Five Poems by Cynthia Bernard

 

In the Laundry Room                      

 

Prop you up in a wicker basket,

hand you a chrome tea-ball on a chain,

sing along with “Sugar Magnolia”

and do the diaper folding dance.

 

Hand you a chrome tea-ball on a chain,

you bobble it, spit-shining-wet,

watch my diaper folding dance;

the dryer vibrates, v-vroo v-vroo.

 

You bobble it, spit-shining-wet,

blue-white bubble of mommy-milk;

the washer cycles, gl-gloo gl-gloo,

brown eyes dancing wide.

 

Blue-white bubble of mommy-milk

grows then shrinks on the beat.

Pecan eyes smiling wide,

gold-flecked just like mine

 

Bubbles kept time with the beat.

Where have they gone?

Gold-flecked, you were mine,

my laundry room companion—

 

Where have you gone?

What props you up now?

My laundry room companion,

what do you bobble and toss?

 

Who props you up now?

One diagnosis, then another

for you to bobble and toss,

each another bungee cord.

 

One psych eval, then another

pull you into a basket far away.

Yet another bungee cord…

Do you sing, my Sugar Magnolia?

 

Intersection

 

We wait for the light to change.

 

Cars spew

brake lights flare

drivers glare at

the still-red light.                                              

 

We met here

for the first time.

We come back

to walk.

 

The light changes. We cross.

 

The trail atop the cliff

is solid on the traffic side

crumbling away

on the ocean side.

Only a few morsels today

but after a storm

raggedy chunks of cliffside

break free and tumble down

offering themselves

to be pounded

over and over

into sand

welcoming the waves

as the ocean goes on

always goes on

long after

our walk is over

long after the trail

and the traffic light

are gone.

 

 

Daddy

 

When my therapist said you were a terrible father, you flared up within me and almost cascaded out of my mouth… Most of the time now, I’m not scurrying around looking for dimly-lit corners where I can hang out with my back to the wall. Most of the time now, I’m not juggling sarcastic come-backs, not throwing I’ll-get-you-first daggers, not spinning recluse spider webs around myself, not feeling obliged to hide—to be ashamed and hide, hide my wrongness, hide the mystery: What the hell is defective about me anyway?

Still sometimes the fault lines crack open, strobe lights flash, and I remember you looking at me as if you opened up a long-lost Tupperware from the back of the fridge and saw something disgusting… And, Daddy, when you came home from work, when you walked through the door, I had to look into the Tupperware of you: Were you festering, slimy? Rancid? So many times I knew, I knew—I would be hit that night—chased and hit, pounded on with your hand and your belt and your words. Any excuse would do.

 

In my kitchen at midnight

 

I’m making myself sick

with what if and why not

and who-does-she-think-she-is.

 

Run through, rewind, repeat—

stuck.

 

Turn to put the kettle on for tea

and notice

the foghorn’s perpetual lament

and its seasonal counterpoint,

sea lions voicing their complaints.

.

The leaves of the prayer plant

are clasped in their nightly devotion,

bananas in the shallow white bowl

display just a few brown spots,

perfect for slicing into oatmeal tomorrow,

and from upstairs, snoring,

soft, then not-so-soft, then soft again.

 

Breathe

and breathe some more, slowly,

down and down

all the way into my feet.

 

Sit down.

Sip green tea blended with ginger.

 

Erase the tape.

Record something new.

 

In my kitchen at midnight

I’m making, as always,

a life.

 

 

Fault Lines

 

Did you put on the kettle, Mom,

stir up a cup of Folgers Instant,

add some nonfat milk                                    

and the powder

from a little pink packet?

 

Did you sit at the kitchen table

in the squeaky yellow chair

with chrome tepee legs,

light up a Winston,                 

and shake your head

while he pounded me

with caustic words

and his old brown belt

with the brass buckle?

 

Did you memorize what he said

as it slammed through the house       

so you could spit it back in his face

later, when you told him

it was all his fault?

 

And did you carefully note

what I said or didn’t say

did or didn’t do          

so afterwards                                                 

you could justify telling me

it was all my fault

too?

Cynthia Bernard is a woman in her late sixties who is finding her voice as a poet after many years of silence. A long-time classroom teacher and a spiritual mentor, she lives and writes on a hill overlooking the ocean, about 25 miles south of San Francisco. Her work appears in Multiplicity Magazine, Heimat Review, The Beatnik Cowboy, The Journal of Radical Wonder, Spillwords, Passager, The Bluebird Word, Persimmon Tree, Verse-Virtual, and elsewhere.

 

Five Poems by Wendy Webb

 

Strange Meeting

Sat in Pret a Manger

collapsible cup containing half-priced coffee (70p)

flipped open poetry book

time to kill (a bird, not Russian invasion)

Creative Café at Theatre, later

Royally seated – no stairs, no travellers –

elderly gent beside himself

myself/herself/theirself, refuelling…

friendly nostalgia of 94 years:

Cockney born and bred

joined Navy at 16

Shakespeare; Chaucer

Pearly Kings and Queens

Norwich his nowhere place

Retired, apartment in city

activities on doorstep daily

Mid-flow his lady returned

chatting for old England.

Scribbled words, spark, poetry, joy

Writing poetry, are you?

Verse poured out his mouth,

a Tsunami.

Learned at school?

Oh, no. It’s mine.

Creative class awaits no poet…

I did not catch his name.

 

Bee Sparking ashes

It’s Winter Solstice, nothing’s pushing

through the sod, irritating human spirits into pearls

snowdrops stay in bed all year.

Crocus crowns in gold or white or purple

to Candlemas Saint Valentine by heart

            simply waiting time.

Spring Equinox, Narcissi-fresh, lightening sky

pooled idiots admire reflections

many cousin shades of blossom.

Tulip season, jewels breed a crown

human parties spread like wakes

            time to dance.

Beltane flags hoisted, roots spread damp mud

Oriental poppies on strike, Californian wilds breed

            feral orange seeds to earth.

Summer Solstice greens rage on

Delphiniums dahlias, begonias sulk

            Seeds setting, nights draw round.

Samhain preys late Autumn delights

sedums, agapanthus, asters, chrysanths

            hide absences in perennial beds.

Winter Solstice hurries to closure

naked ladies, pyrocantha berries, thorns

            mandrake falls.

Sleep winter warm in vivid hues of stars

full moon, root Yggdrasil’s tree upside-down

Strike Yule flame; spark Phoenix bees from ashes.

 

June’s Cold (Pantoum) 

 

Cold fields are waving likely riotous breeze,

raising vigorous green shoots of barley play,

sounding shimmered glories of summer trees

startling the blackbird of a fresh new day.

 

Raising vigorous green shoots of barley play,

vast fields of wheat all poppy-army bright,

startling the blackbird of a fresh new day.

Mud-grizzled sky releases little light.

 

Vast fields of wheat all poppy-army bright,

café’s Routemaster bus too far to walk.

Mud-grizzled sky releases little light,

I scribble and can only talk the talk.

 

Café’s Routemaster bus too far to walk

hunkered in Swardeston’s churchyard: sun beams through.

I scribble and can only talk the talk:

there’s one who walks the walk, has much to do.

 

Hunkered in Swardeston’s churchyard, sun beams through,

my love/my life ploughs on to find the car.

There’s one who walks the walk, has much to do;

a ‘waiting rescue’ lunch, dream fields afar.

 

My love/my life ploughs on to find the car,

sounding shimmered glories of summer trees.

Awaiting rescue, lunch, dream fields afar,

cold fields are waving likely riotous breeze.

 

Bringing Woodland Indoors/Out (Pantoum) 

 

The sun is shining as it did before,

violent storm’s outrageous dark shored in.

Moon’s left there, without woman to adore,

this howling gale will not raw-peal its skin.

 

Violent storm’s outrageous dark shored in,

wild birds are flitting through the skies like peace.

This howling gale will not raw-peal its skin,

scraped up from dirty bowls that never cease.

 

Wild birds are flitting through the skies like peace,

as yesterday’s old newsprint in the bog.

Scraped up from dirty bowls that never cease

float-floral breeding woodland-tripping log.

 

As yesterdays, old newsprint in the bog,

still papier mâché sculpted into fox.

Float-floral breeding woodland-tripping log,

with vixen/cubs that dreaming soon unlocks.

 

Still papier mâché sculpted into fox,

framed on the windowsill, leads inside/out

with vixen/cubs that dreaming soon unlocks

for memories of moments’ roundabout.

 

Framed on the windowsill (leads inside, out),

moon’s left there without woman to adore

for memories of moments round-about.

The sun is shining as it did before.

 

Sailing into the Storm (Pantoum)

You say that you can’t speak, it’s early, yet

the outboard is attached, the anchor raised.

Latterly, no mobile phone horizons;

supplies are stashed below deck; motor out,

 

The outboard is attached, the anchor raised;

fenders are lifted, placed, crew motor past.

Supplies are stashed below deck. Motor out

into the wide slack river’s open flow.

 

Fenders are lifted, placed. Crew motor past

the riverbank where there’s no signal. Log

into the wide slack river’s open flow.

Drifting, the tide timetable’s skimmed aloud.

 

The riverbank, where there’s no signal/log,

marine craft all at sea; tourists sleep on.

Drifting, the tide timetable’s skimmed aloud;

raising mainsail, ropes tied; flapping wildly.

 

Marine craft all at sea, tourists sleep on,

the bow’s rolled into wind, the jib rope taut.

Raising mainsail (ropes tied), flapping wildly,

reefed in, the ready-about’s… exciting!

 

The bow’s rolled into wind, the jib rope taut,

tacking, then a long reach – leap – downriver.

Reefed in, the ready- about’s             exciting!

No time for mobiles. Concentration’s all.

 

Tacking, then a long reach leap downriver…

moored up beside the windmill’s peaceful dream.

No time for mobiles, concentration’s all,

the red/green channel markers narrow choice.

 

Moored up beside the windmills - peaceful dream –

wild water’s broad and grounded, skimmed to wait.

The red/green channel markers’ narrow choice.

Bridge is lifted. Surge, hold back. Stern visage.

 

Wild water’s broad (and grounded), skimmed to wait,

controlled wild horses, estuaries of holes.

Bridge is lifted, surge. Hold back stern visage;

we say that we can’t speak, it’s getting late.

 

Controlled wild horses, estuaries of holes?

Too late to raise the storm jib, reef in tighter.

We say that we can’t speak    it’s getting late,

you’re skipper on your own now night breaks through.

 

Too late to raise the storm jib, reef in tighter;

latterly, no mobile phone horizons.

You’re skipper, on your own now night breaks through:

you say that you can’t speak, it’s early yet.

Wendy Webb: Born in the Midlands, home and family life in Norfolk. She edited Star Tips poetry magazine 2001-2021. Published in Indigo Dreams, Quantum Leap, Crystal, Envoi, Seventh Quarry, The Journal, The Frogmore Papers) and online (Littoral Magazine, Autumn Voices, Wildfire Words, Lothlorien, Meek Colin, Atlantean), she was placed First in Writing Magazine’s pantoum poetry competition. She devised new poetry forms (Davidian, Magi, Palindromedary); wrote her father’s biography, ‘Bevin Boy’, and her own autobiography, ‘Whose Name Was Wit in Waterr’ (title inspired by Keats’ grave in Rome). She has attempted many traditional forms and free verse. Favourite poets: Dylan Thomas, Gerard Manley Hopkins, John Burnside, John Betjeman, the Romantic Poets (especially Wordsworth), George Herbert, William Blake, Emily Dickinson, Mary Webb, Norman Bissett, William Shakespeare, the Bible, and the Rubaiyat of Omar Khayyam.Current poetry collection: LOVE’S FLORELOQUENCE, Wendy Ann Webb, Amazon.co.uk. (July 2023 link)Love's Floreloquence: Amazon.co.uk: Webb, Wendy Ann, Meek, CT, Meek: 9798850867003: Books

One Shakespearean Sonnet & Ten Pantoum Poems by Gary Bills

 

BALDUR 

 

Baldur Crowned with Fire, the golden one 

In Hell’s repose, the green spear in his heart; 

Baldur, once as radiant as the sun, 

Is chained with shadows - slain by Loki's dart. 

The mistletoe, too small and frail to hurt, 

Was barb-enchanted - aimed by sightless eyes; 

Oh, weep for Baldur - blood has stained the dirt; 

The sun has lost its lustre in our skies. 

Gather, all you creatures of the earth 

And chant your strong entreaties to the night; 

You grizzled wolves - grey choirs of death and birth, 

Call him from the darkness to the light, 

You gentler souls alike must call his name; 

The keening hare, the goldcrest crowned with flame. 

 

SILLY, BEAUTIFUL THINGS

 

The summer’s ghosts – they've not gone far,

The silly, beautiful things,

Peering from a honey jar

Or spinning down with leaves on broken wings -

 

Those silly, beautiful things,

Who play at peek-a boo with golden time

Then spindrift down with leaves, on broken wings,

Even as the chill winds gust and whine.

 

Peek-a-boo with golden time -

Then sad for flowers pressed inside a frame,

Even as the chill winds gust and whine

Or whisper of a half-remembered name.    

 

Sad for flowers pressed inside a frame,  

Those silly, beautiful things - 

Who whisper for a half-remembered name, 

When spinning - spinning down, on broken wings.  

 

 

UNEASE

 

The wind dies, with a green twig in its throat;

The dry leaves stir and rattle - 

autumn’s near...

Dying, as the watchful shadows gloat,

Before the whirl and turning of the year.

 

The dry leaves stir and rattle – 

autumn's near...

Come May, come June, the green leaves roar and sway,

But near the whirl and turning of the year,

Those shimmering, filmic flags have had their day.

 

Come May, come June, the green leaves roar and sway -  

The heady wind, adventurous in its range...

But shimmering, filmic flags have had their day,  

And more disturbing now, this creeping change.

 

The heady wind, once boundless in its range,

Has left the tree-tops brooding – 

autumn's near...

And more disturbing now, this creeping change,

Before the whirl and turning of the year.     

 

 

OCTOBER FLIGHT

 

Swallows left us, in their subtle way. 

Of course, the autumn gestured and they fled, 

But no one I know claims to know the day; 

Who watched them go, excited, overhead? 

 

Of course, the autumn gestured and they fled 

Before the mists and tractors stubble-turning; 

Who watched them go, excited, overhead, 

Who saw the last - the heart oppressed with yearning? 

 

Before the mists and tractors stubble-turning, 

They left a telling silence on the wires; 

Who saw the last - the heart oppressed with yearning, 

And filled the sky with wings of old desires? 

 

They left a telling silence on the wires.

Swallows left us, in their subtle way 

And filled the sky with wings of old desires, 

But no one I know claims to know the day. 

 

SWARMIES  

  

Here, men fought a battle, long ago;  

The crows came then, or ravens; can’t say which.  

A skirmish, really - why? We cannot know,   

But there are graves, between the hill and ditch.  

  

The crows came then, or ravens; can’t say which.  

They say a glut of swarmies had their fill,  

Yes, there are graves, between the hill and ditch,  

And now the swarmies wait, expectant still.  

  

They say a glut of swarmies had their fill  

Regardless of a dying twitch or two,  

And now the swarmies wait, expectant still;  

In crooked trees, they take the patient view.  

  

Regardless of a dying twitch or two,  

The crows came then, or ravens; can’t say which.  

In crooked trees, they take the patient view,  

For there are graves, between the hill and ditch. 

WINTER JOURNEY  

  

Brutal Winter, put your fists away –  

You’ve beaten me, and this is how you rule.  

The open fields are dead with frost today,  

The world is made anew. The world is cruel.  

  

You’ve beaten me. I comprehend your rule.  

The birds are shrill and frightened in the trees.  

The world is made anew. The world is cruel  

And there is bitter anguish on the breeze.  

  

The birds are shrill and frightened in the trees.  

The sun is just a photograph of light  

And there is bitter anguish on the breeze  

Because no warmth has followed freezing night.  

  

The sun is just a photograph of light –  

Exposed too soon and judged for what it’s worth.   

Because no warmth has followed freezing night,  

It has no right to rise above the earth.   

WINTER MOSAIC: Chedworth Roman Villa

 

Old Winter comes with twig and hare, 

The twig for warmth, the hare for food 

When all the trees are bones and bare 

And northern winds blow rough and rude. 

 

The twig for warmth, the hare for food - 

Old Winter’s set in stone or glass 

As northern winds blow rough and rude; 

We cannot guess his name, alas! 

 

Old Winter, set in stone or glass - 

A different winter – different name... 

We cannot guess his name, alas! 

The season now is not the same. 

 

A different winter – different name - 

Old Winter comes with twig and hare; 

The season now is not the same, 

Though all the trees are bones and bare.   

MARKERS

 

Here I stand, among these leaning stones, 

Reminders of the way that Time can save, 

Becoming stone myself, with aching bones, 

I am the leaning tombstone and my grave. 

 

Reminders of the way that Time can save, 

The tombstones cast their shadows where I pause, 

I am the leaning tombstone and my grave, 

Subjected to the grave eternal laws. 

 

The tombstones cast their shadows where I pause, 

Becoming stone myself, by small degrees 

Subjected to the grave eternal laws 

And threatened by the hands of gust or breeze. 

 

Becoming stone myself, by small degrees, 

My stillness is the gift of aches and pains;  

I’m threatened by the hands of gust or breeze, 

While epitaphs dissolve in winter rains. 

 

 

FOGGY CHRISTMAS

 

Christmas Day – I wake to fog and dark, 

A rich, still fog that seems to still the earth, 

And no Rococo angel’s warbling, “Hark!” 

Between faint cries that lead us to His birth. 

 

A rich, still fog that seems to still the earth,  

As untrod virgin snow is said to do… 

Between faint cries that lead us to His birth, 

The gnawing sense that nothing is made new. 

 

As untrod virgin snow is said to do, 

The fog ensures that beast and bird keep schtum; 

The gnawing sense that nothing is made new, 

The pathos that a myth’s last day has come? 

 

 

The fog ensures that beast and bird keep schtum, 

But now, a starting car, a barking dog… 

The pathos that a myth’s last day has come, 

 Or suburbs being suburbs, in the fog. 

 

 

SOLSTICE BALEFIRES

 

It’s time to build the beacons – build them high -

No promise that the weak Sun will return,

But balefires set a flicker in the eye,

So build the beacons high and let them burn.

 

No promise that the weak Sun will return;

Strange gods, strange demons wait to eat the Sun,

But build the beacons high and let them burn;

Send sparks to where the frightened planets run. 

 

Strange gods, strange demons wait to eat the Sun,

With cinders on their tongues from every flame,

Out there – out there, where frightened planets run,

The Sun may lose himself and hide in shame.

 

But tongues can sing the blessings of the flame -

It’s time to build our beacons – build them high;

The frightened Sun will lose himself in shame,

Unless the balefire flickers in his eye.

Gary Bills was born at Wordsley, near Stourbridge. He took his first degree at Durham University, where he studied English, and he has subsequently worked as a journalist. He is currently the fiction editor for Poetry on the Lake, and he has recently gained his MA in Creative Writing at BCU, with a distinction.

He has been nominated for a Pushcart Prize for his post-modernist epic poem, Bredbeddle's Well, which was published  in Lothlorien in 2022.

Gary's poetry has appeared in numerous publications, including The Guardian, Magma, HQ and Acumen, and he has had three full collections published, – “The Echo and the Breath” (Peterloo Poets, 2001); “The Ridiculous Nests of the Heart” (bluechrome, 2003); and “Laws for Honey” (erbacce 2020). In 2005, he edited “The Review of Contemporary Poetry”, for bluechrome.

His work has been translated in to German, Romanian and Italian. A US-based indie publisher, The Little French, published his first novel, “A Letter for Alice” in 2019, and a collection of stories, “Bizarre Fables”, in 2021. These were illustrated by his wife, Heather E. Geddes. His second novel, "Sleep not my Wanton", came out in January 2022.

"Sleep Not..." is due out again shortly as an audio book, as possibly as a hardback.