Finn’s Acres by Jean L. Kreiling

Finn’s Acres
for Suzanne and Ed

A flash of black and white across the green
of six a.m. Maine meadow—flying fur,
a mighty heart, a nose for prey unseen,
an eye for playthings tossed—Finn’s always sure
to catch the disc that sails across his lawn,
to catch the sunlight in his glossy coat,
to catch and so to share whatever dawn
might promise, in his flight the antidote
to vague human complaints. He runs a race
he always wins, past drifts of Russian sage,
beyond the trellised grapes; he owns the place,
and us as well, demanding we engage
with earth and atmosphere and things that fly.
Our hearts rise with his, happy to comply.

by Jean L. Kreiling

Editor’s Note: As always, this poet’s easy grasp of the sonnet form supports the central theme—Finn. This poem explains why we love our pets.

Advertisements

Vintage verse – Lines Composed in a Wood on a Windy Day by Anne Brontë

Lines Composed in a Wood on a Windy Day

My soul is awakened, my spirit is soaring
. . . .And carried aloft on the winds of the breeze;
For above and around me the wild wind is roaring,
. . . .Arousing to rapture the earth and the seas.

The long withered grass in the sunshine is glancing,
. . . .The bare trees are tossing their branches on high;
The dead leaves beneath them are merrily dancing,
. . . .The white clouds are scudding across the blue sky.

I wish I could see how the ocean is lashing
. . . .The foam of its billows to whirlwinds of spray;
I wish I could see how its proud waves are dashing,
. . . .And hear the wild roar of their thunder to-day!

by Anne Brontë (1820-1849)

Photo by Christine Klocek-Lim

Best of the Net Nominations – 2017

botncover

I am happy to announce the following poems have been nominated for the Best of the Net 2017:

Abiding Winter by Risa Denenberg

Affidavit by Terri Muuss

The Balance Between Us by James Diaz

Bone-Chilled by Martin Willitts Jr.

Poem Only Half About Myself by J. Rod Pannek

Tuesday Morning by George Longenecker

Congratulations!

Disputation by Richard Meyer

Disputation

Relentless waves collapse against the rocks
that wall a jagged, undiminished shore.
The water seems undone by granite blocks,
and yet each wasted wave is followed up with more.
Undaunted water rolls, and rolls, and rolls on in.
Both rock and wave contest where land and sea begin;
and both display their might, and both are always right.
The ancient quarrel roars and howls all day, all night.

by Richard Meyer, first published in Orbital Paths.

Editor’s Note: The rhyme and meter of this poem reflects the content—repetition of motion between sea and stone. The larger allegory speaks of our need for contest, and the lasting, unresolved motion of it.

From the archives – In the Garden Shed by Doris Watts

In the Garden Shed

The morning sunlight has come angling in
where the door hangs open on one rusted hinge.
I suppose it worked free in last night’s wind.

In here, all scattered, are those discarded things
that, careless, we’ve left to grow dirty and dim.
To tell the truth, we’d forgotten them.

And there at the back, the roof’s broken through,
but until this morning nobody knew
how this has let sunlight come streaming in

to nurture a clever green-weedy vine
that has found a safe wall inside to climb –
the gardener’s hoe no longer a threat.

I’ll prop the door closed. Some secrets, I find,
are much better off when they have been kept.

from Autumn Sky Poetry DAILY, September 9, 2016 — by Doris Watts

photo by Christine Klocek-Lim

Vintage verse – Recuerdo by Edna St. Vincent Millay

Recuerdo

We were very tired, we were very merry—
We had gone back and forth all night on the ferry.
It was bare and bright, and smelled like a stable—
But we looked into a fire, we leaned across a table,
We lay on a hill-top underneath the moon;
And the whistles kept blowing, and the dawn came soon.

We were very tired, we were very merry—
We had gone back and forth all night on the ferry;
And you ate an apple, and I ate a pear,
From a dozen of each we had bought somewhere;
And the sky went wan, and the wind came cold,
And the sun rose dripping, a bucketful of gold.

We were very tired, we were very merry,
We had gone back and forth all night on the ferry.
We hailed “Good morrow, mother!” to a shawl-covered head,
And bought a morning paper, which neither of us read;
And she wept, “God bless you!” for the apples and pears,
And we gave her all our money but our subway fares.

by Edna St. Vincent Millay (1892-1950)

Photo by Christine Klocek-Lim

Sonnet: Songbirds by Martin Willitts Jr.

Sonnet: Songbirds

Never had so many songbirds been so silent.
Not one was spreading noise, curving over the pines.
A congregation had gathered, and not one bird
erected a thin mist of music. Not one note
rustled its wings. It was eerie. Curse?
Silent worship? What caused this hush?
There were so many birds in the sky
like rainclouds, darkening, enigmatic, quiet —

a strangeness of birds, and their ambiguity
purposeful, their luxuriant colors, their frequency
of moment — why were they composed
this way? This wall of fragments and silence,
not even one wing beat? Are they insulting us?
Is there some bad news that they are encapsulating?

by Martin Willitts Jr.

Martin on Facebook

Editor’s Note: This poem’s eerie questions seem strangely apt today, in the midst of Hurricane Harvey’s ongoing lashing of the Texan coast.