ADVICE FROM AN AGING POET by A.D. Winans

Live for the moment
the past is a ghost riding
an empty midnight train

sing like a hammer sings to a nail
tread softly thru the night where dreams
lay like land mines
ready to explode on the tattooed dawn

run barefoot with children in the park
listen to the sound of their breath
drown in the innocence of their eyes

ignore your enemies
false prophets drowning in quicksand

wrap your head in a song bag
lock your ego in the clothes closet
wear the eyes of an owl
write words soft as chalk
not like ball-less careful poets
in love with the business of poetry
wed to the immaculate chain of money

strip the flesh to the marrow
be a one person quire
light up the sky like a million
fireflies in flight to mate with
the sun

THE JOURNALIST by Jones LM

 

 

We struck up a conversation at the local post office,
looked to be in his seventies
said he retired here from Dallas
said he was a journalist
owned a newspaper back there.

That was two years ago,
yesterday he called 911
told dispatch he had just shot his wife to death
said he’d be dead
before they got there, outside
under the pine tree.

He couldn’t have written a better ending.

Why Blanche White and Daddy Didn’t Speak by Kelley Jean White

Blanche Cole was your Granny Venie’s youngest sister, she and Venie
and Helen were the only one’s never weighed over 250 so you come
by your weight honest. Blanche married into a family of Whites, no
relation to you (well, she’s a relation to you on my side but I mean
not on your father’s), David White might be my last surviving
cousin. Last I heard he was alive—No—I do not want you looking him up
on that internet thing, put it down now. Daddy said Blanche weren’t no
bigger than a popcorn fart. So them Whites was Jehovah’s Witnesses
and one day Daddy was out in front a the house drawing water from
the well and this Jehovah’s Witness come a long and set up—in those
days they used to travel with a wind-up Victrola and they’d offer to play
you some salvation music or preaching—and this Jehovah’s Witness he
set his up and wound it up and Daddy said you can stop that and the man
said well, wouldn’t you just want to listen to Jesus Christ our Lord who
came to earth to save people like you. And Daddy said well the Son-of-a-Birch didn’t stay long enough did he. And that were Blanche’s brother-in-law he said that to. Blanche’d still show up at sickbeds and funerals but
Daddy’d always go outa the room. David White weren’t allowed to play at all. Wore a little suit and bowtie. But he’s my cousin. Helen’s grandkids, those would be my cousins once removed, looked him up in Bridgeport. No, don’t you even think about driving me there. I won’t go. No.

A Bride for Mr. Fenster by Donal Mahoney

 

Three sisters
single in their 40s
gather ’round the fire

on a night of thunder
to figure out which sister
should marry Mr. Fenster,

a widower in his 90s now.
He proposed last week to
all three of them and said

he would marry one
and provide a nice home
for the other two.

Mr. Fenster owns a farm
down the road a mile or so.
Worth a lot of money

he buried a wife a year ago.
He’s mourned enough, he says,
and wants to marry a nice lady

who will make him happy.
Mabel and Maude say Millie
should be the bride.

After all, she’s the youngest
of the three, can cook and clean
and is young enough

and strong enough to lift
Mr. Fenster on and off.
Millie says no way

Winter Solstice by Paul Hellweg

Winter Solstice, Year of the Monkey,
the cupped hand can hold water or cradle a breast
sources of life immemorial, details
in the observer, caresses in the dark.
All of us trapped in iron cage, maker unknown,
suspicion falls on self. Freedom the key, but
where lies the door? Remember ancient savannah,
soft dirt underfoot, gliding like wind wolves through tall grass,
horizon the destination, not the limit.
Remember blood-red sunsets and
the welcoming warmth of dawn’s first light.
Remember bright cold stars and inky vastness,
remember.

When Life is Life by Winnie Star

 

We stand upon life
Up on a footstool
Encumbering the day, the night
Relishing peacefulness
And attempting to demolish
The unrest we endure

The footstool may teach us
To bring up the harried, tardy
Elements we face
Embrace
Deface

And each day
As each day goes by
We ask questions
Seek answers
Within the elements of love
Of listening
Of cherishing the dear
And praying to not fear the inevitable

Rather, languishing if we can
In the not foreseeable future
On the footstool

Going Home by Pris Campbell

 

The old man walks down
the center line of Jenson Boulevard
in his best suit, shoes spit-shined.
Cars honk.
Curses abound –
get out of the road you crazy fool!

A truck driver pulls over,
tries to guide him to the sidewalk,
only to be whacked by the old man’s cane.

Cell phone users gather.
Some call 911. Others record in case he’s hit.
They’ll have the video for the evening news.

The old man doesn’t understand the ruckus.
Mother will be waiting for him,
with milk and cookies.
He doesn’t want her to worry.

Two cops finally pull up, take him
by each arm, check the bracelet
on his left wrist, load him into their car.

A woman in white wrings her hands
when they park beside a squat,
institutionalized building. She takes
him to a small room, tells him he’s home.

The sun knows and the moon knows
this isn’t home. Home is somewhere
along that big road outside.
He’s determined to find it.

He’ll try again the next time
a door is left open.