The Ancients

dryness of the high desert
preserves the once living
paring all life
to bare essentials
water, air, warmth
pen and paper
the things I carry into
the high desert
few in number
memories and skills
to survive
I search for ancestors
fellow travelers
they to the future
I to the past
we meet
at the petroglyph

Joann Grisetti

Joann Grisetti grew up in Sasebo Japan and eighteen other places. She now lives in Florida with her husband and two sons. Her poetry, photos and stories have appeared in a number of print and online journals.

Wind-Swirl
 
Today the world is grey. The clouds are light grey, like the aluminum cookie cutters mother keeps in a kitchen drawer. Rain soaks the mountains; like the bark on an oak tree as it absorbs water, turns dark and darker. The river is a dirty grey, almost matching the road in tone if not texture. Even people look grey, wrapped by oil-cloth slickers in dull drab shades of grey and black. My azalea-red boots appear out of place, as I stomp each puddle on the way to school.
 
long division
all those numbers looming
wind-swirl

Joann Grisetti

This haibun poem was written for the 20 Poem Challenge.

Joann Grisetti grew up in Sasebo Japan and eighteen other places. She now lives in Florida with her husband and two sons. Her poetry, photos and stories have appeared in a number of print and online journals.

land[E]scape
 
Deafening, the static of departure.
The dirt road squeals
though you keep under the limit.
 
A cramped silence refuses to veer --
almost wears the gild right off
wheatfields
 
as the truck deepens a rut
started generations ago.
Somewhere, a turn was missed.
 
Somehow, a fatherly confession
about the last piece of pie
had come to mean
 
there is nothing left to be said.
 
Once again, I leave home,
pass a good harvest of telephone poles
planted in their ramrod row;
 
each line was purposely raised,
shoulders its share of tough questions,
tolerates all connections.
 
Some were not raised well enough.
Dear, we drive for a long stretch, not one word
to shelter us
 
until, I point and you nod.
Gears shift
as we steer clear of those tiresome warnings
 
to brave a freeborn supercell.



Cyndi MacMillan

Cyndi MacMillan poetry has recently appeared in Grain Magazine and the Fieldstone Review.  Her verse, short fiction and novel-in-progress resentfully compete for her attention.  She lives in New Hamburg, Ontario, home to North America’s largest working water wheel. Coffee and family allow ideas to percolate.

Rembrandt's Late Self-Portraits

You are confronted with yourself. Each year
The pouches fill, the skin is uglier.
You give it all unflinchingly. You stare
Into yourself, beyond. Your brush's care
Runs with self-knowledge. Here

Is a humility at one with craft.
There is no arrogance. Pride is apart
From this self-scrutiny. You make light drift
The way you want. Your face is bruised and hurt
But there is still love left.

Love of the art and others. To the last
Experiment went on. You stared beyond
Your age, the times. You also plucked the past
And tempered it. Self-portraits understand,
And old age can divest,

With truthful changes, us of fear of death.
Look, a new anguish. There, the bloated nose,
The sadness and the joy. To paint's to breathe,
And all the darknesses are dared. You chose
What each must reckon with.

Elizabeth Jennings (1975)

from http://www.theartsdesk.com/visual-arts/listed-poems-inspired-paintings

Mourning Picture

They have carried the mahogany chair and the cane rocker 
out under the lilac bush, 
and my father and mother darkly sit there, in black clothes. 
Our clapboard house stands fast on its hill, 
my doll lies in her wicker pram 
gazing at western Massachusetts. 
This was our world. 
I could remake each shaft of grass 
feeling its rasp on my fingers, 
draw out the map of every lilac leaf 
or the net of veins on my father's  
grief-tranced hand.  
Out of my head, half-bursting, 
still filling, the dream condenses-- 
shadows, crystals, ceilings, meadows, globes of dew. 
Under the dull green of the lilacs, out in the light 
carving each spoke of the pram, the turned porch-pillars, 
under high early-summer clouds, 
I am Effie, visible and invisible, 
remembering and remembered. 

Adrienne Rich

as found on http://www.theartsdesk.com/visual-arts/listed-poems-inspired-paintings.

Swallows

wispy wings
filtered air
melodic inspiration


pirouette or plié
ballerinas en pointe
performance on command


in afterlife – swashbuckler
swaps
zorro's cape for swallowtails


Patrick G. Metoyer

These poems were written for the 20 Poem Challenge.

When he is not engaged in visual arts, Colorado resident Patrick G. Metoyer may spin a yarn or two with his pen. He enjoys reciting and performing his creative writings. His poetry and prose in the past few years have been featured in Grand Valley Magazine.

The Gift of Presence

But I bear none to this confusion
flattened into a stoic  time-presence .
Fine with time, may be fine too
with an engagement with variety
wherever we choose to buy peace
from purveyors of continuity.
But then, we live our days in parts
ironically linked to  connectivity of sorts.
Only to be configured over time
by a  cellular disengagement .

S. Jagathsimhan Nair


This poem was written for the 20 Poem Challenge.

S. Jagathsimhan Nair is the author of three poetry collections, and has also been published in various anthologies.

Bathsheba

Elle savait
qu'elle était
parfait dans
tous les détails.
La peau, les cheveux,
la fesse.

Chaque matin,
elle prenne un bain
sur le toit
de la château,
pour enlever
les infidélités
de la nuit.

Anthony Stechyson

This poem was written for the 20 Poem Challenge.

Anthony Stechyson is a frustrated film-maker and would-be dandy living in Toronto. When not behind the camera (most of the time), Stechyson enjoys many eclectic things including: Zydeco music, French cuisine, cobbling and even Venetian mask-making! His other hobbies include croquet and gardening.

Swallows

Taking to the morning sky
in standard V-formation,
Mum leads the way
across the sunny plain.

Frosty fields below
tell us that it's almost time
to move on for good.

Anthony Stechyson

This poem was written for the 20 Poem Challenge.

Anthony Stechyson is a frustrated film-maker and would-be dandy living in Toronto. When not behind the camera (most of the time), Stechyson enjoys many eclectic things including: Zydeco music, French cuisine, cobbling and even Venetian mask-making!
His other hobbies include croquet and gardening.