Another year is gone, and here at NHPR, we wanted to celebrate with poetry.
We asked for your original poetry reflecting on 2024 — the ups, the downs, the moments of joy and the hardships — and many of you shared your work with us.
State Poet Laureate Jennifer Militello read all of the submissions and joined NHPR’s All Things Considered host Julia Furukawa to reflect on some of them.
Editor's note: We highly recommend listening to the audio above.
Your Poems
Crocus — Cherie Green
Wonders of Store — Lynn Chong
Winter Solstice — Judith Abbe
Her first wheelchair — Reverie Koniecki
Auction Sale — Adele V. Sanborn
The Year Of Loss: 2024 — Erine Leigh
Christology — Douglas MacNeil
Election Day 2024 — Charlotte Matthews
2024; A Replay — Ronald Jackowitz
haikus in memory of Mom — Pam Sinotte
Poem Composed from Notes Taken During an October Walk in the Heald Tract — Richard Widhu
We The People — Cathy George
Wild Kittens — Jody Wells
Still — Monica Jagentenfl
Eclipsed — Carlene M. Gadapee
bright red blood in the fresh white snow — Michele Tremblay
A stone upon the cairn — Susan Giusto
Sins of the Father — J. L. Long (Julian Long)
Working Man — John Lindberg
2024 — S. Stephanie
The ghosts of winter — Jeff Powell
Home for the Holidays — Harold Rosen
2024, Post Election — Marjorie Moorhead
Two Movie Projectors — Brenna Manuel
The Curse of the White Pickup — Tara Marvel
Wheel of Life — Will Conway
At Home in 2024 — Keiselim A. Montás
Where do I go now? — Sophia Budhathoki
fallow — Ann Roe
A Week after yet another Cyanobacteria Watch on the Lake — Carla Schwartz
Foreshadowing the Skies — Carla Schwartz and Clayton E. Clark
Aftermath — Maria Pacelli
Post Results — Brenda Wilbert
Old Roads in the Fall — Edward Huse
2024 POLITICAL SABBATICAL — Dianalee Velie
River of Time — Betsy Snider
My Woodstove Enigma — Rob Fried
2024, My Year of Healing — Wendy Jensen
2024: Hearts Filled With Hope — Ellie Epstein-White
Poem for Hvaldimir — Catherine O’Brian
They Dance — Tom Keegan
Thermodynamics — Rob Pinsonneault
Why Poetry? — Joan T. Doran
Crocus
Ponder the audacity
Of a crocus
Its fragile sails billowing
In the wind chill
Asserting its preposterous
existence through
The dismal dregs of
Snow that you suspect
Won't be the last of the year.
Here is a flower with faith,
A plant that believes in
Impossibilities
Like itself, and because it believes,
It rises yearly at this
Inauspicious time
Like one briefly dead, like the
First fruits of them that sleep.
— Cherie Green
Wonders of Store
All kinds of V-8 juice on its shelf, that juice aisle.
Rumford Baking Powder, I need for Christmas-cookies --
so recessed on the high shelf I must ask a tall stranger
coming along to reach me one, please! I'm too short!
Sardines, fresh beets with greens, Bragg's Nutritional Yeast, cocoa.
Soup cans. Peanut butter jars. Wonders! Now a shabby man
ahead of me is down to counting out his pennies. Clerk stands patiently,
with this down-and-outer buying only beer, loose cans of it.
I see the brand name, Daddy-O. Wha? Makes me smile.
I catch his eye and say, What a funny brand name! Enjoying
his choice -- but busy with his backpack, he doesn't get it.
Then he does! Straightens, laughs and says, Tastes good too!
So our clerk smiles, her genuine self coming through,
careful neutrality busted. We three wise up, enjoy our scene.
— Lynn Chong
Winter Solstice
Oh darkness, thank you for
your rest.
Your invitation to slow down, consider,
allow for emergence of
what rests in the darkness.
In the darkness rests the capacity
for light.
They create one another, as
the seed creates the blossom,
and blossom creates seed.
— Judith Abbe
Her first wheelchair
It was hospital blue and constructed of rectangles, from seat, to back, to the delicate geometry encircling her too-large head. my mother explained her condition to me as water on the brain. I see waves of fluid crashing against the cove of her skull. I understand that she was born like this. My mother tells me to pray because only god can help her. And so we pray like dying sinners. I expect to wake one morning and find her sitting up in bed, head no longer strained under the weight of ocean. She smiles, and we play, speaking the language only sisters know. Yet each day brings the same stone god that sentenced my mother to being alone. In the blue wheelchair, we are almost free. I push her, and she laughs without restraint. This is how superheroes are born. Her vehicle—a chariot trailing fire that I navigate around the sharp corners of our apartment. I whisper all of my songs in her ear. She coos and claps as if to say I love you, I love you, I love you.
— Reverie Koniecki
Auction Sale
It happened so fast
but months to prepare
The gavel lowered
The price was paid
and the last cow was
lead out of the barn
and on to the truck
now mornings will take a new shape
no longer hurried to start the day
comfort perhaps
until new questions challenge
months to prepare
happening so fast
the gavel lowered
the price paid
and the last cow was
lead from the barn
to the truck
mornings will take a new shape
no hurry to start the day
comfort perhaps
until new questions challenge
— Adele V. Sanborn
The Year Of Loss: 2024
No grapes grew upon the lush and creeping vine, No apples flourished, plump-formed upon spreading limbs.
The mountain laurel hardened its own ovoid buds; for the fairest iris, a wait in vain.
It was more than my set-back body while pain and numbness prevailed.
It was more than my flagging stores,
More than my attempts to work as before that failed.
It was a brooding sense throughout the year that evil, like worms that sever roots, poisoned the soil.
Rivals of just ideologies stalked the very air waves, no one knew how to resist or what to say.
The animals sensed it as they stopped in their tracks and stared, Then whirl’d to scatter to a safer place.
Women were gathered like cattle, bribed, menially contained for later use.
Their psyches crushed and packaged, persuaded away from their worth.
While men pretended to dislike an outcome, yet padded their pockets with ill-gotten gain.
Look who has the reins of our nation in their grasping hands, Look what fools we breed when greed is the template for our every action.
Even the poets desire to be on stage, to be more than needed and heard, But also lauded and praised.
Yet without the grapes and apples, without the pollinating bees, what chances without beauty and flowers, herbs for taste and trees for shade, mushrooms for messaging and a deep seated reverent perception for nature’s ways?
We shall see sterility cover our country and in the years to come a defiant inner revolution. Tend to the best in your selves and waste not your strength punching at pillows.
It’s a thing of the moment to stay kind, the moments counting us down to our piths, through our rinds.
Find your peeps, your loves within reach, makers rise!
Find me in the land of dense fog and high tides, a generative nest to chase ideas and crack open the last egg of my life; come seek me there and we will walk beneath eagles, watch for whales’ breech, take note of the preservation of species that interact in harmony, instead of ours which harms-many.
We may eat simply and respond to elemental forces, wind and water, not the voices of a news report, filling us with images of violence.
We will instead focus on participation in moonrise, the lifting, setting, and colorful variations of celestial lights.
The fruits of our labors appreciated, peace held within our minds And within cooperative communities, we’ll adapt to challenging times.
— Erine Leigh
Christology
Habitually broken,
And she’ll likely die that way.
I recently walked in on her
And she was crying as she held a flower and I asked her why?
It’s dying, she said.
While the bouquet on the table appeared blossoming in the vase, Red
Like the blood clotting in her veins.
Yellow and orange, like the sun rising at dawn
Lighting the darkness, infiltrating the water.
And the cats still won’t come out from
Underneath the couch, and I
Don’t know how to reach them?
Because the wind wailing over the waters of the lake,
have kept us up all night,
While the snow piled, and piled, and piled against the side of the house.
The star absent the earth too early, deserting me
Four p.m. and I’m in darkness.
And the cannons rumble in the distance of my mind,
A summer storm that never ends,
Flashes lightening, rains poison,
Burning capacity for love, till plumes…black,
Dot the horizon and Coalesce into a Devine Comedy.
And the madness of Christology pushes in,
Pulses vertigo, falling
Neither left nor right, neither
Up nor down, but
A house collapsing in the interior and
I lean into the rose to smell,
And what registers is the fear in the lies of beauty, and
In the truth of the sadness of the
Resurrection,
God is a presence that protects us from Nothing,
Listening to Modest mouse sing
The Good Times are Killing Me,
And I see her as she smiles, and I watch her there as she then cries,
And I know not how to reach her.
— Douglas MacNeil
Election Day 2024
The day before my mother would have turned 90,
the vacuum stopped working. At first, I thought I’d give up
on the thing until I remembered
my mother had her Electrolux for 40 years.
I write to the customer service department,
and the response I get is so warmhearted,
I am reminded that great integrity still exists.
After they thank me for my missive,
they say they are sorry to hear the issue persists.
They say it may be a battery problem.
They listened. They gave a best guess,
which is all any of us can do.
It makes me want to banish all regret
and realize that sometimes light becomes
more light at the very moment we need it most.
Today, we vote for a new president,
and the whole country is holding its breath.
One friend wrote it’s like we are all stuck
at an airport gate, not knowing our final destination.
Another said it’s like we’re all waiting on biopsy results.
The vacuum customer service ends the email by saying they want
to assure me that they will do all they can to make it right again.
They end the note: Unfortunately, there are situations
where we are unable to accommodate all requests.
How apt is that for this day?
— Charlotte Matthews
2024; A Replay
Of years past repeated like
The lyrics of those same old songs
Informing of war and famine
Loss of faith and a declining planet
Though over time’s passage
The names may change but man’s DNA
Remains the same, his predilection
For greed, power and violence
Consumes him and the world like
A sponge soaking up the blood
Spilled by his victims, the wailing of
The immigrants ignored by the
Deaf ears of autocrats and dictators
Though the chilling sounds of
Tractors and chain saws welcomed
By captains of industry and those bent
On profiting by deforestation as
Indigenous peoples and animals’ scurry
To find a new home in a shrinking habitat
All of which indelibly stamps 2024
As part of a continuum that began
During man’s infancy culminating in
The previous twelve months raising
Questions of whether we can stop the
Madness before time runs out
As we head toward our own demise
— Ronald Jackowitz
haikus in memory of Mom
liver-spotted hands
planted, kneaded, smoothed the sheets
now still, forever
buried in your coat
wool and eternity hold you
the thought brings comfort
the rose in water
cold fingers plucked from the spray
a pink remembrance
chick-a-dee-dee-dee
everything and nothing changes
you sing, regardless
— Pam Sinotte
Poem Composed from Notes Taken During an October Walk in the Heald Tract
Far below nestles a pond, framed by Maples,
glistens with sunsparkle wavelets dancing.
Waterlily leaves, now pale, matte and dull.
Dark Reed hummocks left high and dry.
It’s been weeks since a good rain.
Up here in the sunflooded meadow, wildflowers I know —
Chicory true blue star lasting late,
Goldenrod wrongly blamed for hayfever,
Aster many iterations of glory.
Queen Anne’s Lace royal white umbrella opened
for Social Ant, Native Bee nectaring.
Their names are poetry intended for
those who stop to listen.
In the White Pine cathedral, degrees cooler,
accents of White Birch interspersed.
My feet cushioned by needles — soft, not sharp
fallen from high above, where dwell Owl,
Warbler, Red Squirrel safe from my presence,
my interruption, the unwelcome guest.
I contour a sidehill, darkened with Hemlocks who,
like myself, prefer emerald ravines, the North aspect of things.
Clamber across puzzle of cobbles strewn haphazard.
Pick my way with caution across a silent watercourse which
hopes to be reawakened by next spring’s snowmelt.
Entering a sunlit clearing I’m announced by
Bluejay’s raucous alarm system.
Skreek, ragged cry, of Hawk who takes to silent flight —
gray blur moving across screen of still-green Beech leaves.
Sparrow flock suddenly flits up and out from gleaning seeds.
I try a Barred Owl call — silence answers —
what arrogance of me disturbing Her daytime reverie.
Huffing panting upward, heart thumping in my ears,
I sit on a log fallen across a stone wall snaking uphill.
Wall from centuries-dead settlers who stole, claimed, cleared land
then abandoned their failed farms.
Land now reclaimed by Hemlocks and glades of Ferns
whose sweetness rises in the warm air,
recalling memories of my childhood woods.
Finally atop Fisk Hill I look Eastward gazing over fields,
woodlots, streams to a pale blue ridge stretching North-South
under one white puff of cloud.
I ponder the ridge, granite dominant of all below persisting long after us,
we who wander these trails, we who marvel at these wonders.
How long for White Pine, Hawk, Red Squirrel, Native Bee?
How long for Queen Anne’s Lace?
— Richard Widhu
We The People
Almost everyone on the train is kind.
Can I help you lift that?
Will you watch my bag while I…
Do you want anything from the café car?
I’ll make this call short, promise.
Rummaging for ear buds
we bond over the annoying volume that person speaks.
Our conductor tangles his words over the loudspeaker -
laughs at himself and we all laugh with him.
We the people
Not knowing who voted for whom
are momentarily getting along - -
Knowing we are divided and cut-throat.
The flag-free train barrels onward
God’s clanging cradle rocks back and forth
lulling us in voter anonymity.
News flash federal appointments
stir fears of autocracy
violence could erupt
among peaceful travelers --
For a moment
up the eastern seaboard
differences that make oneness unimaginable
briefly dissolve - -
we share the same destination
hope to arrive whole.
— Cathy George
Wild Kittens
This morning, ice in the bird bath as I crush
through the lawn of ice crystals. A North wind hovers at my neck.
The leaves have begun to ripen and escape.
On the woodpile, two kittens crouch
one is a Tabby with a furry little face and hazel green eyes
the smaller black has white paws Or… were there three?
I set out a rusty Have a Hart Trap with a dish of tuna.
Heard that stinky mackerel draws them in. Then, I lay a thick old Indian blanket
over the trap. Where is the feral Mother? It’s November and she is a black ghost.
She weaned them early, the milk in her nipples dried up –
leaving her litter to us, with their hungry eyes wide open, claws sharp.
She has survived the winters – escaped every trap for years.
She owns our Village hunting grounds… every ramshackle barn and shed.
I have seen her in our back field down by the river, creeping and leaping for a vole.
Why did she choose our barn? And where is the Tom? Owls are out hunting now.
— Jody Wells
Still
She whispered, “We’ll be alright.”
Still, she didn’t know.
The winds began to blow
through the plankboard spaces where light sought shelter
imposing the smell of decaying leaves from the cedar trees.
Tufts of Spanish moss like southern tumbleweed chased black birds
in a game of tag.
Perhaps it was the beauty of the morning -
the purple clouds surrounding the sun
the glowing deep hues of greens and black blues
over the lakewater.
“Be still,” she said.
Her eyes blinked quickly like the shutter of a lens,
documenting me,
clutching the pipes on the bathroom floor.
A locked door.
I’d seen the expression on my mother’s face before.
No one but my mother and I in a rush of hush.
Silently waiting still while the winds howled.
— Monica Jagentenfl
Eclipsed
We sought the blotting of the sun:
moon drift, darkness descending.
Dwelling in the shade, cheering
loss of light, of clarity, we lived
the metaphor. Mankind chooses
to vanquish the light, even if we
don’t have anything to do with it.
— Carlene M. Gadapee
bright red blood in the fresh white snow
bright red blood in the fresh white snow.
bright red blood on the snow white feet.
the coppery, red squirrel lies inert.
it was living only moments ago.
our animal is back.
it has killed again.
— Michele Tremblay
A stone upon the cairn
There in the trees speak the mists.
Wanting to know how the sun smiles.
Seeking the road. As it turns and twists.
Going on this journey for many miles.
Sailing to a harbor still unknown.
Where rumors flow of great delight. Yet scandal hides an ugly tone.
A charlatan casting darkness upon the light.
Etched a moment in a life portrayed.
Should offer a gift.
To clear the sorrows.
To heal the heart that was betrayed.
Give back the time. Stolen or borrowed.
Bend the light and fold it good.
Weave a new pattern to be cast.
Walk the path to things that could.
Wash the pain and erase the past.
Use the sunrise to inspire the will.
Garner the strength during this time. To relearn.
Follow the shadows as they move to something better still.
Place another stone upon the cairn.
— Susan Giusto
Sins of the Father
Four dead down in Ohio
Over fifty years ago
And here, today
How many will die
At Columbia, at GW, at–
I marched against
The (second) war in Iraq
Back when I was twenty-one
And that is now
Some twenty years past and gone
The moral arc
Of this universe we've created
Bends toward deja vu–
Forever children dying
For the sins of their fathers.
— J. L. Long (Julian Long)
Working Man
My father gave me a working man’s spine,
my mother, the heart of a saint.
Yet, here I stand in the voting line,
to learn what I am and I ain’t.
It’s not that I care about only me,
or look down on a man who has less.
Still, I wonder about this land of the free,
and a God who might see me as blessed.
Then I cry out loud for a child who wants,
and a mother with ten mouths to feed;
who’s fled from a home where the gunman haunts,
to a land that might yet meet her needs.
Tell me where is the honor and who are the good,
when cold rancor exceeds all warm praise?
And who may be judged for a stand that is stood,
in the cause of forgiveness, one day?
To sooth the sorrow and sow the hope,
is what we were founded on;
as I make my mark in the ballot box,
and pray for a better dawn.
— John Lindberg
2024
All year we collected our hopes
arranged them carefully
like canned goods
in a bomb-shelter.
All year we worked to take back
what had been taken.
We stacked facts, four crates high
like apples for the coming winter.
All year we waited for the law
to come down like a cookie cutter
on the sheets of the criminals
who took them.
But by November, I knew
we had lost. There were hard frosts.
There would be harder snows
and our best oven was broken.
In December I began having dreams
the size of over-ripe watermelons.
When the melons are cut open
they don’t bleed. They are brimming
with seeds the size of bullets.
— S. Stephanie
The ghosts of winter
The ghosts of winter hover over the melting snow
Twitching and twisting, now hurrying, now standing still
Are they ghosts, or just rising mist? Or both
As so many things are
Grief and joy come and go, twitching and twisting
Now a laugh, now a tear, now that catch in the belly
Where the pain coils, a snake in the bowels
Waiting to strike without notice or warning
Or is a belly laugh hiding in there, or is it both
As so many things are
Days and weeks fly past, or crawl, or disappear
In memory. Now relived, now forgotten
Mixing and churning with what is real and what is not
As so many things are.
— Jeff Powell
Home for the Holidays
Another Cold War’s over-soldiers return,
the Homeland’s not the same they learn.
T’was the night before Christmas
and so frigid with no just cause.
Still the homeless--side by side,
into that night–when God confides.
Politics of now–polarized our state.
“What have they done to deserve such Fate?”
A virus so ruthless of world renown,
has emerged upon their little town.
Colonial men -committed allegiance,
to a Nation of Pride and took a stance.
Let it be known from that day on.
Unity of virtue-must be looked upon,
as a rite to instill-to always be good,
Praise Mother and Father like thou should.
— Harold Rosen
2024, Post Election
Sitting in transition time. Limbo land. And, frankly, a seat of dread.
If anyone is left out there, say, fifty years from now, my message to you is this:
Not everyone, not even the majority, called upon Darkness.
Some believed in hope. Even joy. Had faith we could crawl our way to better
ways. Believed in inclusion. A wide umbrella. Equality. Justice.
Let me say, it is a miracle that you have survived,
given what we faced at this impactful juncture. And, I ask you,
is there greenery? Are there bee hives, and honey?
Can you sit under a tree, be sheltered and at peace there?
Is the ocean a place you can enter, and be cleansed?,
healed? Are there still pelicans, jellyfish, seals?
Can you express your voice, share stories and song?
It isn’t going to take long for beautiful things to be rent
asunder. I can see the writing on the wall.
How we fall. All the loss.
If you are reading this, what bridges did you have
to cross to survive?
I want to believe in a world that thrives. In a future that holds promise
and hope, with open arms. I’d like to believe you survived devastation.
I hope you have stories that tell of new creation.
— Marjorie Moorhead
Two Movie Projectors
The Fourteenth Dalai Lama
received two movie projectors, a pocket watch
and three automobiles.
The two Austins and the Dodge
could not travel,
being as roads were not built
until the electron was a mere particle.
Later, two slits were made
which turned it into a wave-
a wave without a shore,
a tsunami, calming as pond water.
How, having been there all the while,
above the earth in 2024,
astronauts encountered the surrendered layer,
possessing a magnetic attraction
where I had always imagined,
to balance gravity and the cosmos,
heaven to be.
And where
I will go to look down
on mass and time and eternity
hovering under a microscope,
scientists as angels discerning
more and more secrets
for the goodness of us all.
The Fourteenth Dalai
loved the projectors-still the frame,
go back, fast forward, the dull roar
of the fan was all there
before the simple discovery
it depends on who is looking.
Correct me if I’m wrong,
but I have seen it all in a play
by Shakespeare. Power and betrayal,
murder and reckoning-the electron
moving on, repeating itself three million fireballs
out into extinction.
There are other plays of course-
Romeo and Juliet being the saddest.
The Dalai has read them all,
by his yak butter lamp,
glowing steadily even in daytime.
— Brenna Manuel
The Curse of the White Pickup
One day as the autumn got darker
A white pickup truck pulled up beside
a car that driver thought was going
too slow and shot out the back window
in our little town the news came and went
but i can't forget, this was our Kristallnacht
Something has changed in the cool breeze
When i see a truck speeding up behind me
I pull over and let them steam on past
This never was the land of the free
For women like me
— Tara Marvel
Wheel of Life
The wheel of life spins fast—
a blur before our eyes
as we try in vain
to slow it down
at least long enough
to be sure of where we are,
why and what we are,
and if we are
more than these brief
sparks of light.
And yet,
its eternal spin continues
down the long road,
barreling past us,
tires squealing as it
takes a tight corner
and roars out of sight,
Leaving us where we started—
as unlikely space travelers
looking at the stars in wonder,
standing next to those we love,
holding our small bag
of unanswered questions.
— Will Conway
At Home in 2024
My neighbor’s family immigrated to the USA
so long ago, that they don’t even remember.
I, on the other hand, still remember my teenaged self in 1985,
and now have a teenager child
born in the USA.
We are good neighbors, and always
Look out for each other,
Look out after each other:
be it a snowy day,
a package left at the front door,
a stranger coming around,
being gone on a little vacation trip.
We have always kept politics out of it all; and we both know we have differing views.
This past November I found myself installing a security camera
on our front door.
And noticed that, on the other hand, an America Flag had gone up
on their front door.
While they might not remember it, I trust they know that
we are both immigrants here,
in this land we both call home.
— Keiselim A. Montás
Where do I go now?
I sit down, waiting for inspiration to strike
Hoping for something to hit me
So I spend the night staring at the moon
Watching as the sun wakes up
Hours are spent thinking instead of doing
During that time, I have traveled to many different worlds
But my hands remain frozen on the paper
The words slipping from the lines
I delve back into my brain, looking for answers
It leads me to wonder if those past suffered from the same fate
If those greater than me had the same ailment
All the while, I felt the sun wrap around my aching back
Tell me, did the bard struggle with this?
Even the blind man was able to write
While I find myself a party amongst the Trouts
Lost in the sea of uncertainty
The sun buried itself in the sand
Leaving me covered in darkness
And the moon enters the sky
As I lay down, waiting for something, anything
— Sophia Budhathoki
fallow
parched and cracked, the ground lies exhausted,
depleted after so many green eruptions.
chaff litters her ruts, souvenirs of the struggle to nourish.
her bland surface belies the near-violence of growth.
serene now, and faithfully waiting
her turn to be nourished by rain and sun.
— Ann Roe
A Week after yet another Cyanobacteria Watch on the Lake
It’s been days since I’ve been here, where the weather is cooling, days since
I’ve swum here, a dish left on the counter, encrusted with old breakfast. I step
outside. The sun, bright. The wind bites my skin. It’s a strong wind with harsh gusts,
thrusting leaves, acorns a-scatter, but I suit up for the cool, tap on my music,
and step out onto my paddle board to face what the lake presents: a disorganized
wind, flags pointing where they shouldn’t—into the forecast direction rather
than against. I paddle with and against the swirling wind. I can’t help think about
Francine, the latest named storm, drawing its strength from the warm gulf waters
as I ignore the chill wind and slide off my board, leashed to my ankle, to swim.
I take off against the current, waves wanting to turn my body, to go where I hadn’t
intended, so every so often I check my bearings to unstray. You might think I swim
for punishment, punishment for not working the booths for the vote, for not
dragging people’s asses out to vote, for not acknowledging there’s this hurricane
mounting in the gulf, building toward crescendo tomorrow to crash the Louisiana
shore, and there will be one more and another and another unless we temper
the warm waters, but I continue on my swim, not for punishment, but passion,
to stroke against the waves, to keep myself from swallowing what the climate
has begun to spoil, to keep myself afloat.
— Carla Schwartz
Foreshadowing the Skies
First I missed the full eclipse, then I missed the Northern Lights…With my luck I'll probably miss
the apocalypse. Mark Ostow, Instagram
We could have seen, if we were willing
to open the door, birds of paradise
pointing the way, heard tree frogs singing
from cavities, followed the andromeda scent—
so much hope in night for day, in dreams
that roll beneath the threat of clouds,
ears abuzz with all the hype,
just waiting for it to go quiet
while gray bands block the path between us
and moon, a path we might never see,
though most days we welcome the cumulus—
their beauty, their shade—on this day,
while totality parties in awe applaud the sun,
we feel like we’ve lost the crown,
and even when Aurora, goddess of dawn,
announced a second chance
to join the world of oohs and aahs,
we raced to the river, raced to the deck,
stood open-mouthed, hooked like trout,
sought desperately the touted shimmer
of colors, squinted to make out faint pink
streaks, but learned that a camera sees more
than an eye—
with something lost in space and time,
never having learned how to look,
how to see, while a moment slips,
then flees as the sky undoes.
— Carla Schwartz and Clayton E. Clark
Aftermath
Lines and tiny scars,
nail polish;
If only the neighborhood terrorist,
with his trunkful of weapons,
(all legally obtained),
had left more of her than her hand
when he went on his grisly rampage.
An engraved wedding band,
Or lack thereof,
could have at least been a clue to her identity.
But it was her ringless right.
A woman approaches the makeshift morgue,
hastily constructed at the scene.
A first stop for panicked loved ones,
who leave it to continue their search,
or to begin their tortuous journey into grief.
Her eyes, fraught with dread,
are locked on the hand.
An officer holds it out to her.
He watches.
The force of a lifetime of shared history,
with its mischief and squabbles,
fun and love,
pelts her,
shatters her,
tears her apart.
On its own, the hand is enough.
She utters “This is my sister,”
Turns her head, and retches.
— Maria Pacelli
Post Results
Piles of crumpled and torn leaves
Line the curbs
Blue lawn signs unearthed
Waiting for pickup
After November’s fall
My body’s chilled
Even with wool layers
The cold of disappointment
Mixed with icy tears
Can’t yet defrost
My steps crunch towards
the century old, furrowed bark
Pummeled by rain and wind
Still reaching for the sky
I lean against it.
— Brenda Wilbert
Old Roads in the Fall
I love to find
Old roads in the Fall,
In the Springtime
they call me,
Too.
— Edward Huse
2024 POLITICAL SABBATICAL
I am taking a pause from presidential politics
permeating almost every facet of my life.
For 2024, I will toss all election paraphernalia
in the wastebasket before I even leave the post office
thinking about the money going to waste and
the promises they all contain. This also means I will
have to give up my electronic devices for the duration
of my political sabbatical since they are saturated
with double sided partisan commentary. No car radio
either, just Sirius playing Classic Vinyl. I could get used
to this. Learning to remember to bring my Kindle reader
to waiting rooms where I might be tempted to breeze
through complimentary newspaper headlines. I am quickly
learning I might have to go into forced social isolation
finding out, after one day of practice, that presidential
politics is all that everyone wants to talk about.
And robo calls mean not answering any calls from unknown
phone numbers. But wait! Even my adult children on
opposite sides of the political spectrum want to talk
about my vote. I am starting to believe my desired
pause is only a dream that can take place
on a desolate island where any inhabitants speak
a language that is foreign to me but my imagined
reverie is shattered when I see them all wearing
logo, imprinted, donkey and elephant t-shirts
while being filmed by the major networks.
— Dianalee Velie
River of Time
In June, the woo of songbirds
and the chitter of squirrels
surround me on the path.
All summer, the music accompanies me
as I wend my way along trails hidden
by leaves. In August, the leaves
begin to tinge and the birds begin to migrate.
By November, the leaves have fallen
to the ground, They scatter as I hike,
poles ready to check for rocks and holes.
The woods are silent. Day breaks late
and night rolls in early.
Yet I persist.
I know that in the deepest winter,
chickadees follow me
as I trudge through rime and snow.
They call in hopes of a companion.
Squirrels root in frozen leaves
for acorns I cannot see.
Life continues. I only need
to put on my boots, grab my poles
and head to the trails.
Hope guides my path.
— Betsy Snider
My Woodstove Enigma
The woodstove warms my bones and buoys my heart
‘Tis almost worth the ache of hauling wood
From woodshed’s icy pathway, in my cart,
And bending low to stack it where it could
Dry out a little and thus cut the smell
That otherwise will seep out every seam,
The fumes that turn a woody scent to hell
And leave its graying dust on every beam.
So many better ways to heat a house
That don’t require cleaning out the ash
Or burdening my too-much burdened spouse
With sweeping bark detritus to the trash.
But nothing warms the soul at fall of night
Than coming home to woodstove burning bright.
— Rob Fried
2024, My Year of Healing
I sit curled
Bowed down with the weight
Of my past.
The weight he left behind
Bounces around on my spine
A mad leprechaun
Dancing on each vertebrae
Gibbering nonsense to no-one.
I straighten into the coming New Year
The little man falls away
Like an acorn off the hood
Of an accelerating car
Left at the side of the road.
Uncurled, I can now see
Where I am going
Turn right, turn left
This is where I want to be
I lift my head
Watch the trees
Blink by with their whispering branches.
What lies ahead?
His weight now gone
Leaving a space.
Who waits there for me?
Is it you?
Can we curl together
This time in comfort
And solidarity
This time with smiles
And small giggles?
I take your hand and caress each finger
From knuckle to knuckle
Bouncing down the ridges of bone
Like an acorn.
I smell you
Comforting like a seaside breeze
Cigarette smell a distant memory
I brush away the imaginary smoke
And breathe in musky delicate perfume
Your smell.
I see your eyes
Crinkled around the edges
Gazing into mine
Wanting to know
Are you fine
Are you whole
Are the hurt places healing?
I watch my wounds heal
Skin growing back over hurt places
Turning rawness into smooth
Smooth into strong.
Skin keeps one inside
Keeps the other outside
But touch communicates across
Many barriers.
I lay my head on your chest
Hearing heart working
Moving nourishing blood
To everything.
As I touch your fingers
Your pupils widen
I know you are there with me
You know I am here with you.
We hear each other
From lip to ear
Whispering what we know
Exchanging feelings
Touching our insides together
With words
Nothing permanent
Everything honest
Living now, here.
We taste the salt of our skins
Merging into one sea
From which we both have come
To meet in the middle
In the middle of the bed
In the crinkly soft woods
In the back seat of a car.
We merge and bring
Each other together
Sharing in the now.
Uncurled, we brush away our fears
And collect together
The things we want to keep
And leave behind our losses, the hurts
We no longer need.
They shrink quickly
In the rear-view mirror
Left at the side of the highway, forlorn
We don't need them anymore
Reduced to a speck on the horizon
Until they disappear
Gone from our hearts and our minds
The burden has lifted
We carry on, lighter
It's time for a new year, a new beginning.
— Wendy Jensen
November 6, 2024. The election results are in and the candidate noted for his orange complexion has won.
Again?
When a bald-faced liar,
thief and adulterer
who shows himself to be what he is,
is elected once again,
what does that say of the nation?
What have we said of ourselves?
What of our boasts of freedom,
of virtue, of a righteous example
to be established in the world?
Is it all gone?
Can we recover from this choice?
Perhaps we can.
If we refuse to live in hate,
if we strive to live in peace,
if we refuse to do the clearly wrong,
and answer what is wrong with good,
perhaps we can turn back the tide –
perhaps.
Or perhaps we can answer rage with rage,
and make this land a battleground,
and lose all that we ever had.
Let us pray.
— Ed Pacht
2024: Hearts Filled With Hope
This year
I let the the ugly sift,
settling like sand to reveal the gemstone of Beauty.
I mined out stones for my life,
taking the ones I chose to keep:
curiosity, gratitude, courage, kindness, compassion, and love.
Life does not play fair.
In my case, I worked hard for everything, and life allowed me no shortcuts.
I have my eyes wide open, and I am no longer blinded by the glare of shiny bright lights.
I know from experience: "all that glitters is not gold."
I became like Goldilocks, testing everything out in the world to see what fits.
What I learned came like a sudden winter storm of surprise:
Nothing works the way I thought.
As I gain knowledge, the more I learn I don't know.
What I see in my inner world becomes my outer landscape.
Peace comes from within, and ripples out into spaces in the universe.
Everyday miracles are ever-present, only I must bear witness.
What is buried eventually becomes unearthed, surfacing and revealing what lies beneath.
It is an asset to be comfortable with the uncomfortable.
What we may consider our weakness is truly our sword of strength.
What appears impossible is possible.
Everyone has their own skeletons to bear, and must clean out their own closets.
Life does not care how we see the world, even if we feel it does not "make sense."
Life gifts us contradictions: All truths are a facet of reality – evident, real, and true, standing beautifully in their
own horse-power.
Simultaneously, what I think will manifest into reality: I am the Creator of my own reality.
After I smoothed out all the sharp curves, edges, and shapes, I soften into who I am
like metal.
My body speaks as an instrument, and I dance on a wave of joy.
I walk into the light and see all the shadows, glowing with a heart of darkness.
I am on a mission to find my people, and build my tribe.
I am building bridges with words, so they do not fall like raindrops lost in a forest,
where deaf ears only hear what they perceive words to mean.
Words carry the weight of water, and drown me in a sea of confusion.
Yet, Love is not lost, but still alive, well, and found.
The bridge of forgiveness forms, serving us well to heal and wear our scars in honor.
Don't you see, we all need to work together to make our home better?
Dear friend, what is the color of peace?
All the shiny bright lights burned into one candle flame: a beautiful rainbow of Sunlight,
pooling into a stream of light, coming after the passing of a storm.
Let this be my ode to the world:
If you are aligned with everyone's best interest at heart, everything will work out
right.
In the spiral of time, hope became unleashed from the chaos of Pandora's Box, urging us to rise up, stand up,
and live on.
We are the beacons of light inspiring everyone home to the wonderland of their own hearts,
shaking off the beautiful sparkle of wonder and hope into the world.
— Ellie Epstein-White
Poem for Hvaldimir
“The killer whales are called aaxlu, tukxukuak, agliuk, mesungesak, polossatik, skana, keet, feared one, grampus, blackfish, orca, big-fin, fat-chopper. Whale killer. From the realm of the dead. Orcinus orca.”
Hvaldimir, the white beluga
glowed in the sun. She was a beauty
flying and leaping above the ocean waves. They
made her into a spy whale, a weapon.
She was found dead, floating in
Norwegian waters, near Risavika,
fourteen feet long and 2700 pounds.
They made her a slave, attached a camera
harnessed and mounted around her neck.
She had no fear of humans.
— Catherine O’Brian
They Dance
They dance with just their arms and eyes
Intertwined evermore with each other.
Smiles and moving lips silently singing
Abiding renditions of favorite songs.
Slow paced movements but with meaning
Meanings conjuring the wild times of life.
Their dance of life rolled into one precious evening
Not worried or uneasy when the dance will end.
They meet at the calm headwaters of emotional happiness
Happiness that feeds the deep flowing waters of love
A love that endures by giving and receiving.
As they stiffly dance, age does not diminish their dreams
Dreams of peace is an unjaded goal blessed with fresh energy.
They joyfully share peace on the dance floor
Making room for all of humanity.
Inviting even those obsessed by greed, ego's, war
A place to find peace.
— Tom Keegan
Thermodynamics
Mere modest surprise when the snow never started.
The flooding and loss laying bare hopes thwarted -
Of limits and love and fairness abiding;
Rewards piled higher for the selfish hard-hearted.
The limits are only for those in the making;
The spoils and life-living belong to the breaking.
Greed grips the cryptic controls of the oven;
Fools floundering fail to cease the brutal turning
Of thermo-ecstatic fervor against the coven
Meant most to fire friction: citizen on citizen –
Distractions to forestall the sharpened blade,
Instead raising the gruesome spectre of the Jacobin.
Bubbling, boiling, rolling, roiling: the once staid
Are frothing at crises the oligarchs made.
Res ipsa loquitur! the people refrained;
But the powers that be offer nothing in trade.
— Rob Pinsonneault
Why Poetry?
Poetry, my artichoke, my daily satisfaction
my silken robe, my highest branch, my least common fraction
my weedy reeds, my fishing pole, my unsafe safety net
my bottled message on slow tides, my rainbowed amulet—
It’s my bunched grapes, just ripening, just barely out of reach
my cumquat, my persimmon, pumpkin seed, my fuzzy peach
it’s the high kites I fly into the eyes of storms,
it’s autumn’s scarf of starling sequins swirling in a swarm—
Poetry’s my rocket ship, my red balloon, my meteor,
what waits for me in the closed room behind the secret door
it wears my birthday suit, my gloves, my Easter Sunday best
it is my testament, my love for you, my place of final rest.
Why poetry? Except for trees, compassion through fleet seasons—
for every reason under heaven, it is its only reason.
— Joan T. Doran
