that is this day

resting,
for a moment
in silent
prayer

speck of blood
     at the edge of the woods

i know you

(c)Lisa Malone

At the Fruit Stand

Beneath the midday heat
Within the darkened shed
The fruit monger and I
Filled my plastic bags with a kilo of this
And a kilo of that, when the radio station
Broke into a rollicking folkdance

He started it, the clapping
Arms raised high, fingers snapping,
But I soon joined in,
And together we danced around the citrus
While the music throbbed joy and power
Until the cashier snapped,
"Sa'ad!"

Youth and the party evaporated.
He resumed stacking tomatoes;
I filled my bags and left.

For a moment, though, the heat had given way
And the fruits had glowed inside,
Festival decorations
Bright as the noonday sun above.

(c)Christy Lumm                          

published in Skipping Stones 2007

Mindworm Press, Chesapeake, VA

Salt

Oh welcome rain
the sweat of the earth
pouring down to cool
the dust of its dust.
Sweat sprung from the
rush of the clouds,
hurry, please don't
drag us down.
Or is it tears,
grief raining down,
reminders of an
unknown sorrow?
Whether tears or sweat,
it can only be
salt from the earth.

(c)Melissa Beebe                                                        

published in Skipping Stones 2007

Mindworm Press, Chesapeake, VA