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,
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:
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
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!
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
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!