The First Week

woman-3616244_1280

By Mary Shay McGuire (for Lane)

dulled, muted, I sit in the room
at the open window, the lace
breathes in and out

it has been a whole week
a Sunday to Sunday since his death

I remember his garden on the edge
of the stone path filled with
basils, chives and one begonia

tulips he planted in a blurt
of color under the tree
the wildflowers beyond, the rose wandering

and on the kitchen table
the glass bowl filled with peonies
so pale, so perfect they ached

             
“I write because it seems the way to express to something that I cannot say any other way,” – the author

Advertisements

In Memoriam

stone-gate-post-inscribed-with-chateau-gazin-bordeaux-gironde-aquitaine-france,2120661

By Lynn White

She met Max in Germany
digging up prehistoric graves
in a summer vacation.
He was an Art student,
a Sculptor
and later
he cycled to Rome to view ‘David’
in all his marbled flesh.
Later still,
on his return
he slept on the sofa
in our shared student house.
In recompense
he carved a large number ’14’
in our sandstone gatepost
with a rusty spike
and a half brick
that he found
in the tiny front yard.
There was no gate.

Where are they now?
I don’t know
but still
the gatepost stands
in memoriam
alone without a gate.

           
Lynn White lives in north Wales. She is especially interested in exploring the boundaries of dream, fantasy and reality. She was short-listed in the Theatre Cloud ‘War Poetry for Today’ competition and has been nominated for a Pushcart Prize and a Rhysling Award. Her poetry has appeared in publications including Apogee, Firewords, Vagabond Press, Light Journal and So It Goes Journal.

I Accept

away-1040726_1280

By Josiah Robb

I accept
this unbeaten path
bends and all.
I accept the towering bluffs
that will rain rocks
with little warning.
I accept
these forks to nowhere
and the dead end
at the mirage.
I accept
the thick giant pines
and how they will keep me
constantly in their shadow.
I accept the weather
I accept the pain
that I know
I will need to feel
to be whole again.

           
Josiah Robb lives in the South Island of New Zealand with his family. Writing brings him peace, fulfillment and the energy needed to wrangle the little difficulties and struggles of being human, while keeping up a happy smile.

A Thorn

paris-2775465_1280

By Carolyn Black

A thorn from a plaited instrument of passion
A barb from Ziziphus spina-christi
Secreted in a weather vane in 1801
Now fallen from a burning spire
Inside a shell tougher
Than any egg

Survived the raging fire that
Roasted the rooster
It’s black twisted body
Wrought but not destroyed
Drenched by hoses and fire
A miracle

Two days later ash and tang of charred timber
Hang in the air
The fund to rebuild Notre Dame
Reached a billion euros
The thorn shall come home to roost on high
Again, a spiritual lightning rod

         
“I write because it allows me to leak a little.” – the author

Tiny Rainbows

person-1153168_1280

By R. Nuñez

Every raindrop makes a spatter
Unlike the ones the others make,
And tells a story all its own
About a river and a lake;

About an ocean and a cloud,
Of wondrous journeys that begin
With muddy puddles in the sun,
Of tiny rainbows found within.

And this in just a little drop;
Who knows what else it may contain?
And I, with so much more besides,
Am very like a drop of rain.

         
“I ‘need’ to write. It is my way of venting, of sharing, and of expressing. If I don’t write, I die inside.” – author

When Words Aren’t

adrian-swancar-1205637-unsplash

By Christine Goodnough

— hear — planning a trip
to —? They’ve been — now
they want to stay — and see —

Sounds flow around me,
smiles of understanding
I smile, too; it’s only polite.

Another speaker, more sounds;
everyone laughs. I grin, too,
not willing to appear clueless.

Someone else comments —
but I give up. Giving ear
to gossip’s not respectable.

Besides, if I only hear snatches
of juicy details about someone,
I won’t get the story straight.

A friend looks directly at me
and asks, “How are you today?”
She understands.

“Not so great right now,”
I whisper, “My hearing aids
both died during the service.”

           
The author is a wife, mom, grandma, nature lover, a poet and writer since her teens. She’s published a collection of short stories and poems and recently a book of haiku verses. She says: “I try to weave a dash of humor, compassion and thankfulness into what I write. And I am almost deaf. I’m very glad for my two hearing aids, but in a crowd …”

Tail

rabbit-542554_1280

By Murdoch Mouse

I have a tail
We all did once
But I’m told it’s rare now
They call it a vestigial tail
I doesn’t really do anything
Just swings
Back and forth

it doesn’t hurt me
Or anyone else
But they want to remove it
put me to sleep
And take it away

People say its wrong
They call it an abnormality
But it’s mine
It’s a part of me
Does that mean
I am wrong?
I am abnormal?

Because i feel unique.

           
“Just a mouse, with a tail.” – the author