Service

No bulletin for the first of the daughters, no hello.
Heavy doors, dim vestibule, temptation to yoo-hoo.
This dream of the holy place, all dogged week
of clotheslines and dust cloths, certain as the smoke
from burning barrels in the unison of wind.  Hardly
grace in their arrival, toes turned out, heels high.
But they study no doubt, sit as though thinking
in thanks for tributary streets, everyone walking.
The old tongue's children tread particularly
as though each season disguises ice in northerly
shadow.  Let them contemplate the font
that blessed their names, wait as they were taught,
and where.  It's approaching time
to hallelujah, jaws taut, fierce with volume.
Unwrinkle laps to rise one half beat ahead
of the organ the way the pull of the belfry rope, audible
the entire height of the steeple,
sets the sanctuary sounding like bones in the head.

(c)Jay Paul                           1999

from Going Home in Flood Time

The Ink Drop Press, Painter, VA

Dance in a Small Kitchen

Early in the morning
They dance in the kitchen,
Exchanging places with a twirl
From toaster to coffeemaker -
A sort of pas de deux -
Yet not really aware
That they are waltzing
Gracefully back to back,
Then face to face
With a sophisticated glide.
It's a curious choreography -
This morning dance -
And it is reprised
Whenever they meet
In their small kitchen ballroom.

(c)Beverley Isaksen          2007

from I'm Not Leaving Yet

National Geographic and Cosmopolitan

She wore her skin outside as natural cover
And crossed a glossy page of jungle stream,
So tuned to green and finding steady footing
That camera lens was just admiring gleam.

She caught the light in bronze and fawn and black
Inviting none yet turning no one back.
Her adolescent curves, both broad and lean
I've carried long for scent of something clean.

The sly cosmetics topping flash of flesh
Herald Cosmo's monthly cover girl,
An icon pushing breasts and other products
Pouting playmates pose in blush and curl.

Who's to guess the gap between innocence and pretense?

(c)Wayland Yoder          1997

Friday. July 3. 1942

Fickle faded.

Shades of love and

sweet eats.

Like hot cross buns,

a hot cross Daddy.

Out too late,

curfewed too soon.

Ten minutes

more or less.

Less time,

more freedom,

a soul confides

you're the one.

Fitting remark

following the

parental intro.

Love shaded by

blinders of

sweet biscuits of youth

and sweet times.

(c)Phyllis Johnson      2008

from being frank with anne

Community Press, Virginia Beach, VA

Woman in an Abaya

You look at me with envy,
disapproval, curiosity.
Returning the multi-layered stare,
I wonder if you, too, are having
a bad-hair day, if you're kicking
yourself for eating that extra
cookie last night.l  Lucky you--
hiding so much behind
your black facade.

How odd we'd each feel,
exchanging places for a day.
For you, how liberating
escaping all that black--
revealing your beauty for the
world to gawk at, finally asking
why only he--who in fact might
have one or two other women to
see--should be privy.

As for me, how luxurious to
disappear behind black--slipping
into it as if into a warm bubblebath.
Could keep pajamas on all day
underneath, go an extra day or two
between shampoos.  Nothing to loose.
Not have men gawk at me.  Get into
flaunting mystery.

(c)Diana Woodcock                2010

from In the Shade of the Sidra Tree,

a chapbook forthcoming from Finishing Line Press

Limbo

She's still asleep, the doctor said,
But it's not cancer,
I didn't have to take her ovaries,
Just cleaned up the endometriosis--
You see, the body regards endometriosis
As an invader, so tries to
Get rid of the accumulation
And that causes pain and inflammation...

He murmurs, Thanks, Doc,
Shakes the doctor's hand,
Suddenly sees the green pajamas,
Looks down at his black jeans,
Black shirt, black coat, the glittering
Metal brads, the black boots...
Taking inventory of himself...who he is.
He starts to tag along after the green pajamas.
But stops himself.  They won't let ya.
Don't go there.


She's still asleep.
There's nothing to do
But wait till she wakes up--
The nurse'll come get him--just keep
Pacing the floor, watching
The traffic through the glass of the atrium,
Eyeing the others in the waiting room,
Encased in pools of silence like jail cells.

Nobody to talk to.
nobody to listen to.

He doesn't belong here,
It's time to move on.
It's an alien hostile world
Without her.  She isn't here.

She isn't even his.
He can't talk to her,
Can't shake her shoulder
And say Wake up, Lorene,
Wake up, the baby's crying,
Can't send his hand
Snaking under the covers
Till he touches her flesh
Smooth, warm, ready.

So this is what limbo means.
You're nowhere, you're nobody
You have nothing to do
And no one to do it with.

He drops into a chair,
Stares through, past the atrium
doing that nothing

With that no one.
Till the nurse comes, smiling,
Some kind of St. Peter at the gate.
She's awake now.  Come with me.

(c)Anne Meek

published in Skipping Stones 2004

Mindworm Publishing, Chesapeake, VA

Whenever Possible

Whenever possible, drink
Sunshine from a buttercup.
Eat honey from flowers with the bees.
Swing on a rainbow.

Avoid reality.
Eschew mediocrity.
Ignore limits.
Turn a deaf ear to reason.

Ruin your shoes walking in a swamp.
Pull up Indian pipes.
Smear blood root on your face.
Hunt for animal tracks.
Lose your jacket.
Forget to go home in time for supper.
Bob on a raft on the ocean
Until you feel the waves
All night while you sleep.

Wonder which man to make love to
And consider each one in detail.
Imagine dancing Swan Lake while
You doze on your porch.
Eat toast with cinnamon sugar
Make fresh rhubarb pie.
Go to New England to buy apples in Autumn.

Paint a wild, terrible piece of art.
Hang it in your bedroom.
Squander money on a truly outstanding handbag
And

Stop trying to save your life.

(c)Wendie Donahue

published in Skipping Stones, Vol VI

Mindworm Press, Chesapeake, VA

Square Dancing

The little kids rush
the circle
toes squished like raisins
minus the sun
I used to rush the circle
grabbing sweaty hands
spinning past
no names
and prominent professionals
they were all the same to me
there are four corners to a square
this is where the trouble starts
little kids
rush the circle
never mindful of the rules
gleeful
without the corral
of someone else's idea
of fun
always better to
run...
every square dance
has a leader
an uninvolved reader
pulling do-se-dos
and alamand lefts
from his back pocket
like the memories
of third grade
first day
in a new school
let's square dance
gym class nightmare
I say he never forgot
the cootie covered hands
revenge is sweet
think of all those
bruised feet

(c)Angela Copeland                   2008

published in Skipping Stones, Vol VI

Mindworm Press, Chesapeake, VA

Sunday Morning

It is Sunday morning and a north breeze stirs
the antique oaks whose canopy hides the sky
to the West, gray night lingers, hesitant to depart.
in the East, pale dawn sends slender fingers,
probing the foliage of the oaks and pines.
the birds bestir and leave their nests,
seeking sustenance from the feeders in my yard.
quieter on this day of rest, the street, busy on other days,
would be filled with platinum lights and scarlet
heat from passing cars, sporadic colors seen
through the green of my neighbors' yards.
my gardenia bush holds aloft white scented blooms,
amid green leaves I see fawn feathers stir,
as wee birds who rest there suddenly take flight,
wheel and soar into this Sunday's morning light.

(c)Anna Alexander

published in Skipping Stones 2006

Mindworm Press, Chesapeake, VA

I Don't Believe in Fairytails

You are bent like the scar on my heart
into the shape of a question I cannot answer.
Perplexed, I can't help but wonder if we aren't

more alike than we both think, tiny dancers
tip-toeing away from what we know can kill
us, calm as the bloom of cancer.

How can you smother the unbridled and bucking will
of the animal in you galloping toward
the stars?  Your eyes, rusted as mars, betray desires unfulfilled.

Wind blows in your hair as you fast-forward
into a life where that hard stare falls apart
alongside the winding white cord

that choked you in the first place.  There is an art,
I'd argue, to peeling away from
the dead parts of yourself, separating darks

from lights and the long lonesome
fight to own what was never promised,
the sweet and subtle hum

of a lifetime you've missed.
But how should I know, I'm just
you, lost in the mist.

(c)Corey Nixon

published in Skipping Stones 2007

Mindworm Press, Chesapeake, VA

sugar lips

"what can I get for you, sugar lips?"
her flirty query casually cut through
a cluttered friday-almost-evening
at a bar overlooking houston street.

she was greenwich village stunning:
impossibly tall with a chestnut mane
that helped conceal her backless top
and big, scary blue eyes that never blink.

she didn't need to call me "sugar lips,"
even if they pout like james dean's,
underinflated a few p.s.i. shy of perfect,
since my honest bride never called me that.

while I let it slide, it was unnecessary;
with all her bending and stretching for beers,
she was well on her way to a great tip anyway;
she just moved in for the kill too quick,

like interrupting someone asking for your number
with a kiss, catching them open-mouthed like a
fish in a barrel, taking the fun out of the hunt
of this dark wood, smoke-free forest of alphabet city.

I ordered a "day-old" beer, laid out an extra buck
and watched her move on to "sweetheart" down the bar,
then "honeybaby" a few stools further, she the
robotic amazon warrior queen for a day.

standing out like she did on an island like manhattan,
enough to keep men three-deep and drinking deeper,
I'm left with the memory of her pet name, but not
her face -- only the scars she hid from me.

perhaps if she offered an outstretched hand,
and not her long limbs and supple insecurities
I could stop being "sugar lips"
and she could start being "herself."

(c)Tom Shachez Prunier               2008

published in Skipping Stones, Vol VI

Mindworm Publishing, Chesapeake, VA

Sanctuary

Curb all this technology!
We can't hear the poetry!
Who can hear Byron, Shelley, and Keats
If a jackhammer's screaming in the streets?
Who can take in Whitman and Frost
If a drill''s at work and the lyrics are lost?
Trees are falling -- it's getting worse
When you can't read a Maya Angelou verse
Who can hear Joni Mitchell singing
If some stupid cell phone is ringing?
A poetry open mic is the place to be
Come, let's camp at the library!

(c)Ann Catherine Braxton          2009
published in Skipping Stones, Vol VI

Mindworm Press, Chesapeake, VA

Mirrors

Detritus Shingles down by grain and grain.
Do we have all we need and want today?
The furniture has slowly gathered stains.
But do we have all items in array?

Do we have all we need and want today?
The moving van goes open in the rain.
But do we have all items in array?
The men begin to carry it away.

The moving van goes open i the rain.
The weather man said it might snow today.
The men begin to carry it away.
The snow and rain persist.  It's all in vain.

The weather man said it might snow today.
The truck is full and now begins to sway.
The snow and rain persist.  It's all in vain.
The road is opening the end of day.

The truck is full and now begins to sway.
The furniture has slowly gathered stains.
The road is opening the end of day.
Detritus shingles down by grain and grain.

(c)Dawn L. C. Miller

published in Skipping Stones 2007

Mindworm Press, Chesapeake, VA

Body

On the bed,
you look more like
a dark and mysterious
mountain range,
the candlelight casting
shadows on you like sunset.
I travel every trail,
stopping to hold
handfuls of earth,
warm and moist,
squishing between my fingers.
I sing and dance
in apple orchards,
lush and fragrant,
patches of undiscovered
wildflowers with butterflies.
I roll over your lands
like wind, like
a breeze,
a kiss across acres
of rolling fields,
a promise
of a summer storm,
of rolling purple clouds
and a gentle warning
of warm rain.
I imagine
a small village
nestled inside
your hip,
a close-knit community,
scrambling
as the ground beneath it
trembles,
and I almost hear
the villagers slapping
their shutters shut,
as the thunder rumbles
through their wooden shanties.
A couple smokes dope
close to where your inner thigh
slopes down,
maybe under the cover
of a plastic blue tarp,
sitting on a picnic table,
the heavy rain licking
their flip-flopped feet,
waiting for the storm to pass
for their inevitable return
to the world,
desparately hoping
this might be
the storm that lasts
all night.

(c)Jeff Jones

published in Skipping Stones 2006

Mindworm Press, Chesapeake, VA

Mirrors

Give me some poor reflection,
before the light changes,
Let little shoes dance me,
bright sparkles joy me up
from my bent fingers
and give me
a soft coat with a good name to frame my neck
with a warm concealing collar.
Let me draw it up
and look in the mirror
seeking some revelation past it all,
an essential truth
reflected by small shoes
and soft coat.

May these trappings conceal
and reveal
some truth of me shining
before the light fades too much.

(c)Dawn L.C. Miller

published in Skipping Stones 2007

Mindworm Press, Chesapeake, VA

I Remember You

Vacant eyes search for meaning
But the key is a tangled cobweb of highways
My voice sounds like a cottonball
Where the words are buried deep in a wreck
Called dementia.

A haze of ammonia scents your windowless room
I cradle your withered body
Someone whispers you are a prisoner
Locked behind stolen memories
Packed away on your dusty bookcase.

I glance up to your mantel
Littered with photos of a joyful past
A redhead of twenty-one on her wedding day
Full of future, full of hope.

Moments of lapse started at fifty
Laughed off over sips of chamomile
Until cobblestone roads led to dirt paths
Now sans a name.

I remove your dusty trophy to bring your past closer
Sparking the fire with my only match
As you grab my hand and say,
"That's me!"

(c)Carolyn Sanford

published in Skipping Stones 2007

Mindworm Press, Chesapeake, VA

Moon Minute

The day collapsed around me
in concentric rings
Like a traveler's old fashioned tin cup,
circles encircled,
a maze within itself.

Sunset poured wine across the evening sky
and stepped aside
to accommodate a moon.
I took flight past the shoulders
of Orion into the arms of the Seven Sisters
who do not forgive neglect.

The stars whispered,
"You linger too long!  Take care!"
One brushed against my lips,
"Neglect love, pay dearly!"
Another sparked twice and sang
before she danced away,
"Remember melody!"

Enchantment waylaid, for a moon minute,
but here I go again,
unfolding my empty cup.

(c)Philomeme Hood          2003

from Ride Home Through Scented Grass

Pearl Line Press

Suspended

"I cannot hear my own
voice."

A wild river
rages in my brain,
overflowing boundaries,
where thoughts struggle
to surface as sentences.

An ambulance screams
announces an emergency,
my emergency.

I see a wooden cross
on the wall above the door
as we enter.
I am comforted.

A nurse connects a heart
monitor.  It beeps assurance.
Oh, another cross!

My husband removes my rings.
His lips move silently,
perhaps a prayer.
Thoughts race.
How sick am I --
Our grandchild just born --
Our children so far away --
My elderly mother --
Damn, the new sofa!
I am only fifty-six,
helpless as a clock without hands.

God, my full bladder releases,
the sheet's wet as a baby's diaper.

I am caught in a tangle of time
               Where tic does not move to tock.

(c)Laniere Gresham                   2009

published in Skipping Stones Vol VI

Crossing Guard

light glints off reflective tape seen in the
mirrored toes of spit-shined shoes --

hurry

hands gensturing,
arms flying,
eyes snapping --

hurry but

take care

(c)Melissa Beebe 

published in Skipping Stones 2007

Brooch

A hundred miles
to where we spent
the rest of your life.
Did you call me here?  Why
today?

Twenty years
since you wished for
your wife, the unattainable
emerald, beyond a teacher's pocket:

White cameo kitten
in green mist.
I knew it on sight
today.

Estate Jewelry.  Some son traded
Mom's baubles
to the dealer, including
the brooch.

Twenty years
on a wealthier breast;
just displayed for sale
today.

Bargain price.  Snatched
up, in seconds.
Dealer will never
know what he sold me.

Seven years
I have mourned you.
Your fleshless kiss warms my lips;
emerald cat purrs silently to my heart
today.

(c)Patsy Anne Bickerstaff          2009