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Tag: poetry

Interior, Blue

Interior, Blue A woman sits in a room alone at a table. Not a table with food or a table with work. A table that gleams faintly in the sunbeam that comes from the far window. Her eye traces the grain of the wood where the light makes it gleam and...

The Day’s Catch

The Day’s Catch by John Neville Day’s Catch If I were a bird flying above  If I were a bird watching the waves ripple like a girl’s hair that falls over her shoulders blue and black and silver in regular ripples thick and thin— If I was a bird...

Invocation

Invocation –for Kyra The open window admits the last light of a long summer day. No breath of breeze stirs the curtain’s gauze. All is still but sounds creep in, cars and children cicadas and leafblowers like roaring lions. Gold limns the...

Afternoon Respite

Afternoon Respite July afternoons blaze gold and bright like the glow of her favorite gown. Not a breeze to break the baking heat in her dusty garden She retreats to the cool green bank of the sofa to dip her tired brain into the brisk stream of a...

Motherland by Sally Thomas

Last month– is it already last month?– I had the privilege of listening to a poetry reading by my friend Sally Thomas, whose new collection, Motherland has just been launched. While this crazy pandemic time of social isolation is a hard...

The Echo

The rose-gold world resounds with end of day gladness. The sky stretched like a canvas waiting to be filled with calling birds winging home to their roosts. The grass’s green glimmers with gilt while sentinel trees have darkened their cloaks...

Motherhood

Motherhood The way the mother’s fingers lift and squish her breast to help the baby latch. The way the baby’s hand clutches his mother’s finger as he nurses. The way the baby’s eye looks up, trustingly, at his mother’s face. The way the mother looks...

Visitation

Visitation

 When Mary stepped into the house a strong wind came with her lifting the red ribbons that Elizabeth had hung near the door to catch the breeze and delight the eye. They hung about her head like dancing flames, like a crown of fire, and...

Mother and Child

Mother and Child 
I
 In the red cradle she is finally asleep— innocent, serene— as if she’s always been. The hand clutching the cradle tells a different story, resting, limp, protective, above the upturned head.
 The baby now quiet, 
mother has...

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