What Water Says
Leafless aspens groom the iced breeze, while below a brook descends the mountain with its musical story, remembering the serenity of sky, and lightning’s clear passion. Water knows what is far will be near. Water says choose that which closes distance, choose touch. When snow falls and a green mystery is carried by all that moves, choose love. By Jim Bertolino Jim is the winner of our second poetry contest! You can see his poem on display at the downtown co-op until the end of August! Learn more about his work at: http://www.jamesbertolino.com/ and jamesbertolinoblog.wordpress.com
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Journey
Our headlamps glare. The tires rasp sand, my reveries give rise to ghosts that chase us as we move over dry earth thirsting for rain. In their wake, the soft touch of his hand, the fragile closeness that we share, make darker visions easier to bear. Then we are at the water's edge. Mist swirls, and stark coyote voices ripple the furry surface of the dark, stipple sharp echoes forth and back over the lake. His shotgun rests in the quiet nest of his sunburned arm, assuring me there is nothing here to bring me harm. My father's hands are burred with callus and his words fall far and few between, as if they were ashamed of being heard. We sit still in silent connection: he on his quest, I with my questions. The pithy fog begins to swirl, and from the west, dipping and soaring, whirling flocks of greenwinged teal wheel over us in restless flight, and at the first faint streak of early light, his blue eyes glare along the glinting barrel out where the air is shattered by his will. I feel their cry and greenwingedbirds begin to tumble from the sky. By Jim Milstead Jim's poem is a runner up for our second poetry contest. Thank you, Jim for your submission! Blackberries
Shiny luster of blackberries softens in late summer. The tips of each clump are first to lose the tight tummy of youth and surrender to middle aged softness. We're buddies. They can't wait to fall into my fingers. I gorge in an audacious orgy that is replenished with sun that seems endless. But in dark years, late summer clouds are a funeral procession that solemnly marches across the sky. Battered berries skip purple plumpness and shrivel into a vestige that I can't eat. They are cold and devoid of jubilance. But in the best we have an intertwined union. I lust for clumps just out of reach, stretch on my toes. Ignore sharp biting thorns as if we are one. Don't notice red etch-a-sketches being drawn on my arms and legs. Feast in purple plentitude. By Harvey Schwartz Harvey is a runner up in our second poetry contest - thank you, Harvey, for your submission! Your Love Is That Good You water me so good, I don't even think about dying. You pour color into my heart, goes down easy and sweet. You must be some kind of garden goddess, strong enough to carry that watering can up here to keep my roots cool. You water me so good, sometimes I just want to cry. Your love is that strong. By Rick Hermann Rick is a runner up for our second poetry contest - thank you, Rick, for your submission! |