Elaine Reardon, Featured, Poetry

Easter Cherog

by Elaine Reardon

Sleep and stillness cling to my eyes.
Morning light trickles through pine branches
into the kitchen where yeast has raised
soft pillows of cherog dough overnight.
I slide the fragrance of warm yeast
into the waiting oven.

I kept the fire going last night
to coddle the dough,
to be kind to myself.
Now I sit at the window as early fog lifts
in wisps and sip tea.

The world here is quiet, aside from
the faucet dripping and the ping of
the oven as it heats.
Strong tea mingles with the aroma of
rising dough.
Do we not all rise with some redemption,
new each morning?

In other homes people are moving toward family gatherings
or waking to a jumble of legs and arms in unfamiliar beds
while I sit with my ancestors baking this bread.

I receive the old ones and the fragrance and the taste.
I listen to the small kitchen sounds against the quiet outside—
the complete stillness of each branch and leaf,
the warm cup in my hand.

Elaine Reardon, Featured, Poetry

Winter Sounds

by Elaine Reardon

We’ve gotten used to sounds
deep in a winter night,
a sharp ping of the wood stove
reaching some cooler temperature,
muffled tumbles of a smoldering log,
the creak of floorboards
as if someone walked quietly.
Downstairs the refrigerator
hums, the water heater readjusts.
What is shifting inside this house
I wonder, content, then roll into sleep.
Wind buffets the metal roof, snow
falls off in a grand whoosh, louder
than any wild animal out there.

Featured, Linda Warren, Poetry

Great Blue Heron on the Swift River

by Linda Warren

I vexed a Great Blue Heron
as I walked the path
along the catch-and-release section of this stream
that flows year round, gift of the accidental wilderness
around the reservoir that quenches Boston.

She didn’t move far, just to another fallen log,
an easy pebble toss from where I stood.
She looked well fed and feathered,
in this Anthropocene landscape
for which five townships and their homesteads drowned,
and a hundred thousand acres were returned to grace.

She eyed me, fellow wader of this unoccluded water,
then arched her neck and tipped her beak down to the trout
she herself had no plans to release,
a famous beauty deciding which delicacy she desired,
as rich as she needed to be.

Featured, Poetry, Theresa Hickey

Dappled Days

by Theresa Hickey

The grandeur of sky and sea is awesome, but
in an orchard, one notices
small wonders every season

Each turn of weather
bears fruit, cleaving to the vines
clinging for clemency from storms

Dimpled valentines of berries,
tiny jewels—red and radiant
black and blue—fill baskets

Pierced in their prime, flushed
pinks and reds, noble nectars flow
from peaches, plucked from branches

In autumn, apples line rows of meadows.
Succulent still, as once to Eve; the apple’s
robust beauty tempts each hidden desire

Hardy seeds become the fruit of life
and we, our sight and taste reborn
from fertile soil the farmer tills,
are awed in silent ways
as we eat our fill
to offer thanks and praise
for dappled days

 

This poem appears in Theresa’s poetry collection, Shy, published by Finishing Line Press.

Featured, Poetry, Theresa Hickey

Of Water and Sea

by Theresa Hickey

We, who dot
        the parched land, need oceans
                   of resiliency to sustain prevailing winds
                             that we might grow in courage
                                         that we might not grow old
                                                               before our time

We watch as tides
        come in-go out, but rarely do we
                   seek the comfort of the sea
                             to show us mercy, refresh us
                                         so that dreams do
                                                               not run dry

Breathe in—absorb her wisdom,
        each ebb and flow spills out a melodic mantra—
                   a universal mother,
                             she carries off upon her crests
                                         the fears a cynical world provokes—
                                                               as we breathe out

With every breaking wave,
        each shift of current washes us
                   as we become reborn
                             destined to become her children—
                                         powerful
                                                           free

This poem appears in Theresa’s poetry collection, Shy, published by Finishing Line Press.

Elaine Reardon, Featured, Poetry

Nan

by Elaine Reardon

In Cambridge it’s snowing softly, and Nan
sets the table for Sunday supper. She reaches
into the fridge for butter, cold slices of ham,

a jar of pigs feet. We crowd chairs around the
table. I sit on Mum’s lap with a slice of bread,
butter, ham. Not food I’m used to. Mum and I

are quiet. I wonder who was here earlier for dinner,
why we only come for leftovers, late in the day.
My older Irish cousins show me how to play games

I don’t know yet, and Nan hands me a rectangular tin
with two handles. She says for you, a lunchbox.
I wonder at it. It’s very small, and I have a Roy Roger’s

lunch box at home. She doesn’t know what I have there,
where I live with my Armenian grandmother, where
we speak another language, where dad whispers to me

in Irish, sings lullabies and tells me stories at bedtime.
I’m not used to having extra anything, and I’m doubtful
of this gift. She offers you can use it to pick blueberries.

When summer comes we pile into our car, pick up Nan,
my cousins, and Aunt Maureen to pick berries in Stoughton.
We walk along the dead end road, run in Paul’s sheep field,

slip past the fence to Glen Echo Lake. We have purple lips
and tongues. This is a day of heaven, swimming, and comfort.
Wild blueberries plonk on the bottom of my special tin.

 

This poem appears in Elaine’s chapbook, Look Behind You, published by Flutter Press, fall 2019

Poetry, Yvona Fast

Dormant Stillness

by Yvona Fast

Trees clad in rainbows,
One final burst of glory.
Last dip in pond refreshes
on a bright October day.

Brown leaves decay, die.
Summer sighs
a sad sound of goodbye.

Days shorten, nights lengthen.
We plant tulips in anticipation
of new growth, fresh green,
of long, warm summer days.

Crocus waits beneath soil.
Trees lie dormant.
Bears hibernate.
Earth sleeps, rests,
awaiting renewal
beneath a white blanket.

The pond chills,
shivers,
freezes…
we walk on water.

In the stillness
thoughts simmer, ideas slumber
fallow, nurturing future dreams.

Diving into the deep,
minds open to possibilities
yet unimagined.

Ann B. Day, Poetry

One Last Sweet Breath

by Ann B. Day

The last of summer lingers still,
captured in a golden field
beyond the leafless woods.
I’ve come upon it
quite unexpectedly!

Gone are summer sounds
of humming bees and katydids.
They have fled
the early frosts of fall.

Instead, a gentle breeze
stirs the graying goldenrod,
and sun-warmed soil and yellow grass
glow beneath my feet.

Last week we had an early snow,
frosting morning meadows
and whitening pasture slopes
on autumn’s hillside farms.

Nearby, woods were cold and damp,
where scattered sunlight
slipped through bare branches
to dapple leafy paths below.

But, today November’s
noonday sun has filled this field
with hints of summer smells
and tawny tints.

A hidden place I came-upon,
where summer lingers still;
one last sweet breath
before the winter chill.