VoicesAdmin

by Mary R. Smith

I dream him
taking the hillside
buoyed by light
I’m dazed as he lifts
his face toward me
his cap tilting.
I shadow him
into his shed:
roof of russet voile
drapes, twists
on upright poles.
He tucks his tunic
under his thighs.
In his lap, on a
a silk bound board
leopards slouch,
gazelles vault,
lacing warp and woof.
Air rouses his fingers,
threads stir
release melodies
lost in the gauze.

Mary Smith enjoys writing poetry as a hobby.  Learning to write has been a life-long pleasure.

by Mary R. Smith

Leaf through a life of jotted hours,
root around in a nest of notebooks
in the bottom drawer, pages yellow,
memory left to its own devices:           Hollyhocks hid garbage cans along the alley.

A card found in my husband’s belongings,     Grand Turkmen Hotel, Ashgabat.

A toddler rocks in the hammock,
an owl whoo whoos in the forest,      ..    I want to go see Mama.

For sixty years the family place
on Puget Sound,              It sold today, the water and the trees ………………………………………………………..abide.

Return to Nigeria,
Igbo Celebration of Parents………...Theresa arranges for killing two cows for ……………………………………………………….the feast.

                                             Innocent salutes the kindred assembled to …………………………………………..………….petition him for favors.

Lalibella, Ethiopia, Coptic churches
hewn from stone,                         .Priests swing censors in pre-dawn mist as ………………………………………………………penitents gather.

Bruno cries when he hears music,               My heart trembles so loud.

Hidden, stuck between two legal pads,
a Story Corps recording; my daughter
interviewed her dad a month before he died.
I haven’t listened.

Mary Smith enjoys writing poetry as a hobby.  Learning to write has been a life-long pleasure.

by Mary R. Smith

Mother
cigarette clenched in her fingers
hosed the patio
cedar tree flotsam
scuttled down the drain
yanked the hose
to circle the yard
soaking wild rhododendrons

Her life receded
she burrowed under blankets
marooned in
another garden
words stalled
knuckled fingers
twined in dry nasturtiums
she waited for
channels to clear.

Lake Mohegan
ice stopped the streams
the daughter walked
thin jacket
hands in pockets
stalled water
nest of broken limbs
marooned
leaf slime and forest sludge
she tripped down the bank
fumbled the edge
hands raw
yanked a burrow
of sticks and muck
back on her heels
loosened the snarl.

Mary Smith enjoys writing poetry as a hobby.  Learning to write has been a life-long pleasure.

by Carol Schoen

Hunched against the car park
almost too tiny for humans,
the red house slumbers.

Here Melville met Hawthorne,
fell in love, inspired by him,
wrote masterpieces

and here Hawthorne named
the pine branches that bit the dirt,
wrestled and rose again.

The house smiles down
at the lake and town
across the way its nondescript look

hides desire, lust, betrayal
sin. Here the scarlet letter
got its glow. Today it stores

old music, still cherishing
its passionate past as songs swirl
among the needles.

Carol Schoen wrote her first poems for Sarah White’s study group and has been chugging along happily ever since.

by Carol Schoen

Crushed between copy center
and a hardware store, the violin maker’s shop,
a dusty counter, signed photos of famous artists,
hides a short passage to a tiny room:
glamorous with crystal chandelier, bubbles
of light bursting against the gold rimmed
mirror, forty-five lyre
backed chairs, the stage
a white gem, glitter trimmed,
piano, empty chair, music
stand.

the cellist thrusts the bow
into the dark chords, angry
notes clamor against the piano’s
stern restraint; a plaintive theme
hovers under the storm,
rises, blossoms, sighs, whispers.

the audience: the hardware
store owner, three workmen
from the construction
site next door, friends, me;
28th street transformed.

Carol Schoen wrote her first poems for Sarah White’s study group and has been chugging along happily ever since.

by Carol Schoen

The brush against the snare
drum whispered
mysteries,
we swayed
against each other.
You looked away.

I missed a beat.

Inside the growl
of a swinging, half-muted
trumpet, blaring
and seductive.
We chatter,
I forgot to listen.
You left.

I missed a beat.

During the splatter
of a mid-summer storm
he left without me.
I glared,
grimaced, teeth clenched.
To hell with this.

just
find another
beat.

Carol Schoen wrote her first poems for Sarah White’s study group and has been chugging along happily ever since.

by Carol Schoen

Won’t go to Harlem in ermine and pearls…

Hope promises chocolate chip
mint, when there’s only mango
sorbet.  Date and nut memories
chock full of lunch
counters.   New York in my head 
like magnolia blossoms, tiaras
decorating my bouffant,
but tough broad  chews me up
like peanuts, spits
me out like shells.  Bitch city.

Carol Schoen wrote her first poems for Sarah White’s study group and has been chugging along happily ever since.

by Carmen Mason

“Speaking Personally. . .”

as a person
personally speaking
it’s nothing personal but
from one person to another
don’t take this personally but
I’d like to say person to person
as a person
personally I
feel
wish
think
believe
want to
remember
couldn’t care less
hope he drops dead
can’t think of a nicer time
long for a whole new beginning, at least another lifetime, to get things ……………..right but
that’s just me, personally

Carmen Mason: I have been writing poetry and prose much of my life. I’ve been published, won prizes but realize I write most for myself — to express, explore, expunge and exhort.

by Carmen Mason

“The Elephant in the Room”

The elephant in my room
has become a monolith
an all spreading monster
so humongous that the walls are caving out
and the windows bulging to their breaking points
the door bursting at its hinges
the ceiling swelling to the second floor
and soon we’ll be sitting up in the about to burst
attic wondering how and why we let it come to this
our fingers unable to be twiddled
our eyes unable to meet
our hearts so long past breaking
there will not be a sound

Carmen Mason: I have been writing poetry and prose much of my life. I’ve been published, won prizes but realize I write most for myself — to express, explore, expunge and exhort.

by Carmen Mason

“It Is What It Is”

a mistake we sometimes utter by settling
for a nice sound bite for were it really what it is
then we’d have no annoying tale or anecdote in the first place
no bringing up the stupid thing in the second place
because what it is ~ merely being what it is
would kind of cancel itself out to nothingness or
we’d just flick it away with the toe of our shoe or
propel it off the tip of our nail or slap it away hard
with our fast hand ‘til it was good and dead and gone
and pay it not a smidgen of our mind
not a squirrel load and be done with it
whoopity scoop

Carmen Mason: I have been writing poetry and prose much of my life. I’ve been published, won prizes but realize I write most for myself — to express, explore, expunge and exhort.