Tag Archives: Poetry

Ann Wachter

Anna Eleanor Roosevelt Roosevelt

The Guest

 

From blood splattered cups to peace without borders,

she came and she went, leaving love in all quarters.

        ~Ann Wachter

 

Home, home swirls like a knot entwined

upon a crab tree trunk, beckoning me to climb,

climb its woody tome, its musky scent

scraping my knees as I grasp branch

after branch, lifting my body upward, unwinding,

fashioning, fashioning home, home’s brief embrace.

 

Bell’s chime above a bridge, a bridge leaving home,

home where crossing’s bent arm blockades

passages’ girth never caressing infancy’s

bay, breaking me against ocean’s waves;

crashing rocks ahead, squeezing my brows tight

like a bull dog’s whimper after facing down terrors,

hoping mental plates hold until beacon’s next light —

never knowing home, home.

 

My childhood home was homeless haven —

Father’s devotion held me steady for a time;

motherless challenges crept about each hideaway’s open door.

Good granny, good aunties welcomed my spirited vigor

but left no lies lying next to my bed.

My parents became the lessons I learned,

reflection’s bequest from all I’d yearned.

 

Each starling day bids me express myself beyond —

natal down plucked away, plucked away

tranquility’s delights.  Slippery shaft — abroad place to abroad

place abroad — I slice headlong, reserving energy

from foundation’s edge — home, home — wing’s consonant

fit, one feather with the other, ceding my flight beyond

cloud’s mist, never beyond home.  Home.  Home.

 

I stand tall, discerning shades of grey;

bleak shadows casting home, home along golden paths, spiraling

spiraling about pillars, pillars of salt wielded upon others’ homes, homes.

 

I manage well caring for downtrodden folks,

warming them with my swaddlings, my swaddlings.

My sinewy form strengthens as I climb home’s spiral stairs;

chiseled boxes — up one, step, up one, step, up one — glowing, white,

clouds absorb my expertly transformed, feathered foils —

fastened with silk threads — never weak, I open my ears and do not peep.

 

Distant cousin’s proposal gathers me — home, home.

One tidbit — one challenging, charming vice;

my new home, my home,

home holds enchantment’s price.

 

Mansion’s masterings abeam Abel Brown’s shanty-like cot;

next my home, home — Val-Kill’s  lodgings, my nest — dancing,

telling stories,  picnics under home’s pines

floating ‘long river’s twines.

 

Glistening meanderings, watery trails cycling home, home;

mingle in pond’s ripplings, trickling salamanders, dragonflies, crickets.

Grasp sextant’s skillful span, angle human right’s merits dangling above cliff’s cure;

give home, home, home to those whose tomb contains evils and horrors hidden deep —

hell revealed to the world after chimney’s sweep.  Battle fear and its alllies —

those that tend hell’s garden with a blow-filled glance;

those hoarding gold coins to purchase contempt — carry me home, home to serve and serve;

knot imbedded in the old tree trunk; my keep’s chattel, my home, my home.

 

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Ann Wachter is an ever-maturing writer of poetry who completed her Bachelor of Arts with John Carroll University, University Heights, Ohio, 1982. She developed her craft by attending Iowa Summer Writing Workshops sponsored by the University of Iowa, Iowa City and plans to embark on her MFA journey. Her publications include Catharsis and Dream from a Steel Beam, circa 2015, Highland Park Poetry Muses Gallery.

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Michael Landsman

The Heremyte’s Preyer

I

Nowthe hit stoode

that alle oure lond

that we doon looken upon with love

dide hyde beneathe the sea;

and alle the nobles of this reaume

dide noot yet seen dawnyng of day.

And alle that tyme, no mannes

had worde nor speche

nor walked upon the lond,

but alle stoode silent and unknowen.

II

And hit ypassed that londe

and mannes bothe dide comen to bee

for Goddes sake,

and alle the names mannes spaken dide preyse

this makyng, thise grete werkes.

So strenge dide they beren Him love

that they coude no thyng doon, noot seyen,

withouten thynken of Hym; so Strenge

as was this love, so goodlich dide mannes alle staye.

III

Yet hit comen to passe and to soone we knowen

that we dide straye and love noot thise Godde and Makyre,

And too soone oure speche, so ful of preyse

and preyer biforn, we fill with lyes

and flaterynge for gayne, and too soone

we dide desteyned  this Goddes’ makynge;

Nowthe oure sorowe comen to laten,

and we lackken herte to maken oure giltes

to brent or bittre; and alle manneskynde

han lost thir wey.

IV

Wote welle whate I do seyne:

this Godde and Makere loves thee well

so must thou Him and His Creation,

for only thus will thou be Strenge inne Goodnesse :

and it is beste to be fore goode

and hate the evylle that we doon

as alle mennes must knowne.

Yete I thinke He will love us

nathelesse, for alle the evylle which we doe,

 if we turne from badde to goode.

IV

I made this song in heremytes cave,

cannot this worlde abyde namoore,

but only lyke litel birdes song

soune in otheres eares,

biforn the lond ones mo

in silence dimmes,

no word, nor speche,

to soune His preyse,

unknowne evermor.

______________________________________________________________

Michael Landsman taught high school English in New York City for most of his career. He’s a NYC native and presently lives in the Bronx. He’s in the final stages of writing his first novel. Mr. Landsman’s short story “The Great Machine” was published in the Scarlet Leaf Review in August 2016, the Indiana Voice Journal in October 2016 and Potluck Mag in December 2016.

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Andrea Wyatt

Mr. Siegal’s Sharpshooters: First Battle

1. 

Mr. Howard arrived during seeding
to exhort the young men of Ripley
to take up arms; he wore wired-rimmed glasses
and city clothes, dusty from his long journey.
He carried a strongbox and a pile of broadsides.

Your country needs you!
Protect the western frontier!
Free uniforms, Free firearms!
Stand up with President Lincoln!
Twenty-five dollars bounty to Enlist!
Cost what it may, Our nation must be saved!

Mr. Howard sat at a makeshift table that Saturday
in front of Jenkin’s Feed Lot,
and Frankie and Louis and I signed up;
Mama cried and said I was too young, I wasn’t to go,
Frankie’s Daddy beat him—who will work the fields, he raged.

Louis, who was an orphan, and lived with Reverend Loomey and his wife,
stood up at Methodist meeting and said he was going to war;
the girls rushed to his side afterwards,
where he stood by the lilacs, and said how brave he was.

My sister Maggie started knitting him socks.
I will be back for you in a fortnight, said Mr. Howard,
meanwhile practice your march, and then he left
on the next stage to Washington.

Weary with dread as daylight looms
behind a stand of American elm,
leafed out, filled with the dawn’s light,
we are preparing for battle

It’s August now, and it’s been a hot summer,
but there’s a breeze this morning,
and as we brush the dirt from our uniforms,
we talk about fishing along the Kanawha.

2/

Captain comes to check our feet.
Make certain there’s no holes, he says,
a soldier can’t fight on sore feet
and have a bite to eat, boys,
a soldier can’t fight without a bit of meat

When the drummer starts to beat, we take our place on line
rifles to the ready, shoulders touching;
three sets of eyes strain to see the firing command,
the bells ring out and firing commences

We take our time to aim and a rhythm overcomes us,
aim, fire, load, aim, fire, load and the air
gets heavy with dust and smoke

My fingers ache, holding the rifle tight,
and grit in our eyes makes it hard to see the enemy
who’ve crouched down low in shallow holes
they’ve dug, and our ears ring from the
din of screams and guns

The drummer carries water to the boys on the line
and once an hour the captain comes by;
we’re holding on, boys he says, we’re holding on,
I believe they are retreating, I believe we’ve got them licked.

It’s closer to dusk than dawn when the battle is done,
and we stretch our sore legs and look around
to see who’s left and see who’s down

The medics hurry into the field with stretchers
to carry the bloody wounded away, we take off our boots and socks
as Frankie begins to sing:

“All quiet along the Potomac tonight,
where the soldiers lie peacefully dreaming,
and their tents in the rays of the clear autumn moon,
and the light of the campfires are gleaming.
A tremulous sigh as the gentle night wind
thro’ the forest leaves slowly is creeping,
while the stars up above, with their glittering eyes,
keep guard o’er the army while sleeping.”

______________________________________________________________

Andrea Wyatt is the author of three poetry collections. Her work has appeared lately in Clackamas, Gargoyle, and Gravel. Wyatt’s poem “Sunday Morning Gingerbread” was nominated for a 2015 Pushcart. She works for the National Park Service in Washington, DC and is associate editor of the poetry journal By&By.

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Nancy Levinson

EMMA LAZARUS

1849-1887

Liberty Enlightening the World

 

I

Think her not a poor refugee   

this modest, proper, gloved woman

of Jewish faith born on American soil. 

And if she wore fame at all,

it hung brief in her shortened life.

Her rise to glory followed only in time

when her poetic words were inscribed

on the Statue of Liberty welcoming

the “wretched refuse” to the shores

of freedom’s land a century and half ago.

 

II

Hers was a privileged life in New York City,   

dressed in upper-class, tutored at home

in classics, piano, and the arts. 

Like well-heeled women of the day,

the cultivated Emma dwelt sheltered from the world. 

Yet how she longed to accomplish

something meaningful, something of importance!

 Who am I? she wondered.  What purpose is mine?

 

III

One day a rabbi brought her to visit

Castle Garden on Ward’s Island, and there

on the tiny isle in New York harbor

where shiploads of weary, bewildered

European immigrants arrived, Emma witnessed   

deep shades of darkness, such as she had never seen

or knew existed.  Culture shock it was later called. 

Amongst the impoverished and the throngs

of her ‘co-religionists’  who’d escaped   

the Russian Czar’s marauding Cossack soldiers,

murdering Jews young and old,

burning their synagogues and villages—

she was profoundly moved.  In short time, too,

she learned how iniquities were spun

of intolerance and hate.

                                                                    

IV

No further need to wistfully ponder

her purpose. Emma found her voice.

She took up her pen, and with growing power

began writing on the human condition – verse,

essays and letters pleading for the refugee cause.

And with ferocity and depth she struck back

at mounting anti-Semitism.

 

V

Slowly a French ship made its way

across the Atlantic, carrying the gargantuan sections

of the statue – four-hundred and fifty tons in all –

designed and built by sculptor Auguste Bartholdi

which he’d called  liberty enlightening the world.

Assembling it was long delayed for lack of funds

needed to build a large, supporting pedestal—

a promise of America in accepting the gift from France.

 

What last efforts might then be made

to raise the coffers? Ah, a few thinking minds

prevailed.  A book!  A book of new poems

by writers of the day.  Auction to the highest bidder.

How pleased was Emma at the invitation

to make a contribution!  With purpose and devotion

she set to penning a poem:  The New Colossus,

ending with the eloquent and oft-recited verse:           

                                             

      Your Huddled masses yearning to breathe free,

      The wretched refuse of your teeming shore.

      Send these, the homeless, tempest-tost to me,

      I lift my lamp beside the golden door!”

 

VI

Yet by serendipity only fifteen years past

the unveiling of the Statue of Liberty [1886]

was her sonnet inscribed on the pedestal.

A New York patron of the arts chanced

upon the small book in a dusty antique shop,

and upon reading The New Colossus

arranged for its inscription.

But Emma lived not to know of her honor.

She had died of lymphoma, aged thirty-eight.

With her own beacon she welcomed

the desolate many to America,

to breathe her nation’s air of freedom.

Once adorned in fashion, then swathed in shroud,

the poetic voice of Emma Lazarus

rang out for all humanity.

______________________________________________________________

Nancy Levinson is the author of MOMENTS OF DAWN: A Poetic Narrative of Love & Family, Affliction & Affirmation, as well as numerous poems and stories that have appeared in publications including Poetica, Confrontation, Survivor’s ReviewDrunk Monkeys, Foliate Oak, and Rat’s Ass ReviewThree essays have appeared in anthologies, one of which garnered a Pushcart nomination.  Nancy lives in Los Angeles.
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Kika Dorsey

Hunger

Austria, 1946

 

I’m hungry all the time.

We forage in the Alps for mushrooms and elderberry blossoms

that we dip in cornmeal and fry from the butter

of a neighbor’s cow.

The oak and beech disappear as I climb

further to fir, larch, and pine.

I pick edelweiss and arnica

to set in the blue glass vase on our table.

We eat the polenta with what we have gathered,

and Mutti is always angry,

Vati a traveling tailor and never around,

hungry stepchildren.

 

Once we accidentally ate poisonous mushrooms.

I knew something was wrong when the August light

turned orange and from the faces of Russian soldiers

emerged black beetles,

and my brother lay holding his stomach and vomiting.

 

My stomach is full of knives.

It is an empty cavern, a cave

where my dead mother dwells below budding breasts.

 

Sometimes I want to cross the River Mur

and never return.

Sometimes the river roils in my body

and I pull the sun into me.

Sometimes I see a golden eagle on the elm tree.

 

He looks royal,

as if he’s won a war.

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Kika Dorsey is a poet and English instructor from Boulder, Colorado. She has published in numerous journals, including the Columbia Review, KYSO Flash, The Denver Quarterly. She has two books published, Beside Herself (Flutter Press, 2010) and Rust (Word Tech Editions, 2016). She is currently working on a manuscript about post-WW2 Austria inspired by stories from her Austrian mother. When not writing, teaching, and raising her teenage children, she runs and hikes in the mountains and plains of her Colorado home.

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Daniel W. Galef

Dagobert to Childebert

 

Poor King! Knew ye strength stems from God alone?

For even Hercules or Samson falters.

I, blood of Merovech, served foreign altars

Since your father stole my locks and throne.

Was I as blind as Samson, too? Perhaps

I thought my power, robbed, lay in my tresses.

In fact, the crown itself, a Robe of Nessus,

Means nothing by the mayors’ pointed caps.

A king is born to rule. So has it stood

Since first the Lord saw fit kings to ordain.

Had I the might of Samson, then I could

Topple Grimoald’s palace round his head;

Instead, I’ll sit and serve my meager reign,

Till those who rule decide I’m better dead.

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Daniel W. Galef has published poetry in Measure, Light Quarterly, and the Lyric, among others. He has also written short fiction, sketch comedy, science & technology journalism, and two musical plays, one of which won the First Prize at the 2016 McGill Drama Festival and the Krivy Award for Excellence in Playwriting. This poem is part of a series of “Imaginary Sonnets” modeled on those composed by Lee-Hamilton in 1888 in his collection of the same title–persona poems that function as verse soliloquies in the voice of literary and historical characters.

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Franklin Gillette

The Course of Empire

Based on the paintings of Thomas Cole in the New York Historical Society

 

I. SAVAGE STATE

 

The metropolis builds giant oaks

hovering over commuting streams of ants.

Owls, hawks and eagles glide like planes

delivering express cargo of field mice

and besieged rabbits to penthouse holes.

 

No maps exist except for inborn instincts.

There are no suburbs, city or county lines,

yet property rights are closely marked by scent.

Rain and wind—the only tax collectors

balance as does the census never taken.

 

II. PASTORAL STATE

 

Clothing ourselves we forget ourselves —

our shapes confuse in bags of drapery.

Even campfire smoke has docile harmony.

The clouds have settled.  The Shepard with his stick

walks flocks back plushy planted lawns.

 

All spring and fall they labor on the farm

hoping weather will not wreak their work.

Eden, where, they didn’t have to work,

is lost, its fruit of knowledge only taught

them to think their own nakedness.

 

III. CONSUMMATION OF EMPIRE

 

Here art replaces nature, policy

replaces instinct or intuition,

marble pillars replace trunks of trees,

rocks are cut to roads replacing fields,

and human beings become domesticated slaves.

 

On other species one species imposes,

and a small circle dominates that species

while rulers worship statues of the gods

or on silk, reclining in their palaces,

bored from building, pass time counting coins.

 

IV. DESTRUCTION

 

Pushed by hunger, ambition and revenge

invaders eye a populous draped in silk,

seeking weakness they find decadence,

cowardly leaders, whimsical gaggling mobs

only vigilant on topics tickling the brain.

 

The beautiful city waits too long… bewildered

the headless marble hero charges his sword…

escape boats burn… sink…. bridges collapse;

witnesses of the attack alert the outskirts

which chuckle: “how could our empire fall?”

 

V. DESOLATION

 

They die.  Only the shattered pieces remain

to sink into the earth.  Thousands of years

go by.  A farmer’s or sheepherder’s child

with his friend, or amateur explorers,

or drillers find a broken piece of bronze.

 

Archeologists flying to the site

dig deeper finding the pattern of the streets

which we follow on the TV News,

the ancient capitol once thought a myth

ships to museums in our current empire.

______________________________________________________________

Franklin Gillette won the Starr Symposium Poetry Contest and his work has appeared in Poetry East, Light Quarterly and many other magazines. He is also an opera librettist, a painter and a spiritual teacher.

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The Bamberger & Wahrmann Antiquariat Bookshop 

By Maya Wahrman

By now in Germany

rare books were so unwanted you could buy a sack

for only a shilling. So downtown Jerusalem

was bookshops bustling

with treasures of the written word

from the exile-land. Men of faith, famous authors,

 

many frequented his store, mingled among

the bookshelves, set out to explore

the words he owned and printed. Vanilla,

must, tan wood-based pages, bound.

The aroma made a man want books

with his tongue. Some men

 

found books they’d always wanted,

some wanted books they’d just found.

One customer fingered spines as he muttered prayer

under his breath. Rebuild our city Jerusalem,

please, hurry! It was 1939,

Jerusalem was being rebuilt in our time,

 

the storeowner’s home back in Frankfurt

was torn apart.

In the store,

men from all over the city would start

reliving, would meet Jews who seemed

foreign, would accustom themselves

to the desert dry heat of the Judean hills.

 

No longer reliving, now living.

He died. Store shut, past-life books

became harder to find.

But men said and wrote,

the city was never the same

when the doors closed.

______________________________________________________________

Maya Wahrman graduated from Princeton University’s Department of History, with certificates in Creative Writing and Near Eastern Studies.  She currently works at Princeton’s Office of Religious Life on issues of faith and forced migration. She has had opinion pieces published in the English and Hebrew editions of Haaretz, and has had poetry published in the Nassau Literary Review, the Jewish Currents poetry anthology Urge, and Sweet Tree Review.

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From an Open Window

By Ashley Kauffman

From an open window,

I saw a sea of people lined up to greet us.

 

They moved closer as we exited the plane,

Like waves that were anxious to touch the shore.

 

I wore the pale pink suit,

That he loved so much.

 

I graciously accepted the red roses,

As we greeted people on our way to the limousine.

 

His presence projected a beacon of hope,

That made people feel secure,

And somehow gave them a sense of direction.

 

Massive crowds just wanted to snap a picture,

Or reach out and touch his hand.

 

American flags were strung uniformly across the streets,

Providing a gentle reminder of all we had to be thankful for.

 

We drove through Dealey Plaza,

As we headed toward the Trade Mart.

 

It was November 22, 1963,

My first public appearance since I lost the baby.

 

I felt a sense of closeness to him,

That sometimes was hard to feel,

Because of the current,

That pulled him in so many different directions.

 

I smiled and waved,

As my pink pillbox hat,

Remained securely on my head.

 

From an open window,

Shots were fired,

And my life would never be the same.

______________________________________________________________

Ashley Kauffman is from Carlisle, Pennsylvania, and is employed as a teacher with the Mechanicsburg Learning Center. She has enjoyed writing since she used her imagination to bring her first story to life in second grade. Ashley received her B.A. in English, and is currently working to obtain her M.A. in Children’s Literature through Penn State University. She is an avid collector of vinyl records, Golden Books, and vintage typewriters. Ashley is legally blind and considers herself to be a differently-abled person who has spent her life envisioning the world with the turn of each page.

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Eve Brackenbury

Forgive Me, Mother. My Heart is Blue.

 

My Dearest Mother, forgive me,

for today I stood before God

and swore loyalty to mine enemy.

My sons and husband are dead,

and I am asked to bury my hatred.

I have done so and I have begged

that I might return home to you.

 

Forgive me, Mother,

my heart has turned cold and Blue.

What was not burned has been picked at

by packs of wild dogs. Full of mange,

full of rage and madness, they took over

looting  after Ewing’s dogs left.

And now these dreaded dogs,

they plunder our fields for bones.

 

The murderous rage of those bent on abolishing

all we had has taken all from me!

 

I returned to what has been called a vast cemetery.

It seems to me a generous assessment,

for even our graves were turned out.

Snow and ash cover what few stones remain,

a Grey reminder. And in that respect,

a vast cemetery indeed.

 

Mother, I beg for your forgiveness,

for I buried your Bible next to your bones,

thinking you might keep it safe.

And the silver comb Father brought back

from the old country to give to his bride.

I knew not what else to do;

we were given only a fortnight to flee.

We have been punished for our honor,

most severely and without mercy.

 

Mother, forgive me if you can find it in your heart,

for I have chosen to marry a Union man.

He carries a Bible close to his breast

and has offered absolution for my sins.

His very dog he pledged to me for protection.

A silver comb, his bridal gift to me.

* * * * *

 

An historical footnote about The American Civil War’s General Order No. 11:

This poem is about a fictional woman who suffered during a very real and very devastating consequence of the Border Wars between Kansas and Missouri during the Civil War. Brig. Gen. Thomas J. Ewing, commander of the District of the Border issued the infamous General Order No. 11 on August 25th, 1863. It was in direct response to the raid on Lawrence on August 21st, 1863. In the order, Ewing banished the citizens from in the border counties—Jackson, Cass, and Bates Counties and part of Vernon County in Missouri . It was assumed the citizens, most likely so, in these counties gave support to the guerrillas. Those who swore allegiance to the Union were exempt from the order. Yet, loyal or disloyal, the citizenry suffered under a ruthless execution of revenge. Buildings and homes were burned, livestock and possessions were taken, people were murdered even while trying to evacuate and follow the order. Many buried what possessions they couldn’t take with them and later returned to find them dug up and burned. The land was completely desecrated. The area became a wasteland. It is estimated that 25,000 people were displaced.  In January of 1864, those who swore loyalty to the Union were allowed to return. Two years later, a minister named George Miller returned to the area and noted, “For miles and miles we saw nothing but lone chimneys. It seemed like a vast cemetery — not a living thing to break the silence … Man no longer existed here.”

______________________________________________________________

Eve Brackenbury, Missouri bookseller, poet, and history interpreter. Author of A Companion of Lesser Brilliance(with Paul McGlamery), The Lennox Garden: Pressed Between Pages (with Phillip King), and Shadowed Grounds: Poems. Also, published in two weighty anthologies, and a smattering of journals, etc. Although much of her work is found in print, she prefers spending time with her audience. She’s a frequent guest and host for poetry readings and public speaking engagements.

“Forgive Me, Mother. My Heart is Blue” was originally written for the Blue Springs Historical Society, and performed for a 2013 commemoration of the 150th anniversary of General Order No. 11. It is published in Shadowed Grounds: Poems, a self-published chapbook.

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