Circular cracks show on its map
Its rivers do not flow, only dried up sap
Mountains rise up and its structure still sure
However, the dying giant has no cure
Grey, empty, hollowed out
Water it cannot go without
It gains new life on a lonely night
when by lightning strike it is set alight
Its ashes nourish
The soil it will encourage
Seedlings sprout from its ground
The extent of life is ever profound
Tanzelle writes “for creative expression.”
By Dianne Moritz
How I yearned for the golden years as I hit retirement age. Days with plenty of free time, relaxing by the beach, traveling to far-flung, exotic places: Tahiti, Peru, Paris. No work. No worries.
In reality many friends died, suffered dementia, or moved away. Then, suddenly came a global pandemic no one could have fathomed in their worst nightmares. Life changed in an instant.
Now, we huddle in our homes, wipe everything down, wash our hands raw, wear masks, and pray. Yet, still, people die.
The future of this brave, new world looks bleak.
“I sometimes write to help lessen my anxiety.” – the writer
By Ron. Lavalette
After a couple hours bobbing in brilliant lakewater, there are grapefruit margaritas on the sundeck, or maybe a couple of cold beers out under the shadetree. Everybody’s full-throated, half-naked, sunburnt, and totally shot by three o’clock, even though happy hour is still several hours away. Everyone’s already as happy as anyone can be, thanks to their lengthy lounge, chips and dip in a darkened bar, and their spirited but friendly debate about the current sad state of affairs no one’s paying any real attention to anyway.
Eve snaps up a Tupperware filled with applesauce, steers Adam toward the back door.
Ron. Lavalette writes “to overcome his stir-craziness up on the Canadian border in Vermont’s Northeast Kingdom.”
By Arinda duPont
If you stop the dancing girl, and stare into her eyes
you can see they are red and puffy from crying all the time.
For all her whirls and twirls,
and carefree spins
there are tremors in her hands.
If you can watch her long enough you might realize
that she is not dancing,
but trembling, silently weeping, spinning out of control
“I write because I don’t know who I am without writing.” – the writer
By Dianne Moritz
Isolated here at home,
Healing slowly, safe, alone.
Watching movies on demand,
Comfy, cozy, Coke in hand.
Theaters closed up anyway.
No complaints, so here I stay.
Watching films for price of one,
Popcorn, too. I’m having fun!
Finding joy in every day,
Till this virus goes away!
“After a recent traumatic fall own a flight of stairs, shattering several bones, and in a care home for over 3 months. Virus free, I’m healing and writing again.” – the writer
By Tim Dadswell
I pass the familiar ‘For Sale’ sign outside our house.
I find Celia reading in bed. Her manicured nails, cream-cleansed complexion and slender body are now meant for another.
Her head turns. She scans me top to toe, spotting a hole in my sock. One corner of her mouth curls upward.
My well-rehearsed sentences shrivel into sun-dried stalks. There will be no showdown tonight.
In the spare room, it’s like I’m in a basket under a hot air balloon. My atomized words swirl overhead, out of reach.
Where are the ropes to return me to the ground?
Tim Dadswell writes “to connect with like-minded readers.”
By Jenny Middleton
We strung the paradise of those days
together as if they were shark’s teeth
threaded onto a leather lace
to be worn as a talisman forbidding tomorrow’s bite.
Each tooth having already eaten all other
shy, creeping terrors, before its own fall
from a blooded jaw to the quietness of a fossil
amongst a cathedral of cavernous bones
waiting to be plucked.
Now rooms are bare of that glory – hollowed
and we feel as skeletal as those displays
hanging in galleries where they sell,
for a few pounds, pendants
like the one we made all those years ago.
The new light ghosted with shadows slipping
between youth and the spill of age,
as if time was a toy spun carelessly in a Zoetrope,
then stilled again to individual images
that perhaps we can still hold.
“The last stanza of this poem sums up why I write – life can seem uncontrollable, like a child’s toy spinning recklessly, I write to still that spin.” – the writer
I am no woman’s friend.
I count none as confidante.
They are baseless, petty, gossipy things
Nary an exception.
They don’t appeal to me
There is no spirit of affiliation,
No desire to share and pretend that hushed discourse is relevant.
I much prefer the male of the species.
They can be understood.
Surprises are rare and relationships effortless.
Or million-dollar heartbreaks
We have created them
We have molded them
So we must, of necessity,
Live with our mistakes.
“I’ve spent most of my life as either someone’s daughter, wife or mother. Writing allows me the freedom to be accountable to no one.” – the writer
By Angelle McDougall
Leap Year is where all the leftovers go.
Not food, but things like misplayed notes on a piano,
the extra keys pressed on a typewriter,
the words from unfinished sentences,
partial thoughts, fragments of unused time,
redundant words, and lost translations.
The Goddess takes all these bits and pieces
and collects them throughout the years,
carefully storing them in a large jar
like grains of sand in an hourglass.
Every fourth year she tips the timer over
and lets all the pieces flow out into the Universe
to settle and fill in the empty spaces.
“I write poetry because it is the language I am most fluent in.” – the writer
By Raymond Sloan
He wandered along the sand, looking toward the peak of the rock rooted in the sea, imagining her still perched upon it. Smiling. Waving back at him. A single tear fell and swam through the cracks of his skin as he stood there, before it crawled and rested on his broken heart.
He walked the short distance home and fell into bed and slept. He was awakened the next morning by the crash of the early tide, deciding today was the day. He raked the water the whole way there. Then climbed up and kissed the last place she touched.
“I write because I love writing.” – the writer