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.
0 Comments
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. |
The Ekphrastic Review
COOKIES/PRIVACY
This site uses cookies to deliver your best navigation experience this time and next. Continuing here means you consent to cookies. Thank you. Join us on Facebook:
Tickled Pink Contest
April 2024
|