Steve Klepetar

Excuse Me

But one thing you’ll never hear from a cat is ‘Excuse me.’
Nor Einstein’s famous theorem.

Jane Hirshfield

No, but if it could move
at something approaching

the speed of light,
you might see a red glow

in August, or green as it fell
to the bottom

of some extraterrestrial sea,
even if you couldn’t tell,

until you looked,
whether the cat was alive or dead.


Steve Klepetar agrees that “an aged man in but a paltry thing, a tattered coat upon a stick unless soul clap its hands and sing for every tatter in its mortal dress.”

Elizabeth Gauffreau

On First Hearing Odetta

I heard Odetta sing today,
A pipe organ in a chapel
On a Georgia country road.

Elizabeth Gauffreau writes poetry by ear in Nottingham, New Hampshire. You can find her at http://lizgauffreau.com.

 

Ashley Jones

Inbox

I check my email while I’m walking
like the waiting coupon holds urgency
or the calendar invite is an emergency
and sometimes I forget the trees
and I wonder
after all this time
how the trees will remember me.

Ashley Jones likes to bend down and smell the flowers.

 

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.