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We take these so for granted,
disregard for the music
of the pounding of a heel,
the sultry sucking sound of the skin
of a bare foot falling on the floor,
slapping the ceramic face of cool tile.
We take these so for granted—
the clunk of a clog or a platform boot heel
as it beats the blacktop of city streets,
the static slide of a child’s sleepy foot
as it fumbles, finding its way in the dark,
gliding along the shaggy surface
of a carpeted room.
We take these so for granted.
Photographer, publisher, many awards won and publishing credits, her 2nd book is forthcoming
POEM FROM A SLAT-RAILED PORCH
The porch at Meadowcroft
provides a gap-toothed smile of welcome
invites visitors to a place
where fashionable ladies
in bombazine and silk
once sipped lemonade
sorted yarn for crewel-work
watched little boys pretending
to be tumbleweeds
while girls in dimity wove chains
of blossoms plucked from grass
in the field below.
A garrison of geese in full dress uniform
now shuffle there, veterans
with sore and swollen feet
march in disorderly drill across the lawn-
edge closer with each pass, rubbernecking
while feigning haughtiness
pose as critics of the group upon the porch
where casual-clad poets drink spring water
nestle in rocking chairs, captivated
by the carillon from a nearby chapel-
bask in cut-clover air
while stitching together a comforter of words.
Formalist poet, many awards won and publishing credits, workshops her poems on a regular basis
(to Sylvia who signs)
She lives in a womb of silence
never heard her mother’s cooing
best friends never cupped
her ear, tickled it with secrets
or whispered forbidden thoughts.
Love’s words never coiled
through ear canals resonating
But today, like Toscanini
her signing hands fly up
conduct an inner music
tell of swimming in the ocean
her hands flit like sea sparrows
or sand pipers surfing waves
they soar and dip on lacey crests.
As she conducts The Rites of Spring
waves rise and rear like wild stallions
white manes shiver in wind
collide and crash on the beach.
Then hands like loons, swoop down
and glide to Water Music.
Even at rest fingers quiver
tips pulse like robin's hearts
their rhythms, her breath.
Muriel Harris Weinstein
Many publishing credits and awards won, retired teacher, psychotherapist textbook collaborator, a children’s picture book is forthcoming
The end of the Green Line
Dachau is all rocks now
An iron gate with German words
Acts as an entrance for tourists
Who take pictures of what once was.
Dachau is mementos made of rocks now:
Three religious tributes of stone,
An iron sculpture of twisted stickfigures
And a granite sign in three languages.
Dachau is vacant, save all the rocks now.
Only tour groups tromp along paths,
Kicking up dust where wheelbarrows rolled,
Walking at their own pace, no guns to prod them.
Dachau is sunny now, all rocks under the sun now.
Hot. The still standing barracks are musty,
Incinerator rooms bright, coal mouths wide and dull
Bricks still sooty but intact.
Dachau is all rocks now.
Narrow rows of raised flower beds in
Lumber frames filled with gray dirt and stone
Instead where buildings once stood, bodies once slept.
Dachau is all built up rocks now, torn apart rocks now,
More buildings of worship made of stone
More rubble of buildings eroded and razed
Dusty tourist tracks that hide wheel ruts once carved.
Dachau is all rocks now.
Pictures and timeliness remain
To trace a past, remember where and what
Went wrong, a giant tombstone for
The emaciated and enthralled
Christina M. Rau
Founder of the Poets In Nassau poetry group, many publishing credits, college English teacher
Trying to Rise
A nearly deflated
Silver novelty balloon
main street of town
like the toes of a ghost
against the floor.
As it begins
to pull weakly away
from the earth
like a tottering
falling uneasily upward.
a car comes along
to knock it down,
sending it end over end
like a shopping bag
in a swirling wind
where gravity catches it
and pulls it back down
to be hit again
by every passing car
until the helium is gone
and it stops dreaming of the sky
like so many of us do.
Thomas Frederick Mattson
Previously unpublished poet, PPA featured poet, a fresh new talent who will go far.
You loved me with a man’s love
took the days and bent them
backwards till they flowed
into a maze of your own contriving.
I planted small green gardens there,
walked in them at sunset,
buried my face in lilac,
kept my secrets.
I loved you with a woman’s love,
allowing you illusion.
You gave me love at the mouth,
love in the hand,
love that shakes the hidden rivers,
but a woman wants small love, too,
words to finger like amulets
in fragile hours,
words like little candles
to light against the dark.
Published short story writer and poet, award-winning retired English teacher
Performance Poets Association®