Portrait of My Daughter as a WIC Check36 oz breakfast cereal, 11 to 36 oz boxes
Her hair has turned the color of shredded wheat, dry and streaked from chlorine and summer. 1 dozen white eggs, small, medium, or large Her ovaries are tight and green as young rose hips, Her fallopian tubes are pea shoots. She caries her cloth and plastic daughters under her shirt or by their hair. 1 juice, 64 oz plastic bottles Her sweetness, her anger, the blood of fruit inside clear plastic. When she runs her cheeks flush, her hair sticky with sweat. 1 gallon(s) 1% or nonfat milk, any brand Her body is growing lank. Her face thinner, but still the shape of a heart. She drinks from a cup printed with sugar skulls. By Rachel Mehl Rachel's poem is a runner up for our fourth poetry contest. Thank you, Rachel, for your submission!
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Jungle GymsThey were constructs of iron in 5 dimensions going up to the sky and below to places never known never named before or since. On those wonders of imagination, we learned sociology of space ships yardarms of piracy Tarzan’s principles submarine operation the physics of gravity consequence and plaster arm casts. By Gary Wade Gary's poem is a runner up for our fourth poetry contest. Thank you, Gary, for your submission! Eulogy for Charlie, a TeacherOur minds—peaches he scalded in a water-bath
of generous dialogue, slipped off the fuzzy skin, cut away the sweet flesh of illusion, cracked open the pit with a hammer of caring, exposing the bitter kernel of each person’s truth. We, like Prometheus—were asked to reach into the fire of what we and the world could be, as he challenged our complacent spirits with the ferocity of a meaning-ful life. His absence—a hurricane wind, so immense I’m caught in its center, trying to hang images on the eye’s wall, motionless. By Lynn Geri Lynn's poem is a runner up for our fourth poetry contest. Thank you, Lynn, for your submission! Ode to a Flat Black River RockYou fit perfectly in my hand.
You ask to be rubbed, more cat than rock. Once, by the sea, the girls and I gathered a bagful of your bigger sisters. We painted pictures on their obligingly flat sides. In our old backyard, two served as parakeet grave markers. You ask only to be held, stroked, and admired. She who gazes long and deep at your matte black face begins to see etched white networks, then clouds of stardust. Depths within depths, space between atoms, a history of the earth’s crust, a map of the cosmos. By Sheila Sondik Sheila is the winner of our third poetry contest! You can see her poem on display at the downtown co-op September 1st - end of November! Learn more about her work at: http://www.sheilasondik.com/ Lynx RufusThey have long
longed for a pet, so when it comes on a glowing February day, as it pads softly across snowdrift, we press binocular eyes to the study window, field guide in hand, identify the uncomplicated poem of its spots, jowl stripes, black-tufted ears, white maw, dark barred forelegs, and bobbed tail, its rufous hue orange-cinnamon. We see it take swing rope between its teeth and pull, batting the back-and-forth like an ordinary housecat, before leaping up to the treehouse stage, looking at us through yellow eyes, as if pondering the reason for this playscape. There’s no wondering why, at this moment, they must name it, as if a name were a spell cast to keep a wildness close, incantation to charm paws back to their prints. By Dayna Patterson Dayna's poem is a runner up for our third poetry contest. Thank you, Dayna, for your submission! Cloud TastingI wonder what it’s like to taste a cloud,
to feel its frothy dream melt on my tongue. Vanilla overtones I do not doubt would rise, accumulate, and linger long. Or maybe taste depends upon the form. The Cirrus high and feathery, light and plain. The Cumulonimbus a mouth of storm with lightening zings between the hints of rain. A handful of puffed Cirrocumulus like popcorn buttered in afternoon’s tint. And a slice of grey, low-lying Stratus might perfectly pair with lemon and mint. Grounded, I dream, imagining flavor words. For truth, I’ll have to learn the tongue of birds. By Dayna Patterson Dayna's poem is a runner up for our third poetry contest. Thank you, Dayna, for your submission! Rain Readyafter weeks of cinereous sky and the long hot sun-soak of summer we ask virga to cease their tease and descend deluge fill pock-marked and parched creeks thinned to trickle we’re ready to gather dark days sewn to rain’s music bartering scorched acres for golden autumn we’ve harvested heat and humid we’ve breathed in deeply as we dared under ashen sky everlasting pea foxglove fireweed we open our fists shape ourselves into bowl barrel rain chain charm for the sure-to-come storm By Dayna Patternson Dayna's poem is a runner up for our third poetry contest. Thank you, Dayna, for your submission! The GobletBy Lynn Geri
Lynn's poem is a runner up for our third poetry contest. Thank you, Lynn, for your submission! Dear Stranger,As you pass by, with your lungs full of international forest fire,
can you picture these hills covered with snow? They were, not long ago, and will be again – do not forget that the dry summer air will turn damp, the leaves will fall and decompose, their smell the only way of reminding us in winter that once they were alive up there. I think part of us falls with every season, and this is the reason the years go by faster – we get lighter, our steps on this earth get quicker. As time goes on, we remember sooner that the season is turning and think – this is how we get closer to eternity. When the years blur together, and you’re here now, but you’re also five years ago, and you’re pushing your thoughts into tomorrow. Stop. Listen. These streets will clear when air turns colder, the sidewalks will blacken under sheets of rain. Be there again, if you have before, and be still. Ignore me, if you must, I’m only words in a phone booth. But, if you’re still there, if you’re curious, breathe deep of the cold, winter air, and ask yourself the question you’ve been wanting to ask this entire time – when summer ends, what part of you will fall? By D'Arcy White D'Arcy's poem is a runner up for our third poetry contest. Thank you, D'Arcy, for your submission! call waitingwell, not exactly
but yes, perhaps your voice on the message machine going walking up the mountain thought i’d come by if you’re home i wasn’t you didn’t but you did three days later after working in the yard you went to shower. never came out. missed your first grandchild by a matter of days. now a month later your message is still on the machine. i cannot erase it. that last part of you. left. i work in the yard i shower i leave careful considered messages try to be home more listen for each call By Luther Allen Luther's poem is a runner up for our third poetry contest. Thank you, Luther, for your submission! |