Michael Lee Johnson

I’m a Riverboat Boy, 

Poem on Halsted Street

As sure as church bells

Sunday morning, ringing

on Halsted and State Street, Chicago,

these memories will

be soon forgotten.

I stumble in my life with these words like broken sentences.

I hear and denounce myself in the distance,

mumbling chatter off my lips.

Fragments and chips.

Swearing at the parts of me I can’t see;

walking away rapidly from the spiritual thoughts of you.

I am disjointed, separated from my Christian belief.

I feel like I’m at the bottom of sin hill

playing with my fiddle, flat fisted, and busted.

So, you sing in the gospel choir; sang in Holland,

sang in Belgium, from top to bottom,

the maps, continents, atlas are all yours.

I detach myself from these love affairs drive straight, swiftly,

to Hollywood Casino Aurora.

Fragments and chips.

I guess we gamble in different casinos,

in different corners of God’s world,

you with church bingo, and I’m a riverboat boy.

No matter how spiritual I’m once a week Sundays,

I can’t take you where my poems don’t follow me.

Church poems don’t cry.

 

Family Feud

Break

in the rain,

thunderstorms;

bolt angular lightning

slithers away west.

Walking,

nanosecond flash

family memories,

personal,

revert,

tautology fault of style

acerbic chats

daggers in heart these words,

confused,

dicey dungeon sharp spike.

A labyrinth, ruined passages,

secret chambers, cellmates, now

for life.

Wind storms move away,

young willow trees natter—

smallest branches, still snap.

Mary Torregrossa

 Click on to enlarge photos

Mira N Mataric

Smile Anyway

Sitting on a winter morning

in her sparse cold room

wearing an old shabby coat

topped with a wool blanket

an old woman is waiting

for her grandchildren

two little boys to baby-sit

while their parents are at work.

She thinks they will jump and play

and hopefully not get cold.

If they do she will put them in her bed

cover them with a patchwork quilt

and tell the stories they always ask to hear

although they know quite well.

Mom feeds them breakfast

before they leave home

without knowing that grandma

only has some hard old bread.

She never throws the bread away,

not even to the stray cats and dogs,

but always she tries to feed them

other scraps when she has them

She hoards the old dry bread

and dips it in her morning tea

making the bread softer

for her tired worn teeth

and tender gums.

When she was young

everybody loved her smile

her teeth like in a movie star.

She would laugh and say”

At least mine are natural…”

because they were so beautiful

and perfect, nobody believed. 

Well, now they can believe it,

the way they look now.

Now she remembers to smile

with her lips closed.

Her grandchildren tell her:

“Grandma, we love you anyway.”

 

Return of the soldier

Return of the soldier

into the street

that does not exist

anymore. Emptiness.

Confusion. Shock.

He cannot breathe,

like in his first battle.

 

He sits on the rock

slowly coming back

accepting what he sees

as reality now

not thinking back:

what it looked like

before he left for the front.

There he learned:

prepare a bomb only after

you have a target.

Think ahead, not behind.

Past does not exist. You will be lucky

if you survive for the future.

You cannot think back

as you thought until now.

Reality must be accepted first

looking into it from all angles.

Why does he remembers

now, how he lost his wallet

at home, before the war?

His wallet was missing

when he was dressing up

to go out with his girl.

He turned out the house

but could not find it.

Finally under his pillow.

He could not believe that

he put it there, like a grandma

who did not have anything else

valuable. The wallet probably

was empty too.

 

Well, now. Yes. Now.

No more waiting. No

procrastinating anymore.

Ask all around.

They may be offended

and say: Would we find your wallet

and keep it? No. Who else and where

Look under your pillow. It was there last time

and you could not believe it.

You thought you never would put there,

only old grandmothers do it that way,

and then forget. You used to get

your pocket money that way,

as a child.

This must be a punishment! 

 

Coco

Alzheimer's Lament

It was over a century ago that I first fell in love with you

At least I thought it was love now I can’t be to sure 

Perhaps I’ve been in a coma dreaming of the last face I saw

The once warm and blissful memories fade into nitrogen gas darkness

How did I get here 

How long has it truly been

My reality is turned upside down 

Are these memories or fantasies of wishful thinking

Do I dream with eyes wide open through a rose tint filter

I used to pray back then that I could live long enough to share a life with you

Write chapters of our story as you sipped your tea reading a book 

I saw us there in the future destiny gave me a postcard picture to hold onto

Now I shake my head in disbelief 

This can’t be you

This can’t be us 

Cobb webbed memories 

Dust settled dreams 

Where did the warmth of love disappear 

It has been a decade since I can recall that feeling 

My hair has begun to turn white while I sit here waiting 

Waiting to wake up from this nightmare

Waiting to return to the paradise within your arms 

A time when I felt adored 

When leaving each other for even 5 minutes felt like 5 years 

I’m tormented by our past

Angry, lost, and bitter as I sit here this is certainly no present 

Can there even be a future 

Is it still there waiting patiently in the waiting room 

What does our chart say about our recovery

Do the odds favor a new beginning 

Will I continue to wear this grief eternally

The black widows poison courses through my veins

Like a live wire of electricity 

Lashing in the street it sparks threats towards my heart 

That it be crueler to await my dark fate 

Hope turns the corner 

Happiness trails close behind 

I am entangled in this dreary state of wonderment 

Cocooning myself in misery 

I tell myself that I will arise a new 

Deep within I feel this is my tomb 

My mummified love for you 

It may have died long ago  

I just keep lamenting 

Praying it isn’t so 

Arms thrown over the casket 

Unwilling to let Hades have his prize

Alzheimer’s keeps me living a love that would never die   

Admittance Log

You would think 

that all hospital rooms 

would be the same

I’ve been in my 

fair share to tell you 

no two are alike 

While the instruments 

click, clank, beep, and bop 

a familiar tune 

Each of the mechanisms 

throughout time are 

all quite different nowadays

Squeezing the blub of an 

arm cuff is now grumblings 

of traveling air compressed 

The once clever remote control 

to operate bed comfort 

is directly built into my bed

Even the bleeps 

of my vital signs monitor 

sings a different tune 

Heated blankets that would 

wrap me in warmth, 

safety and peace of mind gone

Replaced by invisible, 

intangible warm currents 

beneath a thin sheet

Muted colors splashed 

on the walls and halls with 

blank stares are all that still remains

Along with the memories 

of every surgeon asking me 

to recite my abc’s or 123’s 

Pondering if 

I would wake 

after surgery 

I Made a Necklace for my Mom

Mom taught me so many things as a little girl 

How to make a friendship bracelet 

Different ways to tie my shoes

I learned how to braid my own hair 

Indian braids on either side or a French braid to look fancy

There are so many memories of mom with strings

Embroidered canvas of carefully placed stiches

Cross stich I picked up quickly but never really learned how to sow

A needle and thread were all she needed to craft the world around me

I had stiches long before she taught me any of it though

Childhood stiches made surgically 

From behind the top of my left ear 

A scalpel traced the initial C into my flesh 

Stopping just beneath my chin 

One more small incision – a tracheotomy, a tube to breathe 

The scarred remnants greet me in every mirror

Mother taught me how beautiful stiches could be 

That a needle and thread can do so much to give life meaning

So, I began braiding, and stitching, and twisting, splicing 

How proud my mom would be; 

I made a necklace to place around my neck 

To finish the stiches that were incomplete 

Vanity 

There are memories 

I pull out from my vanity mirror 

Episodes of re-ruins play

inside a music box near by 

I can see my faceless value 

on times treasure map 

The sandman keeps me company 

as we swim the shores in youthful dreams

It happens so quickly –

life between the dash 

Somehow, I had forgotten 

to thank my lungs for breathing 

Chris Askew

I miss six inches

I miss six inches of my walking stick 

a sturdy shaft of hickory cut green 

in an Alabama wood years and years 

ago – long strong and straight but for 

a knot and a skew at the end   

It served me well – forestalled falls, 

tended fires, fended branches, 

boulders, snakes, bear 

reached often where I could not  

supported shelters & weary legs 

in and out of nature's grace

Some time back in a fit of aesthetic 

correctness I trimmed off the knob 

and the bend at the end – looked 

so much tidier leaning in the corner  

by the fireplace

On the trail again after all this time 

I find my fingers go where my staff 

isn't

now, when steps are shorter, legs 

stiffer, mountains steeper I could 

use those extra inches whatever 

they looked like 

like I did way back when 

when the way things worked 

trumped the way things looked

Rear-view Mirror

When I put a mirror 

to my past, see my life 

as others might have seen

the roads not traveled, 

turnings missed, meandering 

through a maze of 

might-have-been

I find I wish I'd spent 

less time apart, played 

more with my kids, 

laughed more with friends, 

shared more their concerns, 

bared more my heart,

focused more on means 

and less on ends.  

Though such reflections 

show the road behind me

long and littered 

with a life's mistakes

the way ahead, though shorter, 

may yet find me clearer for 

the difference hindsight makes: 

While world-won wisdom cannot 

rearrange what’s been, we treasure 

still the hope of change.

Moments

Never mind that we crossed paths

among the avocado trees

Forget the bright wind tossing 

auburn strands across your sagebrush eyes

Forget your sun-warmed hands 

that held my arm as if I were a prize

to cherish, not a passing rambler 

tumbling down the desert breeze.

Never mind we sat, your arm in mine, 

beneath the orange-blossom skies

Forget we lingered as the sunset lined 

your upturned face with gold

Forget how lilac shadows swept the hills

bade jasmine flowers unfold

to bathe us in their sweetness 

as our small talk settled into sighs.

Never mind that we lay side by side 

as seaside night turned bright and cold

Forget we fell into the well of stars 

and, on the still-warm sand

soared through uncharted nebulae 

in silence, 'til you found my hand

and pressed it to your heart 

and pledged together we'd grow old.

Never mind our past 

our precious moments shape us as we stand

but know however long the journey 

you remain my promised land.

James Coats

After The Break Up

 

It feels like your spine was ripped out your body

and you are left to wander the world.

An amorphous jelly slinking along all snail like.

You smile and act as if it is no big deal.

As the sadness tries to spill across your face

the way milk does the kitchen table.

You tell people life is good

when really it is anything but that.

Maybe, if good felt like being strapped

down in a mental hospital waiting for a lobotomy

cause that’s what the time in bed feels like.

A slow suffocating, imagining death would be

easier than going on.

 

You read on Web MD

that some have died of a broken heart

and you question if it feels like a heart attack.

The pain and tightness in your chest

has you thinking it’s happening right now.

You try to think about something else

but every time you do the relationship

or lack thereof delivers an electric shock

right to your cerebral cortex.

 

Amid the subsequent sleepless nights

and coma like days things aren’t working.

You decide to write about it.

Pour all the feelings on the page

instead of drowning yourself in cheap tequila.

What comes out is a rollercoaster of emotions.

As you look back on what brought you to this point.

Denial - maybe the relationship wasn’t as awful as you remember.

Anger - how dare she do this to you after all you did for her.

Depression - that you won’t be able to feel the good times anymore.

After moving through all 7 stages of grief for your dead relationship

you really just want to forget it ever happened at all.

 

The letter is finished now, time to send it off.

You walk out the house turn on the barbeque grill

and put the letter over the blue and orange flames.

The white paper turns black and then into grey smoke and ash

that ascends into a cotton candy blue sky.

There is no more looking back at the past

you are off to find your future.

Michelle Y Smith

Nana's Heart

Inside soft red velvet

Shiny Sterling Silver

Sparkly and cool to the touch,

A jewelry box 

reminds me of Nana's Heart

No music, 

No jewelry,

Nor an empty find

Memories open of childhood past and love

For our Matriarch

Beautiful teacher, disciplinarian, and kind

Stored up like heaven's treasure

As a little girl

Our days spent together were

Collected in a jar

As if fireflies

And our nights glowed like moonbeams

Imaginary sand flows 

freely from my hands

My yesterday is gone in a flash

All grown up and too old to pretend

My memories sustain me 

And

Remind me of way back then

When the world grows cold

These crown jewels of moments 

Have me captured forever in time.

Shih-Fang Wang

Looking Forward

Looking back on 2020

A year full of adversities

The Earth is trampled by viruses

Scorched by fires

Roared with anger of injustice toward black life

Sky was darkened with ashes

Air thick with fear

Death toll is creeping up

Threats are constantly lurking

These days of turmoil are extra slow

The waiting for improvement is awfully long

Our patience is draining 

Heedfulness is fatigued

Looking forward to 2021 with hopes for

Eradicating the pandemic

Distancing from hardships

Tossing face masks

Returning of handshakes and embraces

Recovery of the broken world

Looking for You

If the day is clear and 

My vision can reach far down the road 

Where it converges into a pin dot 

Then I will go to the place we parted 

To look for you

Like an arrow shot from a bow 

Headlong you hurried forward

and never looked back that day

Leaving me hollowed with sorrow

And those tears still warm on my face 

If down the end of the road

I see no inkling of you

Then I will search you in my memory

An ocean with unfathomable depth

The image of you from bygone days

Must have sunken down to the seabed

And might be devoured by hidden monsters

But still I will dive deep to look for you

Even if only your tattered form left

If still can’t find you in the memory

I then will search for you in my dreams

When time is proper and mood brewed

Out of blue you may appear in 

the nebulous night heaven

So I am going to fall into a deep slumber

And let it take me over the moon

I Wish I Looked Back

My mother and sister resided in a town 

Six thousand miles away

Every time when I ended my visit 

They would see me off at the station 

Waiting for the bus to take me to the airport

Long after my mother passed 

Did my sister told me that mom would

Weep a lot watching the bus taking me away

Truthfully I did not know it 

When bidding farewell what I heard

Were mom’s thoughtful words 

What I saw were her caring smiles 

Only now I know she was trying her best 

To hold her tears back

She told me that at her elder age

One more time we see each other

One less time left for the future

I was still young and thought she would 

always be there for me to visit

But she sensed those chances

Were numbered

Only when opportunities all exhausted

Did I treasure them more

I regretted I did not look back

When boarding on the bus

Otherwise through her tearful eyes

I would see her longing for 

my next visit already started and  

I would hold her tighter and longer 

when we were together

Joshua Corwin

Looking Back, I am Enough

I meander these halls of hopeless entertainment

which life seems to bring me

and remember where I’ve come from.

I was that kid who was picking up trash on the

playground and assembling them into

something else, something to get away from this

place, this planet in which I feel I’ve been ordained

or ordered. I was the kickstand kegstand man in college, 

trying to prove that he was enough. I was that

mathematician hiding in your basement, not coming

out, in fear that he couldn’t do a PhD thesis, 

and that spending long hours working on a 

solution to a theorem and laying out the proof in

advance, would prove to others, that it was OK

to swish that fine glass of wine atop a mental hierarchy

of not enough, plagued by the salvation of this moment,

which haunted after me but yet I wilted away, raced from

campus security, when I was afraid to go to the hospital,

when I was afraid to be alone. I said and sprayed, spit-

ball fireball enrabiado embers burned myself into

urns of truth, under the fallacy of slaving wayside, and

regurgitating lies: spindle-webbed stories from my

unpursued slips, with unpursed lips, which were sown 

shut by isolation, an isle of subsisting an elixir,

which really didn’t last for even a nanosecond 

when I fell, owl-eyed, aching for a glimpse of

Eden; I had realized she was a shadow that I had counted

in transcendental number theory, and tried to prove by

cloaking my own shadow. But upon the death of my grand-

father Mert, and upon the life-bringer palabras of professors, 

I realized that I was enough, and upon that meditation in a 

Shrine in Korea Town, I realized I was enough.

And upon the reading of my Fifth Step with my Sponsor,

I realized I was enough. And upon my reading of my book,

Becoming Vulnerable, I realized I was enough. And upon

the tears of gratitude on which I see myself peering into

the window of hope, I realize I am enough.

I am enough to keep on making mistakes and finding myself

never alone in the shadows.

I am enough to find myself humming a tune called gratitude.

I am enough to remember that it’s OK to forget,

that’s OK to realize the window is sometimes foggy,

and that the image isn’t always of a handsome highway,

but sometimes a muddy mountain man, trekking up the 

abyssal fade found only in heaven, where everything is enough.

Dean Okamura

Looking back on November 22, 1963

Looking back, "Yesterday, 

     all my troubles seemed so far away." 

 

Oh, JFK! You were my hero. 

You were the President we wanted in Elementary School. 

You said, "And so, my fellow Americans: 

     ask not what your country will do for you — 

     ask what you can do for your country." 

You established the Peace Corps. 

You averted a nuclear war in the Cuban Missile Crisis. 

You challenged us. "We choose to go to the Moon." 

How could someone choose to shoot you today? 

 

A door knock signaled the start of the troubles. 

We carried our chairs to another classroom. 

We sat and waited. They told us why. 

One teacher cried and left the room. 

She was a "Lady of Sorrows." 

Something very sad happened. 

Looking back, "Won’t you — 

     please, please, help me?" 

Oh, Sorrow! The reports were grim. 

We heard on L.A. Channel 2, CBS News. 

Walter Cronkite said, “President Kennedy shot today — 

     just as his motorcade left downtown Dallas.” 

He was troubled by a recently printed bulletin, 

paused, and took off his glasses. 

Words out of a heavy heart. "From Dallas, Texas, 

     the flash — apparently official — President Kennedy — 

     died at 1 pm Central Standard Time, 

     2 o'clock Eastern Standard Time, 

     some 38 minutes ago." 

    a silence… forty little hearts broken… the room sobbed… then emptied. 

The school dismissed us early. 

I do not remember if we ate lunch. 

Did we even say a word on the way home? 

Looking back, "I read — 

     the news today, oh boy." 

Oh, Tragedy! The news unrolled to the beat of a solitary drum. 

We learned the latest stories. 

     Texas Governor John Connolly — recovered from wounds. 

     Police Officer J.D. Tippit — killed by the suspect. 

     Lee Harvey Oswald — charged with murder of Tippit and Kennedy assassination. 

     Jack Ruby — killed Lee Harvey Oswald on live television. 

From Dallas to Arlington National Cemetery. 

     Lyndon Baines Johnson sworn in as President aboard Air Force One. 

     Horse-drawn caisson bearing the casket of John F. Kennedy. 

     John-John saluting his father in front of the Cathedral. 

Looking back, "Oh, yesterday — 

     Friday, November 22, 1963."

Our entire nation was wounded. 

A stab to the heart. 

My generation lost its innocence. 

 

---- 

Looking back, lyrics from Beatles songs: 

Lennon-McCartney, "Yesterday" (1965) 

Lennon-McCartney, "Help!" (1965) 

Lennon-McCartney, "A Day in the Life" (1966) 

Thom Garzone

How Poetry Began

Now the image was more clever than the other literary tools,

so imagery told the Drama:

“If you reveal yourself unto me, you will be remembered for all time,

your soul will forever be free, and you will be prophetic”

So the Drama consumed her work with imagery and when its spirit opened, she and Poet appeared naked, so then they enclosed themselves in libraries and auditoriums

They listened for Language in order to hide from Him, and said to their creator:

“We were frightened by our pureness, and our shamefulness”

Language asked them, “Have you written with imagery when I instructed you not to?”

“It was imagery that fooled us and told me, ‘we would be remembered for all of time,’” Drama replied

Language answered them back: “Since you have expressed images, human art thou among all other literary genres, and you both will be as erroneous as nature, and open shall be your form. And as far as you shall dwell, imagery shall be your ruler, and it shall obsess your minds, and devour your hearts”

Then to Drama Language spoke: “I shall intensify the struggle of your revision process, your edits shall bring forth critical epics, institutions, distinguished awards, and you shall have dominion over the stage”

So Poet filled Drama with sensory input, theatrical lines, stanzas, monologues, soliloquy and forms as sonnets and ballads, and both gave birth to the comedy and tragedy...”

I am Faust

I am the prophet who dreams, a saint whose prayer is for a babe

wishing for skies to brighten the dark limbs of chance.

I am the legend selling their soul for stock in society,

or slaves who are imprisoned by the system.

I am he who whispers words, spinning tales from laments, rhyming elegies

mad with memory. I am heaven and hell. I am the stranger who finds a path

to small town America, deserted and bewildered by the locals, as a wayward poet

who came back as a folk hero.

I am Faust wondering and ascending over the land, inscribing symbols upon mesas,

eternal shores that reveal masses in testaments of the damned and into a paradise misunderstood.

I master destiny by foreseeing these banal, iconic images that collaborate with fools,

charming club dancers to ramble into the planet’s every corner, spreading praises to the gods.

We are Faust, you and me, my reader; we stand at the gate of the universe

poised, singing our myth of success.

Retreat

Hectic morning pulses in soulful vibes,

mad dash to store, racing to be ahead of life

Afternoon at library where I gather mindful glimpses

in storied aberrations of time

I'm packed, ready and at long last hear from friend in NA

and we head off to a hot springs radiating the spirit,

enraptured dream clearing each being

sharing, conversing, and downing coffee, our one vice

Wind rushes as lithe wisps that sing to shimmering leaves

glowing in my memory, translucent, palpable and free

releasing these hills and prairies and deserts

upon their images of dawn

Men remain tranquil and bear their past like warriors

Saturday afternoon and a small town waitress flirts

with our sorrow and after a hot spring's talk

my NA buddy and me are led to a canyon

ingrained with ageless volcanic Earth,

and rushes in pools of wonder and lonely desire

Sweat from our pores, and with our throats drying,

we reach the virgin lake where I hustle into the icy water,

tears of the natural world, longing for the chill to stir me

from my battered heart of nowhere love, or an

empty pilgrimage upstream to spawn

with women who have entered the crags with us,

and breed among the aquifers like rabbits

(but only more human-like)

This one day exhibits the fervent wait till next year, and on Sunday

I slip out of my sleeping bag to drift away back to an orchestra

of daylight snores, grilled sausages, and my companions on their farewell winds

Gwendolyn Fleischer

A  Time for Healing

She stands at the station

luggage at her feet

waiting for

waiting for 

waiting for no one to meet

starting a new existence

away from pandemic freak show

no more looking back

the train was moving

she is moving 

file an address change 

life change

overwhelmed and terrified

information overload.

no more looking back

knock,  knock,  knock

only see

can't see

must see

knock,  knock,  knock

on her new front door

no more looking back

knock,  knock,  knock

opportunity is knocking

beckoning her

to spellbinding

and to strength 

to a mirrored beauty\

to colorful absurdity

away from freak show antics

from stories she's not written

no more looking back

to a time for new life

to a time for new love

to a time for healing

no more looking back

Crazy Quilt of 2020

From the palindrome of 1-20 -21

there is no more looking back

Hindsight is 2020

there was so much to be done

Early on the Covid

and that river of denial

hoarding PPE and masks

toilet paper, paper towels

Clorox even Spam

six  feet social distancing

even when in passing

restaurants closed, and shopping malls

record numbers out of jobs

records numbers line for food banks

quarantined and sheltered in our homes

those who can work by remote

the children go to school by google

and by zoom

only 10 people in your safety bubble

still the deaths grow higher

trucks for morgues line the streets

frontline workers reuse their masks

as they intubate the dying

so much lying and fake news

alternative realities

and educated folk

buy this s*** sinker, line and hook.

Then came the 8 seconds 

George Floyd took to die

I cannot breathe I cannot breathe

Mass protests took to the streets

Armed police shot and tear gassed

Moms, elderly, and standers-by.

A photo op in front of church

just for PR sake.

Finally November 3 

a new leader chosen by the people

no concession only lawsuits

each day we inch much closer

Court has struck down lawsuits

throwing out lots of ballots

No Thanksgiving for families

no Christmas either.

So much defiance of rules

Vaccine is on the horizon

This is a year that will be told

to the grandkids

A true Ripley's Believe it or Not

After  1/20/21 I am praying

a calm will settle the land.

So many believe the outrageous lies

and assaults on democracy

So many going to bed hungry

so many out on the streets

It will take many a moon to recover

get back to peace in the land

peace in our hears

so we walk hand in hand. 

Lori Wall-Holloway

I look back 

over the broken

pieces of my life

welded together 

with love

and forgiveness

to create steps 

of growth

I have taken 

to where I am now

Unthinkable at the start

Achieved over time

Wisdom for days to come

When I turned 64 

I made big plans

one was to go

to Disneyland

I began to save money

I watched for deals

When Covid struck

I lost my zeal

So I made new goals

while the girls

 were home

I organized photos

so I could work

on my tomes

Scrapbook pages

were filled with pics

when my back ached

I felt horribly sick

I had to slow down

working on books

I lost my zest 

for the job undertook

Then school stayed out

and my role changed

Assisting the teacher

I tried to stay sane

I helped my granddaughters

do homework on time

I tried to stay calm

and not lose my mind

The year had pluses

as I look back

Dodgers won World Series

The Lakers are champs

 

My life has shifted

Nothing’s the same

Newness has come

as I learn to reframe

 

my 65th year

with fresh plans

Hoping one day

get to Disneyland

Back Door Blessings 

“Now faith is being sure of what we hope for

and certain of what we do not see.” Hebrews 11:1 (NIV)

I swing open front door to bright sunlight

Grey striped kittens scamper through my legs

while squirrel runs down tree and scurries 

across street

I watch, hopeful and wonder from what 

direction my prayers will be answered

Will it come quick like a miracle?

Or will God use my sister to bring

about what I asked?

How will he do it?

Teardrops fill my eyes

I feel abandoned

wondering if I was heard

Did I do something wrong?

Is he not pleased?

Is it just not time?

I hear a chuckle

and recognize it is the Lord’s

I begin to cry

Through my sobs I confess 

I thought I had been forgotten

He wipes my tears and turns

me around to show 

my answered prayer

While I stared out the front 

door expecting him to bring a solution

one way, he slipped through the back

with an answer even greater 

than I expected 

(This is based on a prose piece I wrote many years ago. It was inspired by how I got my first computer, which was totally unexpected)

Jackie Chou

Metamorphosis

Looking back-

I dream of being a nymph with

a perpetual Cheshire moon smile

exposing straight ivory teeth

chased by the school historian

in the halls and grass fields

for a few snippets of my life, to be 

framed in silvery scrapbook glitter

my lips and cheeks the same 

shade of rouge as the sunset

But not more than who I really was-

zits, braces, glasses, and all

soaring with wings slightly askew 

Jeffry Michael Jensen

 

Back When Back Was Boss

I ain’t no walrus from way back when

I rein in my temper and count to ten

decorated in rectangles stretching garments

worn season after signify portals go cosmological

all in limbo tinted toward reverie

rolling up the carpet from one plane to another

bludgeoned by sadness as a detour to grand stimulation

Baudelaire went heavy on marbling disappointment

it was a gawdy syntax that outfitted a poetic kiss

crowds take my eardrums out of play

the soft side of gorgeous noses me out of a fragile legacy

tapping shelves where looting is rumored to run

deep into the survey of murmured betrayal

cannibals end up lining shot of philosophical grime

pruning the lazy sailors with blood crashing

I gasp on the air released by protest

skin forms into a towering forest

illimitable abuse becomes a kingdom

pretending concern lifting spaces to the fevered streets

nothing more hungry than complete ruin by adverbs

weeding towers away from the heaven we are subordinate to

affectionate beyond the proportional shadowed haze

limb to limb leaves a distorted imperfection

driving a crumpled search in haste at the end of religious choking

I believe in the search for charcoal silence

a scrape or a shuffle of ragged exploration

a smoky flex of a midday frenzied sun

no one traveled close to the edge of the absurd eternal

without falling into the invincible riddle of tongues

in an unintelligible end, I became a ribald gonzo of accumulating loss

tumbling into all that can be conjured back when back was boss

Radomir Vojtech Luza

Eighth Grade Paid

All the pre-teen boys 

And their tender toys  

Looking back 

They wanted too much 

From this dusty pearl 

A fleet in their 

Mangled world 

Holding fort in this 

Pimpled swirl 

Pease God keep me 

Away from a tired hurl 

With a frantic whirl 

Upon this tattered curl 

Looking Back

Tomorrow is always 

Better than today 

Like an alabaster swan 

Without prey 

A windy play 

Catching hay 

A runaway bus 

Lost in a morbid gray 

Eating its way through a handsome stay 

Why, oh why, does 

Infinity end 

With a deaf band 

Making plans at 

A concert without hands 

Outstretched like small lands 

Seeking peace from 

Battered glands 

Pamela Shea

The Rearview Mirror

Looking back, very far back, details emerge.

I see the useless dash on number seven,

And the oh so detailed cursive letters

That hung boldly on the classroom wall,

Behind the teacher’s well-coiffed head,

Haunting, and taunting

Like the playground bully

That I took out with a single punch

Under the gaze of another teacher

Who just turned and walked away.

In a hard-knock life both adults and children

Can feel like a scratched number seven.

Looking back, I see the detours taken

To the horror and chagrin of my parents,

Who had their own demons to contend with,

As I found out years later.

I sought not to be so rigid

In bringing up my own children.

They had their father for that,

Who had his own past to digest.

We all must find a measure of forgiveness,

Both for ourselves and others,

If we intend to stay the course

Despite obstacles along the path.

Looking back, I wish I had hugged more.

That wasn’t something I was accustomed to.

Both the hugger and the huggee win,

Unless the hugs are fake and unwanted.

I have had my share of those,

Which I try to forget but still feel down to my toes.

Yet they contributed to my growth,

So I will again try to find forgiveness,

That lies right alongside acceptance,

And, if things are going right,

Is accompanied by celebration

Both through the windshield and rearview mirror.

Oh, what tangled webs and beds we have lain in.

Surely others of both lie ahead.

That is the yin and yang of life.

Exaltation amidst the strife.

The road behind merges with the current route,

That then leads to the freeway before me.

Looking back, I see the lessons learned,

And the turns; I know more of each lie beyond,

So I will sing songs, the old and the new,

Perhaps even writing my own tunes,

With both familiar and unheard notes

That sing me, strengthened, into the future.

 

Mysti S Milwee

Looking Back, but Moving Forward

When I look back

I feel vulnerable all

over again.

I feel the pain,

my organs inflicting

pain on each other –

                                       Fighting demons on the

                                       inside, “I listen to you screaming at me.”

Being locked up,

chained to the floor,

and him yelling at me.

                                       “If you’d just do everything I asked,

                                       I wouldn’t have to….

                                       Hurt you.

I was left broken and blue,

with anxiety and

PTSD too.

I was a child,

for God’s sake!

The night you crawled

up into my bed and said,

                                       “You will no longer be innocent,

                                       for it is mine to take before you wake.”

You drugged my mind

with an illusion of hell -

                                        I fought the demons in my

                                        mind, from your narcissism.

Looking back,

I would have been better off…

being homeless to Harvard.

Looking back to see how the

past shaped me –

                                         I finally mustered up the courage

                                         to move forward, to free myself

                                         from the chains that bound me.

                                         I thanked God, for helping me.

Patricia Murphy

Looking Back

Looking back its the year that was. 

I'll be glad when its over.  

Not only are we dealing with a 

pandemic, unemployment, 

trying to put food on the table  

and pay rent as well as wear 

our masks and stay safe.  

Currently, I'm dealing with an 

HOA threatening to sue me. 

Also, to my dismay, my beloved sits 

in a nursing home after spending two 

weeks at two different hospitals.  

I cannot go see him due to 

COVID-19.  They won't let me in.  

I'm alone now most of the time.  

I talk to God and my Mom.  

I am besieged by requests and 

running two different households.  

I am the contact person for 

my beloved.  

Yesterday I spoke to his doctor 

for twenty-five minutes.  

Then I spent eight hours working 

on my own home.  

I am tired and wish there was a 

way out, but there is none.  

I must be strong and carry on.  

Lord willing, I shall survive this too!  

The Year Back

I'm looking back at the past year 

and find to my dismay a 

year in reverse.  

With a pandemic, an election 

that was questionable and a 

lifetime of woes, to say the 

least, it wasn't the best year.  

A year full of trials and tribulations.  

A sad year.  

A woeful year.  

An unpredictable year.  

An election year.  

A year of waiting.  

A year full of ups and downs.  

A year with illnesses and deaths.  

A year not to concede.  

A year to be believed.  

A year to reveal.  

A year full of cancellations.  

A year of forgiveness.  

A year of regrets.  

A year of losses.  

I'm looking forward to next year.  

I hope it will be wonderful.  

I hope it will be great.  

I hope we all have a great 

New Year!  

Thelma T Reyna

 

Papa holding the trophy the grandkids finally granted him

Champion of the World

 

 

So random, you declaring yourself “Champion of the World” as we—

two grandkids, you and I—rode

 

across California Avenue to the ice cream place, and the debate 

began, rollicking, fierce, with our grandkids

 

in the back barely containing themselves in their seat

belts, laughing hard as they demanded

 

proof from you: How can you be champion of the whole, wide, entire 

planet, Papa?  Indeed,

 

how could you be? Like little lawyers, Charlie and Cassie laid out fact 

after fact why there’s no such prize, and how

 

you just can’t be this champion thing! I had the front-seat view of 

you, your mischief profile, your ersatz-smug

 

smile as you drove, chin high, insisting to our two angels that you 

were THE Champ! Your reasons were a riot to

 

them, and we three wondered why our Papa had gotten

this hare-brained scheme. Looking back now, I see

 

the eternal, twinkling child-soul in you basking in our laughter on an 

ordinary run to the ice cream place.

________________________________

 * Poem and photo originally appeared in the author's book, Dearest Papa: A Memoir in Poems (Golden Foothills Press, 2020).

Rick Leddy

Elegy

My fingers stroke his forehead

Warmth leeching from him

Feeling his life inch away a frozen moment at a time

Artificial comfort flowing through his veins

Words quiet in his ear

Find peace

Time to leave this place

for the undiscovered country

Wishing for more time

Hoping for one last word

The man of a thousand baseballs

Thrown back and forth

My coach, my father

Young, smiling, waving 

The years suddenly blurred and lost

in an instant 

Dropping wet and receding

Evaporating like the essence of him

Invisible and inevitable

The man of a million projects and quips 

Becoming a memory before my eyes

The quiet of the room 

Loud with love and pain

His breathing soft and slow

Then gone

Just like that

Death stealing him with a whisper

The music of his life finished

Without a sigh

I love you, Dad

His hands gnarled and cold in mine

My lips brush against his cheek

Young and running free

Again in my mind

Forever

Little Brother

I hated you 

All the ladies in cotton skirts

And dawning 60s smells

Loving you

Brand-new, just off the shelf

Cooing and touching you in your crib

Ignoring me already washed-up and yesterday's news

At three years old

Them asking me what

It felt like to have a little brother

Saying nothing,

because I despised the little usurper

who had dropped in to claim 

a piece of my kingdom

and the affection of my subjects

But I learned to tolerate you

Eventually 

Rival becoming playmate 

And friend

I was not the brother you deserved

All of the time

The easy and convenient object of my frustration

And you wear those childhood slights still firmly on your being 

like an angry coat made of fights and epithets 

I know apologies don't wipe away 

anything except the guilt and regret of the sender

And do little else

The decades precede us

The little children we were faded

black and white newsreel memories

But hate can grow to love

I know

Because I hated you

And love you now

And cannot imagine

The world without you

By my side

The Path

The path winding and straight

some filled with brambles and spikes 

leaving bleeding regrets

and scars of forgotten souls and deeds

walking without a map 

and learning to love the lost

Beginning smooth and empty 

crying to the heavens then rushing 

awkward steps to new beginnings

Now more path behind than ahead

staring back in wonderment

Remembering the dawns and the endings

The bright air of youth full in deep lungs

electrified thoughts and writhing beauty

Our new strong legs running ahead

feeling the strong wind laugh against our open watering eyes

Finding lust then unearthing love

Creating the colors and the first cries of new life

we then set upon a new and different path

Looking to the nearer horizon

Blinded by the exquisite questions 

frightened and exhilarated

knowing that the road ends

and not knowing when or where

But grateful to have traveled it

if even for an all but too brief time

Embracing the pain and the ecstasy

Listening to the universe whisper from above and under

move ahead until rest seeks you

But loving each mote of dust and each kicked rock

each detour and crystal clear heading 

A billion pinpoints of starlight and peals of laughter leading the way

Each of us taking different roads and stories

to come to the same place

Beginning and ending

all of us

But what a magnificent journey

Rain

It's dark inside

And he is 12

The juke box weeps adult sadness  

he doesn't understand,

but is learning too soon

His father shadowed rage on a barstool

A phantom he must conjure home

Gathering storm clouds with each gulp

Ready to rain anger and cruelty 

On the world he wants to drink away

He sits culled and voluntarily dispossessed

Cheating on his family and himself

For a seductress in a glass

Go get your father

His mother had said

He won't listen to me

As he watched another piece of his childhood chipped away,

lying inert and dead at his leaden feet

He stands at the bar's entrance

Weighing 

which will be worse

Leaving the demon alone to grow

Or inviting it in 

A Russian Roulette choice

with six bullets in the chamber

Machine gun heartbeat pounds his ears

As he moves toward the stranger he knows by name

Wishing the desperate caliginous shadows

will swallow him whole

The jukebox a jet engine roar

Screaming the story of his life 

As he taps the shoulder of the storm

And waits for the rain to fall

Bill Cushing

Drydocks and Parades

The warm breezes of great heights

ran through fine

light hair

as I straddled

my father’s neck, 

gripping tight to his collar 

as veterans marched proudly by:

Ike’s years then.

Days of wonderful dizziness,

looking at 

that parade of men below me:

a fearful pleasure—like now, 

climbing kingposts 

and stanchions

of eighty-thousand ton vessels 

built with half-inch steel 

and starplate from the keel up —

using cables, rivets, bolts, 

torches, and welds.

Roz Witt

Climbing

The tree beckons

A first foothold

Scramble to a forked branch

Stretch, reach a perch

To look down 

At myself

Remembering back. 

Unfair

I want the year back

It was lost in a sea of masks

I want a rerun

Joe Witt

Pooh Sticks

pooh sticks under the bridge

never coming back

only the now

the future

infinite possibilities

Who's Fault

we should get the year back

it’s not our fault 

it’s the POTUS’s