Another Poem About Fireflies by David P. Miller

Another Poem About Fireflies

We say “listen to the wind in the trees”
but that is not the sound. What is the sound
of a leaf moving? How many leaves
in these after-dark silhouettes framed
by highway horizon glow? I came to the porch
because I heard a gentle rainfall
but it was not water mist against leaves.
It was leaves against the movement of air.
We cannot hear air, cannot hear one
two three leaves change position.
But this, sounding of indrawn breath
and tide drawn back across black
volcanic pebbles, this we can hear.

I came to the covered porch to be misted
this July dusk but there was not mist.
There were pulsing tree trunks. There were events
at the edges of my eyesight, and when I looked
they were bugs. Then there were more events
that when I looked again became lights.
I don’t remember when I last saw
fireflies, and I don’t know if I will ever
see them again. So stark, their white-yellow signals
pull from deep in the yard across the street,
and down the street. Each its own light-
point cycle, so many aerial lighthouses.
Flash cycle nebula densing the more
the more I abandon eye focus. This erratic
point cloud beneath tides of treetops,
and me in the fade to black, secure
in my simple irrelevance to all of it.

by David P. Miller

Editor’s Note: This poem seems simple at first, as the narrator details his observations, but as the imagery repeats and twists into itself, the poem spirals into a more astronomical philosophy than is immediately obvious.

On the Way to Perry Park by Sarah Dickenson Snyder

On the Way to Perry Park

Is there a man in the moon? he asks.
And I want to say,
There is a man in you.

You will grow into him,
the way the moon has become
a part of me—her pulling,

the way she rides
across a sky, her work
with the sea and in me,

how there is someone
in all of us, a small god.
I want to say,

keep looking up,
trace the pigeon sweeping
over the water feature,

step in a scene,
to gather whatever
lines a basin.

Is the moon following us? he asks.
We move together,
I say.

by Sarah Dickenson Snyder

Editor’s Note: This poem’s surrealistic imagery provides a wistful counterpoint to the child’s questions. Parents will understand.

Too Smart by Ed Shacklee

Too Smart

Before we got too smart, the world was flat –
above our heads, the music of the spheres.
What’s going round and round compared to that?

Local gods and demons babysat
our knuckle-dragging mums and dads for years
until we got too smart: the world was flat,

unrolled and supine as a welcome mat
with edges where the unknown disappears.
What’s going round and round compared to that

delightful sense of knowing where one’s at,
even Plato’s Cave? For it appears
that before we got too smart the world was flat,

and cooler till we broke the thermostat,
like hamsters on a wheel who’ve stripped the gears.
For what goes round, comes round, and that is that:

each up becomes a down, and like a gnat
a pesky doubt still buzzes in our ears;
for till we got too smart, the world was flat –
what’s going round and round compared to that?

by Ed Shacklee

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Editor’s Note: The villanelle form lends itself to the twisting, recursive philosophy that is the central theme of this poem.

A Rose Is a Rose Is a Rose by Marissa Glover

A Rose Is a Rose Is a Rose

The moon and stars that fill the sky
are only there to light the night—
no message for my hopeful eye,
no wish I may or wish I might.

The rainfall is no sign of love;
no hidden meaning in the weather.
It’s not a signal from above
that you and I should be together.

The lilies growing in the lake
are not for us a metaphor.
They had no thought of what’s at stake
and bloomed before we reached the shore.

The world around us yields no clue
should you love me or I love you.
The world is beautiful and yet—
let’s not read too much into it.

by Marissa Glover

Editor’s Note: The lighthearted form of this poem makes it an easy read, but the message is much deeper than is first apparent.

February by Rick Mullin

February

The Christmas amaryllis keeps on growing,
boxed, neglected into February,
curled against the cardboard in the dark,
a spark in Quasimodo’s brooding cell.
And we move through our shadow-angled house
unconscious of its tendrils in our beds,

its airborne web, the ways that unmade beds
embrace corruption. Silence feeds what’s growing
daily when there’s no one in the house,
and a flower burns through nights in February,
out of sight, a churning carousel
abandoned with its lights on in the dark.

Forgotten visitation, onioned arc,
it aches to show itself… and know our beds.
To mix with us in each dividing cell
that pushes farthest from the fire. It’s growing
spinelessly in love with February
and the hibernations of our house,

the mouthfeel of our eggs and Maxwell House,
and the flavor of our bodies in the dark
while we’re away. The radix Februari
cultivates our absent flower beds.
It’s growing, growing, growing, growing, growing,
microfiber, wind spore, nanocell,

unnaturally active past its sell-
by-date, and wiring our entire house
with febroneural threads. The box is growing
bolder and more desperate, sweet and dark.
Perhaps it means to choke us in our beds
and spend the waning days of February,

with its vampire apex, February,
with its uphill climb and sleeper cell
around the corner, sucking in our beds
and pulling us, digested, to a house
beneath the sideboard where we left it dark
and dying in a box. But it kept growing,

growing like a February virus,
burning in the dark, a fuel cell,
an unmade brain, a house of hunchbacked beds.

by Rick Mullin, first appeared in Measure, from Stignatz & the User of Vicenza.

Editor’s Note: It is February, and this poem is a sestina written in blank verse, which is astonishing.

My Husband Never Buys Me Flowers by Katie Hoerth

My Husband Never Buys Me Flowers

I see them every Saturday, those men
cradling bouquets of fresh-cut flowers
in the grocery check-out line — dyed daisies,
carnations, or a single rose in rouge.

I’m emptying my shopping cart behind
one as he pays. He shifts inside his suit
taps a polished shoe, unsheathes his wallet,
disappears like mist into the night.

It’s enough to make a gal feel jipped
out of romance. Isn’t this what love
ought to look like: Men on tall white horses,
charming men with flowers in pressed suits,

men who slay the dragons, save the day?
I carry my own groceries to the car.
At home, my husband slumbers on the couch,
resting from another day of working

in the garden, trimming back the chaos
of the oak whose shade was suffocating
my marigolds. His open palms are blooming
with blisters like the petals of a rose.

by Katie Hoerth

Editor’s Note: The imagery in the last two lines of this poem pushes the reader out of the narrator’s mind and into a bouquet of emotion.

From the archives – The Kiss by Gregory Palmerino

The Kiss

Something is cast in beauty that receives
the mind and won’t let go: it seems as fine
as sunlight dappling beneath the eaves

or yellow jasmine fragrant on the vine,
and you, with florid lips and furtive eyes,
inviting me to cross that whirlwind sign;

it keeps compelling me to recognize
this look of yours, in half a measure’s time,
is only half of splendor’s sacred prize.

For music sought inside this holy rhyme,
the scent of flowers, and the taste of wine
all flee to me from Rodin’s cold sublime—

when last I tempt that spell and cross that line
then take your hand and press your lips to mine.

from Autumn Sky Poetry DAILY, February 21, 2017 — by Gregory Palmerino

photo by Christine Klocek-Lim