Five Poems by Rose Mary Boehm

 

Even Though My Eyes Can’t See

 

 

1)

I smell

the hay-like and vanilla aroma of sweet woodruff,

the earthy scent of rotting wood,

moss, mushrooms,

the cloying lilacs on a late spring morning,

the stench of manure in the pigsty,

chicken warmth when I stick my nose into their coop,

the fur of a baby goat when I hold it close,

the mustiness of old books I cannot read.

 

2)

I hear

the cows’ content lowing in the field,

the pigs’ grunting and snuffling,

the cockerel in his favourite spot, proudly

announcing yet another day, sounding

as though he just made it,

the skylark’s song,

the rattling of poppy seeds in their pods,

the low droning of the bombers

and the deafening explosions

soon after.

Someone singing off key.

 

3)

I feel

the warm finger of the sun reaching for my face,

the raised dots of braille under

my fingers, the soft feathers of my budgie,

my mother’s rough hand stroking

me gently, my fat down-filled duvet enclosing

my small, shivering body, the mosquito sting

and the welt it leaves,

my stomach churning on empty,

the heat from the kitchen stove,

the warm roundness of a just laid egg,

the cold, wet, slimy skin of a frog

my brother put into my hand.

 

4)

I taste

the sharp tang of sorrel leaves,

the crust of freshly baked bread,

the cold, watery nothing of an icicle,

the not-quite-sweetness of gooseberries

Mother gives me before she makes jam,

the gooey, familiar lushness when I lick

the spoon full of leftover batter,

repulsive milk from our landlord’s goat,

the crisp flesh of an apple stolen

for me by my cousin from farmer

Bauer’s garden.

 

 

I wonder sometimes what colours

are, and butterflies, and how I could

travel to Mongolia. But my world is full,

and I have much to think about.

Looking Deep into the Early Universe

 

The gods held an orgy

that sparked the birth of the universe.

This is the true meaning

of the term “the big bang”.

Ethan Goffman

 

 

Now we go back to spy on the Universe’s infancy,
the toddler at Cosmic Dawn, an infinite child
that played big after the fog.

Approximately one billion years later,
the child had used the ramekins
and a magic wand to create gigantic
galaxies, surprisingly bright and colourful,
elliptical and spiral galaxies, bright eyes
in endless space. And the child saw
that it was good.

And so, here I am, encouraged by the impossible,
thinking that I could learn to vibrate at the same
rate as my kitchen wall and pass
right through it.

Roadkill

 

The girl had meant to go see the moles.

A car stopped with squealing tyres.

A man stepped out onto the verge,

his face brutish— or so she thought—

unshaven, heavy jowls, small eyes.

His hands large, with fingers familiar to the girl,

she knew them from the illustration in her fairytales

as those of the gnarled giant wood goblin.

Despite the heat he wore a long, leather jacket.

He bent towards the mole hill.

It happened too quickly—

the next thing she saw

was this huge hand beating the little mole’s head

against the milestone by the road.

There wasn’t much blood.

 

 

The Sinkhole

 

the need gotta be / so deep words can't / answer simple questions
Yusef Komunyakaa

 

Depth.

Stones that build grief.

 

Grief dancing in

our bodies

that sing in the caves, making echoes.

 

More.

 

Falling. Falling. Falling.

 

Yesterday I saw the geese. From cold North.

Honking. Honking. Honking.

 

Cars stacking up in straight lines until

the sandstorm covers the world,

until the termites build homes.

 

No answer will ever satisfy

those who do not question.

The Teacher

 

You think of the immense universe, exoplanets,

ice and water planets, blue Martian sunsets,

thinking one billion years, ellipitcal and spiral galaxies

surprisingly bright and colourful, shining eyes

in endless space.

 

You are awed by what you just read: that we can

go back in time to the ‘Extreme Outer Galaxy’,

the outskirts of our own Milky Way, more than

58,000 light years from our galactic centre.

 

You can’t wait to share the wonder and recreate

the magic for tomorrow’s class, and for a moment you fear

that they won’t even look up once

from their small, electronic worlds.

Rose Mary Boehm is a German-born British national living and writing in Lima, Peru, and author of two novels as well as eight poetry collections. Her poetry has been published widely in mostly US poetry reviews (online and print). She was several times nominated for a ‘Pushcart’ and ‘Best of Net’. Her eighth book, LIFE STUFF, has been published by Kelsay Books (November 2023). A new MS is in the works. 

https://www.rose-mary-boehm-poet.com/

 

Six Poems by Ed Lyons

 

Mountain Storm

 

 

When cows in still and sheltered valleys lie,

      And lightening flickers on the furthest ridge,

      A rushing creek runs calmly past the bridge.

Soon sharp peaks will cut the pregnant sky.

 

Then, in the moonward flying mountains,

      Which live to watch the dying light of day,

      To shine forth ruddy sun and ruddy clay.

Rain will spill as if from bleeding fountains.

 

The silence now is broken: angry wind

      Calls the rumbling thunder to attack.

      The night advances, shades of gray and black,

By electric streaks to be illumined.

 

The reaching hills and hanging sky are one.

Life was born in such a dance of rain. 

 

Dog Days

 

 

The waterfall now strikes the waning days

      Of August. The searing sun in doldrum wallows,

      As torrid land salt water swallows,

With blistered streets and glare-white sky ablaze.

 

Now the soft gardenia eve draws nigh,

      As orchid hues of sunset stain the west

      Beyond the lapping waves, and in the east,

Lightening flies through corners of the eye.

 

The myriad milky stars of summer shine;

      Among the planet, silver Dian capers,

      The air a velvet womb of viewless vapors

Arising from the gently foaming brine.

 

But even as the Dog Star season sleeps,

Along the eastern skyline, autumn creeps. 

,

Winter

 

 

I walk on ice as yet the day breaks blue,          

      And early coughing tears my eyes awake,

      Forcing me my lingering dreams to shake.

The rising sun seems natural, yet untrue.

 

January’s but a weary blur

      Of restless days and heavy soulful sighs.

      The sun hallucinates against my eyes,

Much too brilliant for this time of year.

 

There is a tortured girl for whom I’m yearning.

      Her sad eyes spur my pen upon the page.

      She stirs my turning thoughts into a rage,

And she commands my soul, and sets me burning.

 

Each new dawn is welcomed, and yet dreaded,

And I’m confused, yet sense where I am headed. 

 

Summer

 

 

The swollen, searing, rumbling clouds now grown

      To thunderheads which pour within my soul,

      The searing midnight madness to cajole

The sleeping stillness of the summer town,

 

The sins we toasted in the drunken night,

      The nakedness erupting near the dawn,

      The bottles scattered on the humid lawn,

Make me see there’s little left to fight.

 

I hear her sobbing echo down the hall,

      And like an anxious father I draw nigh,

      But realize there is naught to do but sigh,

And wonder how this broken angel fell.

 

A storm at dawn may drive the sun away,

But yet I know it’s worth it here to stay. 

 

Some Blocks Off

 

 

Some blocks off, I ear glass-whispering chimes,

      And know the Sunday-light blood-bright sunbeam –

Sparkles saintèd, painted stain-pains, writ in gems,

      And that she’ll stand amid them, a singing dream

Clarion voice lost amid choir, organ flights

Ascending like myriad birds on incense plumes,

      White hands hymnal-holding, blue eyes raised

            To cross and candlelight,

      Soft breath breathing fragrant altar blooms,

            A virgin-vision by white virgin praised.

She, this, belongs to someone somewhere else,

      To other greening seasons, younger souls.

For me, sadness invades with the sad-knelling bells,

      This smoke-choked room, these blues-burnt butts and bowls.

To a Figure Skater

 

 

Those plump domestic ducks on balance-narrow

      Blades with patience wobble-waddle and tread,

      As on thick fenny-ponds with paddles of lead,

These fowl-too-flying-awkward slowly row.

And I myself an unsprightly sparrow

      Who in quick-dizzy-fits flits ahead.

      O had my feet the fleetness to be lead

by you, a swiftly-launchèd swimming arrow.

 

How do you, gliding windhoveress, dashing-dare

      To aspire thy form to such two-fold loveliness?

            O grace-wild legs! O sailing streams of air! ballerina motion!

Those plump domestic ducks on balance-narrow

      Blades with patience wobble-waddle and tread,

      As on thick fenny-ponds with paddles of lead,

These fowl-too-flying-awkward slowly row.

And I myself an unsprightly sparrow

      Who in quick-dizzy-fits flits ahead.

      O had my feet the fleetness to be lead

by you, a swiftly-launchèd swimming arrow.

 

How do you, gliding windhoveress, dashing-dare

      To aspire thy form to such two-fold loveliness?

            O grace-wild legs! O sailing streams of air! ballerina motion!

O wing-stretched arms sailing streams of air!

      Silent-strainless ice-wind-witch, you are caprice –

            Filled, tameless,  free as clouds

Ed Lyons has been writing and publishing poems for over forty years. He is a regular contributor to the Poems from the Heron Clan anthology, and has also appeared in Albatross, A New Ulster, Lothlorien Poetry Journal, which earned him a Best of the Net nomination,, Án Aintiúl, and North Carolina Bards, and written hymns for the Moravian Church. The last is the subject of Ed’s 2019 chapbook Wachovia, published by Katherine James Books in Chapel Hill, North Carolina. Ed lives in Winston-Salem, also in North Carolina.