Lying on the sea floor,
able to breathe water,
I look up and see the moon
sailing over me, a few sailors
leaning over its taffrail,
gazing downward,
their eyes bright as stars,
and I wonder
whether I should ever
need to rise from this
silent world so dimly lit
from above..
Keith Polette has returned to writing poetry after many years. He is grateful that many of his recent poems have been accepted by journals, both print and online.
Last night, by hearth’s faint light,
I noticed that her small hands,
worn from work, weathered with age,
and wise in the ways of making and mending,
were folded like wings on her lap,
ready to take flight into a vast space
that she kept to herself.
Keith Polette has returned to writing poetry after many years. He is grateful that many of his recent poems have been accepted by journals, both print and online.
I saw a man
with my name
on a map of the dead
in the place my father
was born.
Lashelle Johnson is a Munich-born Afro-indigenous writer whose work has appeared everywhere from The Establishment to those riveting conversion emails littering your inbox.
I walked in the jaundice glow
of the strung-out streetlights,
dove into the ink –
pool of the endless night.
Betsy Mars is sometimes visited by poetry in her dreams when the monsters retreat to the closet.
darts of glass
stung the kitchen floor,
while you watched, holding yourself, silent.
Dianne Moritz writes poetry for children and adults, to entertain and sort out difficult feelings.
“thank you for showing me the morning stars
and for the dogs who are guiding me”
-W.S. Merwin
Thank you for these tired eyes,
and for the joy of sleep
on a sweet bed, shared
for oranges and grapes,
for all the sharp flavors of spices and wine
for the air of Spain,
for the lovely blue light above Toledo
on a late March afternoon
and for the voices all around me,
whose blessings have been more than enough.
Steve Klepetar wishes that he could see Proteus rising from the sea and hear old Triton blow his wreathed horn.
I wrote your name on my wrist
with my bad handwriting,
and somehow the letters formed
a pattern of leaves, or vines,
that grew and stretched
down my arm, tickling my flesh
as tendrils spread, and purple
grapes burst out of every stem
because you have always been
wine, swirling in my glass –
such good legs – a vintage
fragrant, sweet, intoxicating, wild.
Steve Klepetar wishes that he could see Proteus rising from the sea and hear old Triton blow his wreathed horn.
The rabbi
of joy
and wakefulness
follows
his students toward
the library
where shadows
of books
slide along shelves
in fluorescent light
and nobody speaks
because the air is sacred
with words, scented
with the perfume of ancient poems.
Steve Klepetar wishes that he could see Proteus rising from the sea and hear old Triton blow his wreathed horn.