Featured, Martha Deborah Hall, Poetry

May 1st, 2013

by Martha Deborah Hall

I open all my windows and doors, blast Bocelli singing con te partiro. Let’s dance around our Maypoles, let the breeze sashay in. Driveway snow has been ferreted. Dogwood blossoms graciously undulate in the yard. I log off my computer. May’s file is alive. I find myself humming, “I’ll see you again whenever spring breaks through again.” At my garden gate, I smear some May dew from a daffodil on my palm and enter.

 

Photograph by Linda J Thomas

 

 

Ann B. Day, Featured, Poetry

Morning Delivery

by Ann. B. Day

In the four A.M. dusk
of a summer morning,
my sleep slides away
into sounds that sift into
our upstairs bedroom window:
tires turning on gravel
a truck’s muffled idle,
boots treading on wood planks
of back porch steps,
glass clinking glass.

A moment later,
more boot steps on wood,
scrunch of gravel,
soft closing of the truck door,
gears shift and fade
into the semi-dark.

I reach over to my husband,
Frank’s side of the bed,
find it empty, remembering
it was his turn to make
milk deliveries for the large farm
where he works.

I lie awake and breathe
into the stillness,
waiting for the first pale light
and the call of the hermit thrush
to rise through the window.

In time, I will go down
to the kitchen, open the screen door,
bring in the quart bottles of milk,
with thick cream rising to the top.
We will have cream with our oatmeal
when Frank comes home.

Featured, Poetry, Theresa Hickey

Gray Day

by Theresa Hickey

Raindrops chime against
a metal watering can left outdoors
among seedlings, yet to be planted;
unopened bags of loam
lie neglected,
stacked obelisks awaiting sun.

As rain ripples, begins to pool,
it gathers in gutters
along the potting shed
before cascading
in sheets along matted ground.

I sip morning coffee, lukewarm,
cool feet against smooth surfaces of tile,
eyes, not quite alert from rivers of sleep,
ideas, slow-rising from dormancy.
What lies ahead from this infant-of-a-day?

A clock ticks, insists on flicking
immediacy upon the present.
Should I go off to perform rituals,
begin gardening when the sky
clears, check items from a list?

I want only to remain here,
to look out my window—
embrace this small contentment
dwelling in the quiet
before contending
with a less-than-perfect world.

 

Parker Towle, Poetry

Embarking

by Parker Towle

Fog rose off the still lake
like wisps of flame. Two hundred feet
from shore we were on instruments, in trust

to a compass resting on a bed roll: an hour
with no direction, no idea, swallowed
by the other, not in dark but rather

in a vague receding white. When it thinned
by a sun you could stare right at,
the far shore came out—

mirage, and a bald eagle
soared over swamp grass and
lit in a bare-limbed tree.

Not poetic license, this is true. Her
scruffy adolescent chicks groomed
nearby, not anywhere either, but

Umbagog Lake. By then we were singing
Harry Chapin’s Taxi and A cat’s
in the cradle, a silver spoon…

Three generations in
an old green canoe fishing
the depths of a family.

 

 

Featured, Poetry, Sherry Jennings

The Gift

by Sherry Jennings

 

The peach fell from the tree.
I plucked it from the tillering grasses.
Ripe, warm, juicy,
the sweet, sticky nectar slid across my lips,
circling the contours of my cheeks.
The sun juice dripped from my chin;
droplets rolling to my elbows
as I held the succulent fruit to my mouth.
The naughty temptress,
offering her breast-soft flesh,
had just given me the gift
of tasting summer.