Speak with an accent,
as if your tongue had been soaked
in vinegar, as if your teeth
had been nibbling ice and cheese.
Roll on the surface of this bed
like a clown sweeping a puddle of light.
Play a folk tune on the violin
as the old couple dances in the living room.
Collect smooth white pebbles
by a small pond
where children search for salamanders,
the ones glowing red in late summer grass.
Steve Klepetar lives in the Berkshires in Massachusetts. Recent poems appear in Verse-Virtual, Midlothien Poetry Review, and One Sentence Poems.
Wednesday, September 29, 2021
Wednesday, September 15, 2021
The Orchard by Andrew Williams
The dainty hand plucks a Gala apple.
Under the tree, I open the bag—
space for one more.
Walking back, the cicada chorus
whirrs, like a biker revving her engine
before speeding off.
Summer is nearly over; fall is imminent,
and yet, the heat continues
to linger.
As the daylight fades, we stop,
plant ourselves, and eat an apple together,
as dusk turns to darkness.
Andrew Williams is a writer living with his family in Pennsylvania, USA.
Under the tree, I open the bag—
space for one more.
Walking back, the cicada chorus
whirrs, like a biker revving her engine
before speeding off.
Summer is nearly over; fall is imminent,
and yet, the heat continues
to linger.
As the daylight fades, we stop,
plant ourselves, and eat an apple together,
as dusk turns to darkness.
Andrew Williams is a writer living with his family in Pennsylvania, USA.
Wednesday, September 1, 2021
Letter to My Mother by Terri Kirby Erickson
If only I had been there to catch you when you fell,
to hold you in my arms and lower you to the ground.
It was September, among the leaves and blossoms
of your yard that I found you—the mother I adore,
in the sleep from which you never again awakened.
I would have done anything to save you, but there
was nothing of you to save—only the body you left
behind like a sweater draped across a chair. Every
day since, I have walked the earth with grief lodged
in my throat like a bone, shouldering the burden of
your sorrows as well my own, as if they belong to me.
The son you lost became my son and my brother, our
misery merged into one. And each disappointment of
your life, every regret, turned into mine. But it is time
now, to stop picking up the pain you have discarded,
trying to heal what has already been healed. I want to
carry, instead, memories of your laughter, and the love
you gave to me—as weightless in my hands as light.
Terri Kirby Erickson is the author of six collections of poetry. Her work has appeared in “American Life in Poetry,” The Sun, The Writer’s Almanac, Valparaiso Poetry Review, Verse Daily, and many others. Her awards include the Joy Harjo Poetry Prize and a Nautilus Silver Book Award.
to hold you in my arms and lower you to the ground.
It was September, among the leaves and blossoms
of your yard that I found you—the mother I adore,
in the sleep from which you never again awakened.
I would have done anything to save you, but there
was nothing of you to save—only the body you left
behind like a sweater draped across a chair. Every
day since, I have walked the earth with grief lodged
in my throat like a bone, shouldering the burden of
your sorrows as well my own, as if they belong to me.
The son you lost became my son and my brother, our
misery merged into one. And each disappointment of
your life, every regret, turned into mine. But it is time
now, to stop picking up the pain you have discarded,
trying to heal what has already been healed. I want to
carry, instead, memories of your laughter, and the love
you gave to me—as weightless in my hands as light.
Terri Kirby Erickson is the author of six collections of poetry. Her work has appeared in “American Life in Poetry,” The Sun, The Writer’s Almanac, Valparaiso Poetry Review, Verse Daily, and many others. Her awards include the Joy Harjo Poetry Prize and a Nautilus Silver Book Award.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)