CLOSED to submissions until May 28, 2018.
Autumn Sky Poetry DAILY is on hiatus…
[…until the editor’s mind has been restored, recharged, and refreshed. Thank you.]
The first circle of half acre
elbows its way past the smell of gas,
nine arborvitae are much bigger
than planted five years ago would suggest,
stronger than my legs at sixty-one.
My weimaraner is up to her ankles
in shallow river, her webbed toes
conjugating some verb other than swim.
Afternoon heat climbs the mountain
like the first bare feet of summer.
An hour may pass but time matters less
than the sycamore branch lifts me
higher than wherever clouds go
when the sky clears
the sun pushes my tall shadow
through the uncut grass.
by Charles Carr
Editor’s Note: Personification sits within the lines of this poem with ease, ushering in the scent and sense of the summer season.
Poem Only Half About Myself
I can smell
the melancholia in the bedsheets,
Rumpled feelings all around,
Everyone looking down at mouth.
The dog still licks her wound,
Hidden in the shadow of the desk.
There is no sense of release,
Yet we look around and hope.
“Go in fear of abstractions” of course, but what then?
I can’t expect the clock to stop as if it were my father’s heart.
The hedgerow stands with its roots unearthed,
Somewhere my mother calls and I bring my shovel.
I expect I will still rebel long after I cover them.
I expect I will still obey them.
Everything that happens to me happens to my friends.
After all that, we sit back and wonder
What the doctor will say about our liver
Or some other piece of the infernal apparatus
That wasn’t even hurting when we walked in.
The doctor still walks through the door,
Your mother’s hand, venial and soothing,
Comforts you and the tendencies of middle-age
Yet after a while she tears at your shirt
And you become her Confessor.
from Autumn Sky Poetry DAILY, April 4, 2017 — by J. Rod Pannek
photo by Christine Klocek-Lim
Your Abstract Body
Hon, you breathe the very same air the ginkgoes
breathed as brontosauruses lumbered past them,
bending them as blusters of wind will riffle
meadows of barley.
Ancient as the galaxies, old as space-time,
hoary as the sea, but as fresh as rollers
riding bareback over the brine to borrow
some of its water,
flung from dazzling suns that have spent their rations,
cycled through the eons, your precious body
must be worth, what, hundreds of thousands, millions,
billions of dollars?
Estimate: far less than a lunch at Denny’s.
You, pet, are the atoms of moons and mountains,
rushing rivers, thunderstorms, plants and planets—
common as comets.
Who, then, plays your melody? Why, the cosmos
coursing through the energy you are made of,
through the living cells of your corporation.
You are a blueprint.
Dare I fall in love with an abstract template?
Dare I not? What curious magnetism—
strong force, weak force, gravity, cosmic laughter—
draws us together!
by Martin J. Elster
Editor’s Note: This syllabic ode (ll and 5 syllable lines) uses dazzling wordplay and imagery to convey the narrator’s fervor for his love.
It’s April. It’s snowing —again.
And, again, flowers close.
Snow is a cruel joke.
The world is speechless,
all this unfulfilled desire!
It is April, after all.
It’s not supposed to be like this —
white, cold shock,
purpose driven away —
this peculiar weather,
this lack of rapture.
It’s our turn,
insist the purple crocuses.
Snow returns, anyway,
any way it can.
Death can happen at any time.
We can only sing our way forward.
The journey is long,
and the length varies
depending on each of us,
and when we get to the end,
we will brighten up,
at last, and open
like spring flowers.
Editor’s Note: Anyone who lives in the USA (particularly in the east) will understand that this poem is a vivid and immediate response to this year’s exceedingly frustrating and late spring season.
Escape is usually an option,
in the movies, but not
in this destination,
where the plot fails
to unwind, or thickens like
Even the clock’s hands are bound,
each minute contained,
then strangled, the schedule
of departures unchanged.
The cuffs tighten if you struggle.
Editor’s Note: The dread in this poem heightens with each line, until the last, where all hope is lost.
From my room down the hall,
I can hear the mathematics
professor getting emotional
about an equation, and I ask
myself how someone can get
so worked up about what isn’t real,
an abstraction, nothing but what?
Signs and symbols. A scribble.
Oh, I say to myself. To him
it is a poem, a formal one,
every word in place, every rhyme
perfect, every stanza exact. Poor man.
He, too, must pound the beauty deep in
with his fist. Every time. Every damn time.
by JR Solonche
Editor’s Note: The title is the most important word in this entire poem.
[Editor’s Apology: Sorry for the double post today. I used the wrong title in the heading in the original post, and needed to correct it.]