Keith Polette

At Sea

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.

 

Keith Polette

Hands

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.

 

Lashelle Johnson

Poplar

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.

Steve Klepetar

In Gratitude

“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.


 

Steve Klepetar

On My Wrist

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.


 

Steve Klepetar

Sacred

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.