Saturday, 1 November 2025

One Poem by Donna Pucciani

 





Nostalgia 

 

We’d dug out the photos 

from a closet full of old things, 

the boxes vaguely dusty, 

and decided to pay attention 

to the past. We started  

 

at the beginning, our beginning, 

the Seventies, when life 

seemed simple in a Bronx 

six-floor walkup, no air-con, 

roaches holding it all together, 

and our future lay in passing 

exams and searching for 

impossible jobs. Yet 

 

we packed summer suitcases, 

traveled across oceans 

wearing smiles and bell-bottoms,  

ever hopeful. Now we are the age  

our parents were then, older even,  

The pictures made you sad. 

 

I put them back in the closet, 

organized and boxed  

in chronological order, glad 

that we have made it this far 

together, while you sit in your recliner, 

untouched by my small smile. 

We try not to think about 

how time goes by in a whisper 

when we aren’t even listening.

 





 

 

Donna Pucciani, a Chicago-based writer, has published poetry worldwide in Shi Chao Poetry, Poetry Salzburg, Agenda, Gradiva, ParisLitUp and other jourtnals. Her seventh and latest book of poetry is EDGES. 

 

Three Poems by Ray Whitaker

 






ARRAYED 

 

As still as death 

no movement in this dark place 

no chest rise and fall 

no stars, the dark sky belying a spark 

well hidden, as if 

under a thick layer of leaves 

the forest at dusk. 

Sometimes the light finds us 

penetrating, a rare occurrence 

thru the underlayment of darks cold blanket 

and the wolves…  

the wolves, even as spiritual cognizant entities 

arrayed in a fan on the utmost slope 

looking down at us 

show a respect, and gives us our new respect 

not the deference of black fear,  

for our ability to protect ourselves.

 

 

 

FIRE LETTERS 

 

The sounds of bagpipes 

echoing thru the lake mists. 

If there was to be 

a soundtrack  

to this dream 

the universe volunteered it. 

 

This dreamer was dancing around a fire 

dressed as a Native American 

A tall, red R 

stood monolithic in the burn. 

 

The Rstood for rejection 

an action verb 

implication clear 

and the fire burned brightly 

all around the base. 

 

Three brothers in black 

passed by the blaze 

walking in step 

shoes lit up with each footfall, 

 

suddenly stopping the dance, seeing her waving 

as if from a great distance 

like the divide of a deep canyon 

unreachable, untouchable, almost un-seeable, 

across the Deep Divide of dreams.


 

 

TELLING STORIES 

 

She came up from the audience 

after the reading 

obviously engaged  

with the last poem read 

where the wolves were arrayed above 

on the mountaintop. 

She wanted to say it to me. 

Clearly she was still on that piney slope there. 

 

The pen writes what the muse dictates 

engaged with the speed of intuition 

words flow out, they are smarter than I am 

they know where to place themselves 

how to dance with the soft curves of a comma 

standing with the solitary unmoving periods 

with the butterfly flitting of an ellipsis 

and pointing that-a-way with a colon. 

 

It is lightening in the storm, tho 

that one off in the distance 

over there across the red and yellow canyon-lands 

you can see the line of storms moving 

the sky a drama of grey-blue rain showers  

even as the sun sparkles still 

over, closer 

to my vantage point. 

 

 

 

 

Ray Whitaker participates regularly with several zoom poetic events worldwide. Among them, he has been spotlighted on a US National Poetry broadcast from Quintessential Listening Poetry Online Radio In April, ’24; and also an International Poetry Recital hosted by The Fertile Minds out of India this past April.  In July he was the reading featured poet in David Leo Sirois’ Spoken World Online; in August he was one of six poets featured at the CHAUTAUQUA Arts Festival in Palmer Lake, Colorado.  He is Moderator for Michael Lee Johnson’s social media page “My Voice, Your Words—Poetry In Action”, and an Editor on Masticadores Canada Literary Online Journal.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

One Poem by Donna Pucciani

  Nostalgia     We’d dug out the photos   from a closet full of old things,   the boxes vaguely dusty,   and decided to pay attention   to ...