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from the death
of an old woman
from a young betrothed
of her employer an exporter
of Ligurian stems that stem steps,
sloping seaward, from ashes, scattered, clusters,
purple tones vined in sympathy of a grand Matriarch’s passing
branching from the gnarled trunk, vivid memories flourish a quarter of a century
rising scaling, sprayed by Mediterranean misted mornings. Then twenty five, fifty, married
the giver of life landscaping the wall ascending his throne with crowning young shoots blooming
Through the years, spectacular tropical, thorned, evergreen, woody vine,
spines, climb the wall beyond the Auto Strada in San Remo,
mapping the journey uphill to Coldiroti, home of his
grandmother, past the Church of St. Anne, beside
the hill round the curve where we stopped,
let the old man carrying white lilies cross
the road, across iron gates,
the cemetery, her grave,
etched family name,
cut stone, growing
black and white from
the same earth as the
Fourth place winner of The Lake Poetry Contest, editor of
‘The Plover’ newsletter, director of membership for the
Long Island Writers Guild
That greatest of landscapers
moves to fill in
after we scar the earth
with our practical projects
softens the stark retaining wall
with graceful Virginia creeper
covers the spaces between paved roads
with grasses, ferns and wildflowers
sends vines up naked poles
embracing even unseen wires
camouflages blind, utilitarian buildings
with gregarios green on green
-- fulfilling her own capricious delight
heedless of audience.
Charlene Babb Knadle
college professor, publishing credits, editor, nominated for a Pushcart prize
Performance Poets Association®
Stern as his countenance seemed to be,
G’ampop’s gaze was turned from me.
No look of love for a wondering tot,
Only a glare that left me weak.
Now, in death, he cannot see;
My grandfather’s eyes are closed to me.
Imprisoned emotions never set free,
G’ampop’s touch was held from me.
Around my shoulders it circled not,
Nor ever stroked me on the cheek.
Locked now by the bonds of eternity;
My grandfather’s arms are closed to me.
With voice that uttered not one plea,
G’ampop’s thoughts were shut to me.
Their warmth to know was not my lot,
No love for me did that voice speak.
The argument sealed with finality;
Mu grandfather’s lips are closed to me.
Now I’ll never know with certainty,
If my grandfather’s heart was closed to me.
David A. Egan
Poet since age 8, writer of romantic melancholy genre, one book published ‘Dremer’
“I love him,”
she says to me
wrapping her arms around him
in an exuberant hug.
I watch his impassive face,
see the dead eyes
waiting for her
to release him from the grip
clutching the bond
already gone from her life
we stand on the sidewalk
speak of cinch bugs
gnawing at our lawns
slugs devouring our dahlias
damage done stealthily
night after night
in the dark, unseen
until it is too late.
Poetry award winner, Taproot workshop leader
What was I doing when I died?
Hiding? Cowering? Praying for reprieve?
“I want to get old and gray,” I said.
“Bent with age too heavy to sustain.”
“You did,” said death. And held
A mirror to my face.
I did not recognize
The person whose reflection shown.
Believed it not myself I saw.
Relieved, said, “Yes. Take her instead of me.”
and set me free.
Beverly E. Kotch
Prose writer with many publishing credits, member of the Farmingdale creative writing group, many awards won