Hymn of Comfort
Though countless years have lapsed, I still perceive
your sparkle in September brume. If wilting,
I’m replenished when I catch your lilting
voice or feather-touch upon my sleeve.
Refreshing like a west-wind through the yews
in dog days heat, your peony perfume
revitalizes wafting round my room.
When tossed in sleepless waves, all thoughts askew,
I hear familiar strains of Calon Lan;
then drift into a soporific cave,
discovering the tranquil pool I crave.
As timbres linger, threads begin to darn
the frayed perimeters of life’s debris,
repair my yearning for your company.
by Eira Needham
Editor’s Note: This sonnet uses the form to weave memory into an ode of remembrance.
You, My Love
Of Friday, fishbones and fenugreek
Fermented mustard, cumin, a dash of cayenne pepper
Overlaid polished pebbles, toughening gleaming, oiled leather
Like motor oil, grit under fingernails
Sawdust and grease layer soft skin
Folds of it speckle with sweat pheromonal
Sweet, sour, electric, multi-tonal
Chaotic jazz, a drumbeat feral
A war gong atavistic, jumping fences
Galloping stallion, wild, majestic
Push past all notional defenses
Like nibbling things
cherries and dried salt sweet cranberries
Chocolate darker than my dyed soul
Mixed milk and saffron in a honeyed bowl
For you, my love
No aphorism or apothegm would, could ever suffice
The layers of you from day to night
Beggar definition by wont of will
My every-flavored morning, afternoon, nightly pill
by Aparna Sanyal
Aparna on Facebook
Editor’s Note: The imagery in this poem functions as a series of metaphors for love, because some emotions can only be fully described via comparison (and often even that is not enough).
Then the earth went quiet.
No creature called.
No background hum.
No crickets, cicadas, frogs.
Birds gasped, opened their beaks,
held out their wings to cool,
then fell to the ground.
Then water took low atolls,
inched up river valleys,
covered abandoned houses
and twisted war machines,
lapped tall towers
still standing like strange sentinels
in the orange tinted tide.
Then, on the far horizon,
the sun flamed dirty smudge,
lit the mountains
and the haggard faces
of the survivors
moving higher and higher
over the pock-marked land.
Then suddenly it dipped
into impenetrable black.
No silver pepper of stars.
No moon, though the ocean
still ebbed and flowed.
Then only darkness
covered the face
of the mighty deep.
by Neil Creighton
Editor’s Note: This poem’s chilling imagery posits a future dystopia that seems inevitable to many of us. Art reflects our failures and our fears.
Before the Change
The day long
like a wet bed sheet,
we lingered near
the water and
strengths of several
varieties of wildlife
until I chose an egret
and you chose
a catfish as
our spirit animals.
of our bicycles.
but rolled like
Yours was pink
We heard the
song before we
saw the truck,
and fueled by
heart and hunger,
the clover field,
you in the lead
riding free handed,
your smile fuller
than a rain heavy sky.
Your body was
the sweating air,
clean and beating,
your eyes only
for ice cream
revelry that summer
before the change
when blood did
not mean death
but life, and words
were no longer
for butter but
by Katarina Boudreaux
Katarina on Twitter: @mignonfleur
Katarina on Facebook
Editor’s Note: In this poem, short lines reflect the fleeting nature of childhood just on the cusp of the teen years, with all of its attendant angst.
All day hiking long blue mountains, three
tiny strides to match your mommy’s step,
little duckling flapping upward,
patting along the path,
panting breaths escape your weary face
until the color of a flower leaps onto your lips,
“Look, Da Da!”
All night in the dozing Shenandoah,
the wheezing zees of wind inside the forest,
weaving with your breath,
rhythm in the air,
little nest of baby blankets on your chest
rise and fall, rise and fall.
Silver walls of night light,
shadows in the window,
midnight’s cold and colored voice,
no more to my core
than your breath asleep.
from Autumn Sky Poetry DAILY, June 23, 2016 — by Kole Allan Matheson
photo by Christine Klocek-Lim
A Bird came down the Walk
A Bird came down the Walk—
He did not know I saw—
He bit an Angleworm in halves
And ate the fellow, raw,
And then he drank a Dew
From a convenient Grass—
And then hopped sidewise to the Wall
To let a Beetle pass—
He glanced with rapid eyes
That hurried all around—
They looked like frightened Beads, I thought—
He stirred his Velvet Head
Like one in danger, Cautious,
I offered him a Crumb
And he unrolled his feathers
And rowed him softer home—
Than Oars divide the Ocean,
Too silver for a seam—
Or Butterflies, off Banks of Noon
Leap, plashless as they swim.
by Emily Dickinson (1830-1886)
Photo by Christine Klocek-Lim
Think of rain. Think of it bringing a message. Think
of the rain singing, and how its melody is getting closer.
Notice how the rain is smiling. It is thinking.
Think of the rain as a guest. Treat it kindly.
Think of rain catching in a deer’s antlers. Think of rain
being as large as forgiveness, but also as less
than a gram. Think of small, wounded words.
Think how rain can start with tiny baby-steps.
A person receiving a transfusion, lays near roses
someone delivered, and now the patient is too tired
to notice their bloom, fading. It’s a kind of courage
to watch a calendar change while minutes
become less abundant, more uncertain.
Rain concludes on the windows.
by Martin Willitts Jr.
Martin on Facebook
Editor’s Note: Once again this poet’s sonnet series presents a lack of meter and rhyme that nevertheless supports the meaning of the title. Careful imagery and enjambment show that even free verse can be formalized into an emphatic emotional metaphor.