From the archives – Hope by Neil Creighton

Hope

When the hidden rip sucks out
beyond the blue swell
uncurling noisily upon the sand,

out beyond the raucous sea-birds
circling, soaring and dipping
above the white topped crests,

out into dark, trackless waste
where the moving water mountain
towers glass smooth and sheer

and over its vast plateau top
waves foam and rumble
in irresistible chaos,

then only surrender remains,
letting the mighty surge
sweep where it will,

holding in a few tiny cells
the longing for a gentler swell
to wash slowly back

into some sheltered cove
where the patterned ripples
kiss the yellow sand,

where hope fills the clear blue sky
and the whole glorious world
shines again bright and new.

from Autumn Sky Poetry DAILY, January 30, 2018 — by Neil Creighton

Photograph by Christine Klocek-Lim

From the archives – Transfer of Power by Rick Mullin

Transfer of Power

It’s only natural, our hearts attuned
to reconciliation, that a great divide
would bleed into its center as the wound
reverts to scar on the resilient hide.
There are the massacre and Pentecost.
The fumes of war, the bright tongue of the dove.
Given ample rope, we’d hang ourselves,
but our imagination casts above
the rafters and the heavy attic shelves
on which our bound philosophies are tossed.
There comes a desperate encounter, fraught
with animal ferocity, a hand
extended where a battle has been fought
to one who rises from the bloody sand
already overwhelmed. Already lost.

from Autumn Sky Poetry DAILY, November 21, 2016 — by Rick Mullin

Photograph by Christine Klocek-Lim

From the archives – A Thanksgiving Anthem, by William Billings by Christine Potter

A Thanksgiving Anthem, by William Billings

Ye dragons, whose contagious breath
People the corridors of death
Change your dire hissings into heavenly song
And praise your maker with your forked tongues
—William Billings, 1794 – (a paraphrase of Psalm 148)

For-ked, with two syllables, and six or eight
sixteenth notes on “for”. Repeatedly. For
measure after measure. Breath control,
says my husband. He reminds me it was

my idea our choir sing this anthem. It’s what
I deserve for having cocktails with him and
a Sacred Harp CD. William Billings, leather
tanner, street sweeper, composer, missing

an eye, one leg shorter than the other, loved
dragons. Hissing dragons, especially, because
he could win even them. So what if they
smelled bad and King James gives them just

one word in Psalm 148? Billings turned his
anthem into dragons, turned his whole choir
into dragons, turned choirs into dragons two
hundred and twenty years into the future.

And because of his love, the dragons were
grateful. They unfolded their napkins and
ate turkey and Indian Pudding. Make sure
you hit the “s” in “hissings”, my husband says:

Hissssingss! Thus instructed, our lizard-like
scales include the whole world, as they were
intended to. See? The dragons are carrying
everyone’s plates to the kitchen sink. Alleluia!

from Autumn Sky Poetry DAILY, November 26, 2015 — by Christine Potter

From the archives – On The Turn by Jerome Betts

On The Turn

Loaded, a sunflower’s head inclines,
Petals like tarnished epaulettes.
Teasels become all curved brown spines;
The beechmast crumples on the setts.
Now leaves display first yellow stains,
The cider-apple crop thumps down
And heaped-up trailers block the lanes
With loads to crush and press in town.

A tractor’s cab shakes drops of dew
From brambles’ blackening red beads;
Flurries of gulls and rooks pursue
The ploughshare slicing under weeds;
Wild strawberries bloom, defying ice,
Death-blow the season still delays,
Though indoors now the feet of mice
Patter the tale of shortening days.

from Autumn Sky Poetry DAILY, November 9, 2015 — by Jerome Betts

Photograph by Christine Klocek-Lim

From the archives – Sonnenizio on a Line from Yeats by Catherine Rogers

Sonnenizio on a Line from Yeats

An aged man is but a paltry thing.
An aged woman, on the other hand,
Has no time to be paltry like her man.
She’s coaxing fire to make the kettle sing.

She fries the sausages and sets the forks.
He sighs his own obituary, then dozes,
Dreaming of imperishable roses.
Real roses must be pruned. She gets to work.

The old man has his legacy to tend;
He mourns his fading powers with aching heart.
Her hands ache with arthritis, but she’s smart
And takes an aspirin; she has socks to mend.

Byzantine sage, enough of fiery gold!
The real trick’s being too busy to get old.

from Autumn Sky Poetry DAILY, November 27, 2015 — by Catherine Rogers

Photograph by Christine Klocek-Lim

From the archives – Seamstress by Ralph Culver

Seamstress

Belief in the thread consoles, redeems. The warm
ease of your ceaseless hands draws down
the twill-flecked light. Beyond the windowpane,
stars shred themselves and drift across silk, seams for
your later eyes to follow. Now,

deft in work, the blue irises feed through
each pass of the needle, riddle the
carcass of the cotton-flower. There is
always work, and always another hour. Your
spare form, clothed in a loose blouse and
the sweating air: stale and harried, yet
rising, constellated with the remnant sparks. You,
only sewing. Something else is joined together.

“Seamstress” is an acrostic poem dedicated to its subject, whose name is
spelled by the first letter of each line.

from Autumn Sky Poetry DAILY, October 9, 2015 — by Ralph Culver

Photograph by Christine Klocek-Lim

From the archives – Simple by Robert Nisbet

Simple

Imagine this. Brown-panelled surgery.
You’re simply told of what you’ve hoped so long:
You’re clear. Just that. You’re clear, you’re bloody clear.
You hear your heart’s wild shout. Huge days stack up.

You’ll walk into the morning (will you not?)
and every cornice, pavement, starling, cloud,
each doorway, primrose, coffee cup and street,
that man’s inconsequential smile, your heart,
the whole vast, lovely, all-but-shapeless heap,
will seem to say, its breath quite still, You’re clear.
How very, very beautiful is life.

Now we, my friend, my compeer, we’ve not known
that rasping clash with our mortality.
For me, for you, might days still be like that?
Why can’t you, can’t we, every trembling day,
gaze on that drift of surely random cloud,
that coffee cup, the starling’s glossed black,
the stranger’s sudden smile (that most of all),
the whole big, deep shenanigans of hope,
and in the warm heart’s certain core, be glad?

from Autumn Sky Poetry DAILY, October 20, 2016 — by Robert Nisbet

Photograph by Christine Klocek-Lim

From the archives – Tell Me Again by Julia Klatt Singer

tell me again

about the man
with the pear tree
who lost his wife
after fifty-six years of marriage
and how that tree doesn’t know when enough is enough
that last August
he had to prop the poor thing’s branches up
with two-by-fours
it was so laden with fruit.
He gave you a bagful of those pears
and their scent filled the car
even with the windows rolled down.

from Autumn Sky Poetry DAILY, October 26, 2015 — by Julia Klatt Singer

Painting by Julia Klatt Singer

From the archives – Poem for our Anniversary by Johanna Ely

Poem for our Anniversary

I ask you if you still want me
the way the shore wants
the ocean to lap
against its edges,
if you still feel the strong desire
of tides that pull and push
against a moon that is
slivered forever into my skin.
I ask if you remember me,
how I was before you really
knew me,
before you pulled me
to shore, breathing life
into my collapsed lungs
with your slow blues
and blackbird calls.
I want to love you
the way the shore delights
in choppy waves hitting
the seawall at high tide,
or longs for the silent calm
of receding water caressing sand.
You answer yes to everything,
even when I ask you if you imagined
my poems flying across your lips
the first time I kissed you.
I tell you I am the swallow
who will always return home
because you follow me there,
carrying marsh grasses in your beak,
the setting sun blossoming
like a bloodshot rose in your wings,
the ebb and flow of who we are inhaled,
how the love we have smells like the sea.

from Autumn Sky Poetry DAILY, September 30, 2016 — by Johanna Ely

photo by Christine Klocek-Lim

From the archives – Lost Cause In Six Or More Colors by Patricia Wallace Jones

Lost Cause In Six Or More Colors

It is no accident that I am here
where the only lane left has slipped to sea;
here on this fault with no safety belt,
no stay pole or traveler to slow the falling.

When tides run high and the herons leave,
I ride silent, north from Hare Creek
past the old sawmills and dog hole ports,
logging camps where alders lean white,
grieve in the leavings of old growth trees.

Approaching the Bailey bridge, my fear
becomes palpable, rises up from my gut–
heart to throat– while I wait for the flag man
to turn his sign from Stop to Slow, to be
the next one suspended over crews below.

Orange-vested and out-witted, they still try
to tame her. This year with rip rap, PVC
and red clover.

from Autumn Sky Poetry DAILY, October 16, 2015 — by Patricia Wallace Jones

photo by Christine Klocek-Lim