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Poetry

Granularity populates a vortex overflowing:

seed to vagrant soil, sudden shower;

dune of sand lit by shore lightning;

gravel underfoot in moonlit park;

pin-points of water welling in eyeball;

multitude of atoms we cannot see;

trillions of star-galaxies in a swirl.

 

Rotundity highlights it all,

and to be curiously round in mind

remains best whenever you see a friend

come round for keen conversation.

 


The First Congregational Church

is now available for meetings,

weddings, and social events.

 

The Presbyterian Church

with its big bell tower and giant clock

is now a Baptist Church.

 

The Methodist Church,

now called the Chocolate Church

(due to its newly painted shade),

is now an Art Museum.

 

The new church service

is now conveniently at the beach

where tattoos are the new symbols

of emotional devotion.

 

The old-new Redeemer on the scene

is the Sun with Ocean for consort.

Screaming seagulls supply the chorus.

 

The ice cream shop (soft and hard)

offers the new, informal communion.

The Sun provides penance with sunburn.

 

The Holy Spirit still broods in air

with hovering wings over

beach, bridge, and unnoticed barnacle—

 

and hovers over Waterfront Park

where children gather to giggle

at the cascading waterfall….


Waves pound the shore with sputtering froth.

Young children terrified of crushing waves

are quite content with sifting malleable sand.

Old men lounge in sunlight like lizards.

Breast-less young girls in pink bikinis

squeal in the roiling surf.

 

Lifeguard drives a four-wheeler buggy

like he’s CEO of the sand.

Plump middle-aged women sport

fading tattoos of their frolicking youth.

Umbrellas sprout like mushrooms after rain.

Lost plastic shovels and goggles sleep under sand.

 

Seals wonder if humans are safer than sharks.

Broken shells know they are not.

High tide red flags whimsically wave

while beach sand swallows the salty source of life.

 

The ghost of Marconi’s marvelous machine

still lingers in humid moonlight air,

but there is not a solitary soul there

to hear what he had wrought.


Rain patters on roof

all night long without reprieve

in an old story known

to ears of humankind

since huts and houses

dotted the landscape

of furrowed rows

while people sprawl in darkness

as they drift to damp corridors

of oblivious sleep and dreams

that promise dawn-dew-joy

like quince flowering in spring

or orange bulbous moon on horizon

where wonder breathes

secret virtue

in varied shades of blue

running in puddles

to a roiling sea.


Blessed is the afternoon ambiance

when raindrops tickle your eyelids

as your feet tread between puddles

and your hat drips like a leaky faucet.

 

Blessed is the afternoon light

when a butterfly lands on your arm

and you freeze to admire

that motley coat of color.

 

Blessed is the afternoon mood

when thunder rumbles

with distant mellow echo

like a sea-shell cupped to your ear.

 


by Micheala Coplen in Poetry
Wed May 4th, 2016

the road to Damascus

 

Shadows fall over the city     as empires

have fallen     The ancient walls hold their history

with unsteady grace  

            as the still night carries a...

by Kevin T. McEneaney in Poetry
Sat Apr 30th, 2016

Since latitude remains so obvious—
although even that was not always so—
I’ll construct my bearing on longitude,
which reflects more confusion about life,
time, and...

by Don Wigal in Poetry
Mon Apr 25th, 2016

Do you sometimes think and feel
Our axis is now shifting?
Smart folks warn us every day,
Mountains of ice are drifting.

Waters on our globe are...

by Kevin T. McEneaney in Poetry
Sun Apr 17th, 2016

When earth shakes like a rattle in child’s hand,

our knees absorb the fury of earthquake.

Run out to street, the open air saves!

When hillsides of stone fall, run...

by Miloš Djurdjević in Poetry
Tue Apr 12th, 2016

no one dies here they are still standing

on the street their hollow knees limp

arms they never leave move nowhere

as if halted one step back is their

 ...

by Marcelo Quevedo, translated by Liz McNicoll in Poetry
Fri Apr 8th, 2016

When sunlight beams off balconies

and cumulous clouds barely move

while grass sleeps in green contentment,

I pretend to stroll in blue air

along a gurgling embankment

with a froth...

by Loredana Ingenito in Poetry
Fri Mar 18th, 2016
What are they there for
What’s their purpose
Elevated there in the galaxy, looking beautiful
All those planets
No life on them
I am perplexed by the things that don’t...
by Kevin T. McEneaney in Poetry
Sat Mar 5th, 2016

Sub-zero weather, bluebird on bent bough,

snow crunching nearly up to knobby knees--

memory of fire flickering flame

in my mind like long-lost childhood dreams.

Do bluebirds dream of sky...

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