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by Howard Seeman

Boy do I appreciate the coming of Fall,
as I am tired of the heat of Summer.
 
Boy do I appreciate the coming of Winter,
as it helps me balm the fading beauty of Fall
and lays a dark carpet for the wonder of Spring.
 
Boy do I appreciate the coming of Spring,
as it renews my strength for life
and melts away my cover ups.
 
Boy do I appreciate the coming of Summer,
as it warms and frees me to go out again.
 
Boy do I appreciate the coming of Fall,
as I am tired of the heat of Summer.
 

Professor Emeritus, C.U.N.Y.; Life Coach at: E Coaching for Helping Professionals; Education Consultant on Classroom Problems at: Pro-Ed Media: Classroom Management Online; Published poet at: Howard Seeman’s Book of Poetry.

by Carol Schoen

The storm ravaged
the beach on the isle;
waves assaulted the lighthouse,
ripped out the pines by their roots.
They leaned against each other,
spindly poles, their needles,
a shawl to hide their dying.
 

Hurricanes were the island’s history.
Earlier ones had wiped out
real estate developments, orange
plantations, a rich man’s estate
until finally the land
was sowed with fast-
growing, shallow-rooted
Australian pines.  Feathery
needles provided shelter
for the raccoon come to
its narrow sandy shore.
 

Our favorite place
for swims in the waveless
sea, party picnics, wine
to salute the sun’s good-bye.
After the storm, we wandered
back.  Most of the fallen
trees had been removed, a few
rotted in damp mud.  When
we took out the food,  gaunt
raccoons emerged from the devastated forest, stood
silent, then shuffled
towards us.
 

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

by Carol Schoen

A pointillist pen
sparkles a limb,
flakes dance between branches.
pillow the ground
blanket smooth.
White-pink petals
float around yellow green,
perfume the  air,
dazzle finches,
cushion the earth,
prophesy bounty.
 

Milkweed bursts open.
Feathered arrows
punctuate the meadow,
tree limbs sag too soon,
blue asters reflect the sky.
 

Burgundy ignites branches:
leaves crackle and crunch
whisper warning
of winter. A pointillist
pen sparkles a limb.
 

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

by Mireya Perez

Parma, Italy

 
Beyond basilicas, walled-in cities,
Mosaics, Tintoretto’s and Madonnas
Here in Italia she wanted to see a wedding.
Close to 5 p.m. feasting on formaggio, pomodori
and foccacia
on that stone bench the basilica in front
looking across the piazza
a sudden flicker, a glint of gold
caught her eye
the shining from the little girl’s feet
climbing the steps to the basilica
below her pale rose ankle-length gown
held by the elegant blonde woman in the white suit
and towering heels
 
as slim, dark-suited men began to cluster
by the marbled walls
below them yellow taxis spill forth
gesturing, tanned, silky women in three-inch heels
 
who pick a path through the cobblestones
to the entrance steps
as a sparkling Alfa Romeo coupe
trailing white tulle stops directly
under the main gate of the basilica.
Ancient wood groans to open revealing rose garlanded
stone pillars beyond
waiting prelates
the organ’s breathing strains
the choir’s “alleluias”
Quickly she crossed to the basilica
smiling
knowing
wishes do happen
sometimes.
 

Mireya’s poems leap from English to Spanish and back again, invoking an array of spirits. Her poetry appears in Caribbean Review, Revista del Hada, NYU Poetry Review, and in Anthology of Colombian Women Poets, among other places.

by Mireya Perez

The photograph of my father’s family
When he was 14 standing
Behind his father reading the
Newspaper and his younger brother
In the communion outfit in the
Left front and to the right mamá
Abuela so elegant in her silk pumps
And fox-collared dress coat
With baby Tita on the floor by the
Vase where Tia Julia the oldest
Was dropping a lily next to her
Sister Bertha by the velvet drape
And to her side Tia Nina in
First communion veil and dress with
Pretty Tia Alicia protectively behind.
 

In my new home
I place it on my desk’s
Upper shelf in a copper frame
To remind me of who I am.
 

Mireya’s poems leap from English to Spanish and back again, invoking an array of spirits. Her poetry appears in Caribbean Review, Revista del Hada, NYU Poetry Review, and in Anthology of Colombian Women Poets, among other places.

by Carmen Mason

At another time
a woman would have married
all the men
I have loved:
bright achievers
repentent
devout and
reverent choirboys
resonating hymns

Sometimes
I did believe in them
I could confess to them
I could hail Mary for them
but not drink blood
place wafered flesh
upon my tongue and swallow;
worship and
down the chalice
of their thin, sweet wine

Always, I have been looking
for a Jesus
(shame on me )
who, not knowing
who he was,
what was expected
of him.
would walk upon my heart
like palm leaves
and with his smile
pluck the thorns
and turn them
into roses

Carmen Mason has been writing poems since she was six, has won poetry prizes throughout the years, has been published in small magazines and enjoys sharing her poetry at open mikes. She writes short stories and memoir, but feels her most intrinsic ‘voice’ is a poetic one.

by Carmen Mason

First I curse the invisible vise    the air   sky   alien breath
agents of ache and heat and then this     an endless      wrenching      cough
bent on breaking down this fragile frame I’ve fortified for years
still at seventy appearing ept !
Then mere and    mothy    I surrender     falling down into bed
the thick layers purchased for pastel prettiness and cozy sleep
now pulled and  knotted    clumsily around me
putrid wisps of musk and powder in the air
and I      pummeled       muscleless       humiliated
the indignity of flu       rendering me      lightweight      moaning
woe                                           is                                           me
 

Oh just once more to be encased in a birthing bag
new and fit                   refracting a fiery                 stained-glass grandeur
just once more a            feathery                 flickering                     fluttering thing
soaring to glory or radiant ruin
 

Carmen Mason has been writing poems since she was six, has won poetry prizes throughout the years, has been published in small magazines and enjoys sharing her poetry at open mikes. She writes short stories and memoir, but feels her most intrinsic ‘voice’ is a poetic one.

by Phyllis Kriegel

Old Sarah laughed
Foretasting pleasure
When patriarch Abraham—
The old clothes dealer—
Would get her with child.
 

When Hades raped Demeter’s
Slender-ankled daughter Persephone
(Who ate a blood-red pomegranate seed)
The mother’s grief and anger
Turned the world deadly dark.
 

Then Baubo, goddess of bawdy,
Told a ribald story and gleefully
Showed her pudenda,
Demeter laughed and the whole earth
Grew heavy with green leaves and flowers.
 

Phyllis Kriegel:

Dallied with Dante
Played at Proust
Cuddled with Kafka

Then it hit me:

Stories happen
to those
 Who write them.