A Walk in the Spring with My Dog by Eleanor Lerman

A Walk in the Spring with My Dog

Well yes, it takes medicine now and will, plus
the kind of footgear that a wild child
just down from the barricades would expect
to anchor the costume of an elder
An old party, new to the game

which apparently begins now: as others
gather to march, we are stepping off
into the winds of tomorrow. The trees
part like a gate for The Dog Who Believes
That She Will Live Forever. Green grass,
yellow flowers, silver-running creeks:
all that, again and again, year after year
Why should it be otherwise?

Why? Because the winds have invaded
my house, so there is no turning back
The cups and saucers have been put away
The bed has fallen through the floor
Now, only the dreams of the dog know how
to clean the rooms. Only the dreams of
the dog filter down through the sunlight

and reveal the way. Now is the time of
lonely steps: human time, but with
an animal’s seeing eye. Thus, the
days arrive like letters in the wind

and open themselves fearlessly
while we wait to breathe

by Eleanor Lerman

Eleanor on Facebook

Editor’s Note: The imagery in this poem pulls the reader into aging with the narrator, and the dog that understands nothing of time. This dichotomy gives the final two lines extra meaning.

New Dragons Discovered in the Andes by Jo Angela Edwins

New Dragons Discovered in the Andes

—headline about wood lizards, from BBC.com

Surely their faces must register the shock
when pale creatures stumble
in their general direction—
bi-pedaled, thin-skinned,
wrapped in pocketed fabrics,
carrying dark boxes that flicker like rifles
but make little sound, sting no corners of flesh,
the fires they belch, this time, harmless.
Of course they sense the cruel potential
in those with sunken eyes and flexible digits
that stretch to reach whatever they wish
to seize, unaccustomed as they are
to denial; their poor hearts shrink
to the size of a coffee bean at the whisper
of “no.” Beneath a sun gone ghostly
at these arid heights, the dragon turns
his head with something akin to slow
deliberation towards humans who scribble
or peck against plastic screens.
They do nothing more, do not grab or lay open
square cages with hair-trigger traps.
They snapshot. They record. They step back
a slow pace or two, stand like trees long used
to this atmosphere. Soon enough, things will change.
For now, a strange calm descends,
the likes of which none here have seen before.

by Jo Angela Edwins

Editor’s note: The meeting of human and animal is not always copacetic. This poem imagines the meeting from the dragon’s point of view, with uneasy deliberation.

May 30th by Patricia Wallace Jones

May 30th

A year ago I wrote to you
of temple bells, about the silk-tassels,
how they grow like weeds, shimmer
in the wind beneath my window.

After a mild dry winter,
scant spring rain, you sing to me
of homemade tortillas, the sweet
heady taste of vine-ripe tomatoes.

Out of step with your seasons,
these cool windy mornings
my catkins dance early, grey faster,
fall even softer this year than the last.

And to think—
before you came
with this uncommon friendship,
the remarkable beauty
in distant correspondence,
I would have missed this day,
used it for a calendar, a decoration
for my wall if I noted it at all.

by Patricia Wallace Jones

Patricia on Facebook

Editor’s Note: The internet has given us the ability to easily form friendships with people on the far side of the planet. This poem addresses that sometimes surprising mismatch of seasons, and the gratitude that knowing one another brings.

The Cabin by Ed Granger

The Cabin

Skip down the ladder from the loft
where yesterday’s last feverish kiss
of heat mothered you overnight.
Wrench open the stove door screeching
like an old iron safe, embers banked
in one corner like dreams awaiting
their next breath. You’re here, dead center
of nowhere, Nova Scotia. You came expecting
insight of some kind. You were mistaken.
The molten seethe of pine logs as they snap
latent sap up the black iron pipe
back into these baffling woods
tells you nothing. Dreams of your father
alive again, upstairs, shaving,
have followed you here. Of course
you told him you loved him,
even through purple lesions as he
whispered something about a Jesus
he’d never believed in. Feed brittle bits
of moss to the feeble orange glow, scraped
from the roof so they won’t claim renegade
sparks. Finesse the vents for a sense
of control. Your coffee is barely potable.
Your father was rarely approachable.
Lace up your boots, head out. Your father
was killed because he tried to pound
a square-peg self into this life until
his round-peg 9-to-5 metastasized. You
came here seeking liberation, found
this new routine. Today, maybe hike
to the logging camp where saws
weep dry crocodile tears. Stay available.
Reconcile yourself to this place.

by Ed Granger

Editor’s Note: Sometimes a memorial offers one a glimpse into one’s own life. This poem speaks of a search for insight that is often unattainable.

From the archives – The Shapes of Clouds by John L. Stanizzi

The Shapes of Clouds

. . . . . . . . . . . . .Childhood is far away.
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .War is near. Amen.
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .Yehuda Amichai
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .Songs of continuity, land mines and graves #5


the lovers sit still along the broad river
. . . . . . . .clouds in passage. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .massive cities
colossal animals. . . . . . . . .fictive worlds above
. . . . . . . .roiling transfiguration unnoticed mostly
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .except on long drives when you were a child
and someone played a game to pass. . . . . . . . . . . .the time

. . . . . . . .there’s a castle
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .there’s an elephant. . . .a king. . . .a dog
a tank. . . . . . . . .a ghost
and…..I don’t know what. . . .that is


now there is war. . . . . . . . .in the air
. . . . . . . .indistinguishable. . . . . . . . .shapeless

it is spring. . . . . . . . .the cottonwoods have snowed

the lovers are old
. . . . . . . .grandchildren play along the broad river

they are in danger

we are all in danger

look. . . .look. . . .look at that cloud. . . .a child says
. . . . . . . .it’s in the shape of a. . . .…of a. . . . . . . . . . . .of…

from Autumn Sky Poetry DAILY, May 4, 2016 — by John L. Stanizzi

photo by Christine Klocek-Lim

Addah Belle’s Pocket Watch by Wren Tuatha

Addah Belle’s Pocket Watch

Addah Belle’s pocket watch stands open
on my desk like a sandwich board

I want to shrink down and crawl under it,
camping in my ticking tent. Constellations
and bug spray.

Addah Belle knew me. She could
look at me and tell my future. In her time,
women married.

Addah Belle chose door number two
and taught at a girls’ finishing school,
finishing them off for the altar.

Retirement came abruptly. Bourbon and
ceremonies. The stillness of her room
in the farmhouse. And no Marian.

Two twin beds, like a dormitory, and her
married sister downstairs with grandkids on
long weekends.

I, her grand niece, tracked in
with pocket frogs, too-close best
friends and notebooks. She noticed.

Mom cut my unattended hair short.
Strangers took me for a boy. A boy
with notebooks. Listening to Auntie.

And the pocket watch tent would ticka tick,
flashlights and ghost stories on her desk while
she advised I could be a writer, plan a career.

In her time pocket watches were for men.
That might be how it came to her. Tom,
the last at bat who walked home

lost, wondering why she wouldn’t
marry him, why remaining at school with
Marian was preferable. The watch

forgotten on a wash stand, a library shelf,
a parlor bridge table. Tempus abire tibi est.. . . .[It’s time for you to go away]
The watch she kept and wound, for the sound.

I was a writer when she died. I was a lesbian
when I found her love letters. Her watch,
a flashlight and a tape measure in my drawer.
Tempus vitam regit.. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .[Time rules life]

by Wren Tuatha, first published in Bangalore Review.

Editor’s Note: This narrative poem draws the reader in slowly. By the end, the heart wrenching sadness of the narrator’s aunt is fully realized.

This Is Where I Slowdown On The Way Home by Billy Howell-Sinnard

This Is Where I Slowdown On The Way Home

I’ve come this way so many times,
kept an eye on the swan couple
residing in a private niche.

She spends her time on the nest.
A madonna in repose. Her
elegant neck so neatly folded

upon her body that I wonder,
for a second, if she still lives.
He floats carefree nearby,

or sometimes I see him
across the road,
the roving lover

exploring other waters,
but always back to her.
Not far from their parental

trusts, their necks
entwine in one purpose,
their white bodies

blend into a cloud
on the water
drifting into the reeds

into a privacy
from which I feel a need
to look away.

by Billy Howell-Sinnard

Editor’s Note: The title of this poem prepares us for the narrator’s description of a moment that happens often, but not often enough to remedy the awkward, emotional perspective of the final three lines.