Three Poems by Linda H.Y. Hegland

 

Dancing to Connie Francis

 

You taught me to dance;

my feet upon your feet,

shuffling about the kitchen

to Connie Francis and Patsy Cline.

 

One, two, three.

 

One, two, three.

 

You taught me to be wary -

not to trust promises;

promise is a synonym of lie,

expect one to be the other.

 

You taught me not to want

too much; nor need.

To get by on the strength

of my own heart.

 

You taught me that memories hurt;

that the ones you love most

can’t always be trusted,

nor leaned on or even ‘there’.

 

I learned to survive

because parts of me didn’t,

the only truth that of dancing on your feet

to Connie Francis and Patsy Cline.

 

One, two, three.

 

One, two, three.

Old Bar Piano

 

I am tired before my first sip of wine,

so that by the time I finish

a glass or two, I am dreaming awake.

The keys of the piano beneath my fingers

are slow to respond, weary themselves.

This old bar piano, steeped in beer breath

and old sawdust has had an exhausting life -

twangy country tunes and deep, bitter blues.

 

I dream I sing with the piano, my own

scars matching word for word

with the gouges in her wood, the

stains on her boards; the broken

ivory of the B flat note.

The sad sonority of my notes harmonize

with the resonance of her bruised, blues tones.

 

Third glass now, perhaps a fourth;

the keys need me no longer to find their way.

It is always the way that the

blues find themselves in the

wide awake dreams of drunks or the

weary keys of an old bar piano.

Trees

 

I think the trees would

miss me if I left.

I have given them names

as it should be.

 

Old Mab is a crone,

of that I’m sure;

gnarled and bent, and whiskered;

her apples inedible.

 

Helice loves the stream,

her long willowy arms dabbling

with the frog spawn

and the wet, turning stones.

 

Faith, the linden tree,

is as young as a maiden.

No hurry to grow; thousands of years

to know her place in the pasture.

 

I have not named the Black Locusts,

they are too many, huge families

connected by their roots; gregarious -

they include me in their raucous music on windy days.

 

The trees would miss me if I left.

Who would remember their names?

Who would sing their memories,

join in their laughter on a cold winter night?

 

When I am a ghost I will

go to the trees and ask them

to name me, so I won’t be forgotten

so that I will me missed,  now I’m gone.

Linda H.Y. Hegland is an award-winning poetry, lyric essay, and non-fiction writer who lives and writes in Nova Scotia, Canada. She writes the occasional short story. Her writing most often reflects the influence of place, and sense of place, and one’s complex and many-layered relationship with it. She has published in numerous literary and art journals and has had work nominated for the Pushcart Prize. She has previously published two books of poetry - ‘Bird Slips, Moon Glows’ and ‘White Horses’, a book of lyric essays - ‘Place of the Heart’, and a book of verses and vignettes - ‘Remember in Pieces’. 

Two Poems by John Harold Olson

 

Xenia 

 

 Ash grove 

Birch grove 

Riverbed frozen deep with snow 

 Brewing tea 

Winchester leaning Against a boulder 

 The deer, doe and daughter, 

 approach first 

Not timid but curious 

 Ravens fly in a pairs through the smoke 

 Foxes disappearing in the pines 

 

Drink the steamy tea 

Time to go back 

 

 Xenia opens the back door.

 “I saw you come down from the road,” she said, “like a big orange bear. 

Take off your boots and have some soup.”

 

 

Whippoorwill 

 

 sat in the evening light with my tea,

 heard a whippoorwill through the open door, 

way off in the desert. 

 Used to spend this time in the hard middle 

 But that scene is done. 

Now I listen to the bird. 

 If you close your eyes, You can hear it

John Harold Olson - Is a retired Special Education teacher in Las Vegas. Transitioning to being a hospice volunteer.  

Five Poems by Susan Mayer Brumel

 

circle of seasons

 

rain drips soft

on green grass

loud in bucket

 

fevered foliage

imposes and crowds

-  summer boughs out

 

painted branches

flaunt then tumble

- autumn leaves

 

snowy tempest’s

coveted land

- winters over

 

warming earth’s

elysian snowdrop

- springs up

 

rain drips soft

on green grass

loud in bucket

 

 

Lullaby of Many Moons

 

One night I walked the foggy wood,

beneath a five moon cluster;

Observing it through leafy hood,

charmed by its golden lustre

 

Sleepy thicket, quiet and still

but for the tree frogs on the boughs;

The air was musky, dank and chill-

a fear in me it did arouse

 

Impervious path, I had to kick

away the thick and thorny vines;

I held fast to my walking stick,

and carried on toward the pines

 

The moons then shone more bright than day,

as if five suns were in the sky

A trail they painted for my way;

their comfort to me did abide

 

When from the forest’s edge I looked,

there, in the clearing, boldly stood

a buck whose massive antlers shook

to warn of something dire afoot

 

Most careful not to make a sound,

my body quaked in discontent;

I quickly turned myself around

and back into the wood I went…

 

The five moons led me to a field

where wildflowers dance into the night;

-No need to tame away the weald

of thick and thorny vines that bite

 

Instead, I laid my body down

upon a tufted quilt of blooms,

and fell asleep to whispered sounds-

a lullaby of many moons

 

 

Time’s Comedic Architect

 

The vision in the mirror illustrates

reflections of an aging woman’s face

Gnarled lines enshrine the many years embraced

But starlight in her eyes still radiates

 

The lips are pale and drawn a little thin

The teeth once bright have grown a wee bit dim

The jawline softly hangs with sleepy skin

But faithfully, her beauty glows within

 

The thickened neck still holds the head erect

The arms and hands are weak, with frail effect

The breasts no longer plump, profiles detect

But she laughs at time’s comedic architect!

 

The dimpled belly sits a little round

Upon the hips more padding can be found

Downy wisps grow scanty on the mound

But longings deep within her still abound

 

Once shapely legs have lost their sex appeal

Swollen knees make it difficult to kneel

The ankle bones more often are concealed

But her feet yet strong, still walk her through the weald

 

The aging woman’s changing self belies

greys and wrinkles that are but the years’ disguise

Brilliance emanates yet, from her thoughtful eyes

And her brave and youthful spirit still abides

 

 

On High

 

Like ribbons on a kite,

I am taken to the sky

Surrendering to flight,

as curls of clouds drift by

 

Upon uplifting winds,

I am traveling higher still

Far from a life that’s been,

and not against my will

 

No worries weigh me down

in obsessive, doleful thought

By no burdens am I bound,

no hopeless feelings wrought

 

Soft the air, and lighter,

boundless skies cerulean blue

As sun shines even brighter,

old mem’ries fade from view

 

Beyond its mortal being,

my timeless spirit climbs

By revealing light I’m seeing,

as if for the first time

 

Ethereality is blissful,

My spirit-heart beats free

Hereafter ever peaceful-

On high, eternally

 

 

Of Dreams and Time

 

i.

If age dulls not

the sense of time

or passion poised

on poem’s rhyme

then in my dreams

when slumber comes

I’ll see myself

forever young

ii.

If sunset lulls

the world to sleep

and dawn

within her breast,

light keeps

then as I wake

if light I see

a world of peace

will ever be -

But if I wake

to darkening sky

and dawn’s bright light

not in my eye

then back to sleep

with hope in me

to dream of

better days to be

iii.

If tulip touches

lips of spring

in dreams of warmth

that springtime brings

then when it blooms

with colour bright

will warm the chill

of darkest night

iv.

If treetops tickle

skies of blue

and sunlit stars

fall onto you

then you will see

beyond your dream

stars not ever

what they seem

v.

If fire crackles

through the wood

and leaves its scent

where trees once stood

then I will breathe

the smoke of sleep

and in my dreams

their essence keep

Susan Mayer Brumel retired from a thirty-five year career in hospice social work a few years ago, at which time she began writing poetry. Susan's work is inspired by the journeys of her patients, the compelling beauty of nature, and the human condition. She also enjoys music, long walks in the forest, flower arranging, and jumping in puddles with her grandchildren. Susan lives in New Jersey with her husband and Bernese Mountain Dog, Dottie.

Two Poems by Mark Hendrickson

 

Decade of the Dead (or I Love the 80’s)

 

Zombie enlightenment

Rampant and spreading

I get my brains from others

 

Smoking to breathe

Tanning for warmth

Cruising to connect

 

Dragging my feet     

Gnashing my teeth

Rotting for fun

 

Never waking     

Never sleeping

Lurching primal mindless

 

Always thirsting    

Ever hungry

Cold and heartless    

 

Nihilistic numbing nightmare

Hedonistic hangover

Apocalyptic apoplectic autonomic

 

Thrill of gore

Bite of death

Immortal decay

 

Joy of denial

Sin sensation

God damned

 

 

Just Another Mean Case of the D's

 

Disconnected down doldrums: dribs, drabs. Disproportionate displeased dissonance denied desiring, disturbed discontentment demoralized. Distrusting dystopian discord, disgusted dysfunctional distress. Disenfranchised despondent despairing. Disembodied deconstructed disease. Detached, decommissioned. Disillusioned, defeated. Deluded? Daily.

Mark Hendrickson (he/him/his) is a poet and writer in the Des Moines area. His work has appeared in Variant Lit, Five Minutes, Leaf, Cosmic Daffodil, Lothlorien, and others. Mark worked for many years as a mental health technician in a locked psychiatric unit. His background includes music, healthcare, and psychology. Connect with him @MarkHPoetry or on his website: www.markhendricksonpoetry.com 

 

One Long Poem by Hedy Habra

 

Meditations Over Phoenician Letters

 

Words were born at the dawn of time in Jbeil, Byblos, the

oldest inhabited city in the world. Symbols appeared

inscribed over the skin of goats and sheep, bearing visual

messages that sailed from shore to shore undergoing an

alchemical transformation, still echoing the same sounds

in other tongues.

 

I.

Aleph for ox marking furrows in parallel lines, erect

like that first letter initiating the article, al for aleph, the one

and only of its kind, encompassing all meanings.

 

 

Beth, bayt for house as bosom, womb, al bayt, where

families gather around the homemade meal cooked over a

hearth, often bearing a burning dot under the cast iron tray.

 

 

Gimel for camel, ships of the desert, al gamal, battling

dunes as waves head bent, back curved under chests filled with

gold and spices, eyelids heavy with the secrets of Timbuktu.

 

 

Daleth for door, half open dal hospitality leading to al

dar, a heart with open valves to transfuse friendship, erase

boundaries, a steaming stew’s scents welcoming you in.

 

 

He for a window’s delicately laced wood, musharabiyehs

filtering the sun, letting the wind in, al hawa’ from each cardinal

point, allowing al hawa’s ethereal love to hover along the walls.

II.

 

Waw for hook uniting letters forming words or setting

the tone as a vowel, mouth in awe for wow, al waw, asking for

more, doubled in the depths of noor, the light, and osfoor, the

bird.

 

 

Heth for stones erected for lamentations, al hayt,

separation, veiled with graffiti, muralist paintings, a wall to be

destroyed, leaving only its pillars for memory.

 

 

Yodh for yad, a hand for lovers hand in hand, for

building, cooking, painting, hand shaken in a peace agreement,

asking for a daughter’s hand, granting her hand. Would a girl’s

hand always belong to a man?

 

 

Kaph for palm, applause, al kaph, life lines filled with

expectations, holding a wealth of cherries or raspberries, a

measure for caresses, a palm filled with water to quench your

thirst.

 

 

Lamedh, lam, for unattainable desire, frustrated

springs, a liquid lambda, flowing stream filled with lost

opportunities, forgetfulness, yearning to settle down on the

shores of earthly hope.

III.

 

Mem, the letter mim, conjuring water: al may’ droplets

of dew, ripples or waves, ambrosia, gold nuggets buried in deep

wells for the desert voyager, Andalusian fountains whose

crystalline notes echo al oud.

 

 

Nun for the letter nun, for the tail of al thu’ban, curling

up into itself, an uroborus, nun, marked at times with a dot

for its piercing eye, the end and the beginning, a restless eel

leaping out in foaming spirals.

 

 

Aiyn for eye, a lidless eye lined with Kohl, right inside

Fatima’s palm, a blue amulet conjuring al ayn, the evil eye, the

Sight that opens the gilded gates of consciousness.

 

 

Pe or feh, al fam for mouth lined with carmine lips to

surround love words, the kiss, the silence, the breath, opening

and closing the door to the soul, the spirit of life or death.

 

 

Qoph, another sign for palm, yet closer to al qird for

monkey: it once was a gird for three monkeys, al qouroud,

spinning the wheel of fortune, the one on top flaunts a fleeting

crown, but his luck is changing, unless he’d master the wisdom

to say nothing, see nothing, hear nothing.

 

IV.

 

Resh, for head, al ra’s, harboring inner thoughts, true

feelings under hats or veils, the mirror we wish to present to the

world, the leader or dictator, the crowned hero or the beheaded.

 

 

Shin for tooth, al senn, losing one in a dream means

the passing of a loved one, losing them all at once is the end of

love. A tooth can be a sign of strength, a serpent’s fang, or a

way of identifying a skull.

 

 

Teth spins the thread of life around al takht for bed,

and al tamar the palm tree, the fabric lovers’ sheds are made

of, its dancing fronds inspire tales that conjure the simoon,

measure the inclination of the wind, drift into the unknown

under sand storms.

 

 

Samekh for fish, silvery scales glittering in circles, al

samak, intangible, mercurial, like words whispered in the dark,

slippery oaths and good omens in dreams, harbingers of

cornucopia when they rise from the bottom of your Turkish

coffee dregs.

 

 

Zaiyn for a sword shaped as a sickle, a scimitar, al

zayn, perfection, as the number seven and the mandala circle,

infusing inner beauty and grace for al zahra, a white blossom

delicate as jasmine, or al zohoor, an orange tree bursting with

blooms.

 

First published by Sukoon Literary Journal

From The Taste of the Earth (Press 53 2019)

Hedy Habra has authored four poetry collections, most recently, Or Did You Ever See The Other Side? (Press 53 2023); The Taste of the Earth, won the Silver Nautilus Book Award; Tea in Heliopolis won the USA Best Book Award and Under Brushstrokes was an International Book Award finalist. Her story collection, Flying Carpets, won the Arab American Book Award’s Honorable Mention. Her book of criticism, Mundos alternos y artísticos en Vargas Llosa, examines the visual elements in the Peruvian Nobel Laureate's narrative. Habra holds a B.S. in Pharmacy. She earned an M.A. and an M.F.A. in English and an M.A. and Ph.D. in Spanish literature, all from Western Michigan University where she has taught. A twenty-one-time nominee for the Pushcart Prize and Best of the Net, and recipient of the Nazim Hikmet Award, her multilingual work appears in numerous journals and anthologies. https://www.hedyhabra.com/