You are invited to submit your poetry for consideration to appear on the library’s Poetry Sharing Page. Contact Tom Nicotera at email@example.com.
Front and center, the teacher seems attached to the screen,
COVID-19-inspired magic on steady display in-between—
to measure the magnitude of each star,
to observe clearly but yet from afar.
For more closeness and less disruption many yearn
while it’s systems initial logistics caregiver or child must learn.
Then books, crayons, markers, paper, scissors, and glue—
For adults an evolving panoramic view.
Lessons seem easier to remember when said in rhyme,
yet, repetition often is not perfectly aligned,
but students’ attention to teacher hardly fades
as they are molded into a scholarly brigade.
When eyes glaze and stray, it’s time for a brief break.
Pupils stand, jump, turn, stretch, shout, and shake.
Basic pictures and letters to give and take,
connections to varied colors, shapes and sounds to make,
‘Great job, Scarlett, Mabel, Jose, and Jack,’
encouragement and praise not randomly given back.
There are no perfect remedies to employ,
just the winding trail of progress for all to enjoy,
and no Einsteins yet to theorize or shine,
just kids being kids drawn together through cyber lines.
by John P. Kneal
Father’s Painted Butterflies
(Elmer Tarwood 1915-2003)
Twirl, glint, suspend free
of time and gravity
five pairs of wings spin wildly
darting in and out, gold-flecked bodies alive with silver-
wire antennae strung off balsa sticks
in three levels
reincarnated in a float dance
from a machinist’s fancy
strung on fishing line and breath
born of a retiree’s craft, hanging unmoved
now like dead insects. I nudge them, send them
whirling erratic again, a circular chase
click-revolve veering, sometimes clinking
mute chimes. Cold, fragile blue
gliding over, under,
around each other, glance-a-chance, click-a-miss,
no win, dreams
of the maker and the watcher
with the dust on their wings
by Marilyn Johnston
Three Hundred Poems
After all that came before, isolation
and a jealous stepfather, crossing the border,
your mother, a mere girl, too young for parenting,
yet you were confident. Under watching
moons you explored miles of railroad, desert
and highway, carried your own blessed heart
out of muddy wetness, walked yellow fields hunted
by hawks, grazed by starlings. You rearranged
your life on the northwest coast at the water’s edge.
Slept in the narrow bed. Kept cabinet doors closed.
Learned three hundred poems to save your own life
and much later, at a microphone,
shoulders squared over flat green earth
your voice sang out, with an opening poem,
a calling, like a deep and heavy bell.
by Sherri Bedingfield
Night Wind in March
It was a monstrous welling sound –
Loosed bowels of acoustic hate –
A rupture working to rebound,
Forbidding one to contemplate.
Then, unquietly subsiding,
A sound felt hollowed out,
With moan that mocked, deriding,
In orchestration of dread doubt.
This wind built of destructive scorn
Cowed me inside my house of brick;
Gored fears with its satanic horn;
My life felt but a card sharp’s trick.
It was a raw relentless rasp
That bound pretension in its clasp.
by Kimball Hunt
After Shave Champagne
I ask her what she’d like me to bring;
cake? A pie? Salad?..WINE?
Ah yes, “BRUT,” she responds.
“Please bring a bottle of BRUT for New Years.”
There are those, the cultured, who know their drink;
fine Scotch, the most appropriate wine, a cordial.
They don’t even have to ask the host;
it’s a given that what they bring will hit the mark.
Then, there are those who are simply guided
by what they remember…
albeit, perhaps forty years ago,
but never the less, a name brand is a name brand.
I mean, think HOOD…KING ARTHUR…CHOCK FULL OF NUTS;
synonymous with consistency for decades! And still here.
And so, the expert on sweets, not booze, concedes; Brut means Brut;
the one Joe Namath spoke for…the ONLY one I know.
The large chain pharmacy still carries it.
Looks like they only have the single-serving size,
so I purchase enough to fill a pitcher.
Twenty-three bottles…should be enough for the get together.
As luck has it, upon opening several, it’s flat…no fizz.
Hey, my motto…”always be prepared.”
I open the bottom kitchen cabinet…still there…
three large bottles of seltzer.
I go to it. Just the right amount. Give a taste…PERFECT!
And you know, the stuff smells nice too!
I arrive. Host doesn’t question the pitcher; I just know
she appreciates this classy, sans the bottle act.
And so, a fine evening. My contribution was a hit, with all asking
how I was able to find such a great vintage.
I’m then reminded of another dinner get together next month…
and would I please bring simple salad greens with OIL and VINEGAR.
I respond with an affirmative;
easy….simple salad greens with OIL and VINEGAR.
Hmm…could have sworn I saw a bottle of Mobil 10W-40
on the shelf in the garage…
by Andy Weil
Each day in glass my outer self is on display
and the chains that encage whims and brainstorms give way,
for when I remove the resurgent stubble
I release the prior day’s lingering troubles.
I clear a path to acclaim with purposeful strokes
and in newborn revelations I wondrously soak,
for moments saturated by mental cream lush and sweet,
goddesses and muses to not so subtly entreat.
I’m a hero who rescues a damsel in deep distress
or champions a worker with woes and worries to address.
I’m a dashing dancer who smoothly steps long and far
or with sweat makes another a sparkling star.
I’m a fireman who fearlessly quells raging fires
or with a hose cleans the community churches’ spires.
I’m a designer who fashions towers stirring and steep
or provides a former addict a proper place to sleep.
Oh, what brief bliss covers me in a lather-filled shave,
for in that mirror it’s my inner self I engrave.
by John P. Kneal