Category Archives: Poetry

John W. Steele

War Elephant —after Akbar Viewing a Wild Elephant Captured near Malwa in 1564

Hind legs bound and tied to tree, you stand
there poised, ears back, trunk coiled. Captive,
yet you stand with such fierce dignity,
stamping the earth with your tremendous foot.
You tower high above the emperor, 
seated there upon his prancing horse,
spear held aloft, as if to fend you off.
A horde of captors stands there holding spears. 
How dare they do this to you, noble beast?
You gaze at them with such deep, steady eyes. 
Do they not know you mean no harm?   
Two other elephants walk by, subdued,
content to let mahouts ride on their backs.

Descendant of the ten-tusked Airavata, 
who sucks up water from the underworld, 
sprays it into clouds, and rides upon
the skies with Thunderous-Indra on his back,
you will lead the charge of Akbar’s troops 
with iron-spiked tusks, ears splayed wide, 
whip-like trunk adorned with chains and balls.

Remember Alexander’s soldiers trembling 
at the sight of Persian elephants? They saw 
a war machine like none they’d seen before.
They didn’t know how gentle and compassionate 
you can be. Their solemn sacrifice 
before the God of Fear the night before 
the battle may have helped them win, but your 
outstanding show of force led Alexander 
to enlist you in his army. Remember 
when the Nanda Empire deployed six thousand
of your kind? That’s why Alexander
halted his advance to India, and stationed 
hundreds of elephants to guard his palace. 
Remember how you helped King Pyrrhus rout
the Romans, then helped the Romans conquer Britain? 
How many of your kind died crossing the Alps 
with Hannibal? When he got you drunk
and whipped you to a frenzy, remember those
iron-clad Roman soldiers, how they fled? 

When Yemeni Christian soldiers marched on Mecca, 
is it true the noble elephant, Mahmud, 
who led the team of elephants, refused 
to enter the city, thus saving the holy Ka’bah?

When you face extinction at the hands
of those you died for, will you not fight back?
Why not call on Lightning-Wielding Indra 
to descend on Ten-Tusked Airavata’s back,
thunderbolt the poachers’ helicopters 
and bring them crashing blood-stained to the ground?

__________________________________________________________________________

John W. Steele is a psychologist, yoga teacher, assistant editor of Think: A Journal of Poetry, Fiction and Essays, and graduate of the MFA Poetry Program at Western Colorado University, where he studied with Julie Kane, Ernest Hilbert and David Rothman. His poetry has appeared or is forthcoming in Amethyst Review, Boulder Weekly, Blue Unicorn, IthacaLit, The Lyric, Mountains Talking, The Orchards, Society of Classical Poets, Urthona Journal of Buddhism and the Arts, and Verse-Virtual. He was nominated for a 2017 Pushcart prize, won The Lyric’s 2017 Fall Quarterly Award, and was awarded Special Recognition in the 2019 Helen Schaible International Sonnet Contest. His book reviews have appeared in Cha: An Asian Literary Journal, and Raintown Review.

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bg Thurston

The Lost Boy—

            Winfield Scott Weeks (1847-1856)

watches from the front window,
murmurs as he strokes the ears
of his smooth collie, who thumps
her long tail, hoping for a walk.

The rooms are empty, the hearth
cold and quiet, but he remembers
his mother singing as she stirred
the iron kettle and kneaded bread.

He had held his father’s last hope
along with his mother’s heart.
But when he died, his family
took their grief and moved away.

He never met his younger brother,
Frederick, orphaned at five years,
who grew to work in the wool trade
then started his own shoddy mill.

His sisters assumed other names,
married, had their own children.
Now they lie next to husbands
in graves far from this old farm.

Across the road, the sky glows
reddish orange as the sun sets
past the hayfield where Jersey cows
are lined up at the milk barn gate.

He hears his mother’s distant calls
but he is not ready to join her.
Some souls stay tethered to a place—
for him, this home is heaven enough.

______________________________________________________________________________

After a career in high-tech, bg Thurston now lives on a sheep farm in Warwick, Massachusetts. In 2002, she received an MFA in Poetry from Vermont College. She has taught poetry at Lasalle College, online at Vermont College, and currently teaches poetry workshops.

Her first book, Saving the Lamb, by Finishing Line Press was a Massachusetts Book Awards highly recommended reading choice. Her second book, Nightwalking, was released in 2011 by Haleys. This year, she has finished the manuscript for her third book about the history of her 1770’s farmhouse titled From Cathouse Farm.

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Ann Wachter

    A feather when viewed separately may seem like only a feather, but
  when seen through the eyes of truth it is a sacred instrument that lifts
  birds in flight.            ~Molly Friedenfeld


Spring
swing gently back, sway
briskly forward into gravity’s free fall
bend elbows v’d, thrust 
my legs out, feel myself arcing
the curve; pull 
my arms — long and taut — hold tight,  
secure inside this sturdy, pedestaled embrace
breaking free, toes pointing
up 
toward the sky


where I swing in parallel 
accord


feeling the glee of a tickle,
the wisp of the air      filling
my nostrils,


the thrill of life
beckoning me to hold
firmly to my chains,
to steady


harpsichord’s notes  
in time with violin’s strokes  
Martha Wales Skelton Jefferson 


Four Seasons (continued)


II. Summer


travel new pathways — winding,
chirping, trickling toward 
forest blue where 
still end meets cheer hollowing 
in the distant wind


tata tata tata ta
dada dada dada da


my aerie sweeps, climbs
upward.  What height
dare I push before plummeting down, 
down — stumbling feebly 
upon abandoned quay,


giggling, stomping my feet firmly
on good ground,


I upend her harpsichord, 
his violin,’twining 
‘tween Iliad’s lines


III.  Autumn


Children bound gracefully 
about their winding trails, through Monticello’s grove,
as though Martha’s wits and reason 
have

tale


Once upon a knoll,
we swung alongside vines,
tethers of sweet berries
linked one
by one
by one
then we ate the berries
singing a made-up tune
dubbed  ‘Once Upon a Swing’


solitude’s bells, chime rhythmically —
ting a ling, a ling 
ting a ling, a ling  


Her strings unwind; gentle,
sweet, undone 
diminuendo; I linger in the silence 
of her harpsichord 

IV.  Winter


gifting staggering sway to quill a peaceful 
world where God’s heart 
occupies Thomas' hearth


placing sturdy combinations
of lavender and lilies next 
Martha’s grave —
sensing breathless aroma


skidding down Independence Grove —
shady umbrellas open, keeping 
life subdued


offshoots pellet fertile ground
taking root
pound for pound


Thomas reaches back, holds 
his stroke, pressing
the fingers of my harpsichord

__________________________________________________________________________

Ann Wachter is an ever-maturing writer of poetry who completed her Bachelor of Arts with John Carroll University, University Heights, Ohio, 1982.  She hones her craft by attending writing workshops including Iowa Summer Writing Workshops, UW-Madison Writer’s Institute and University of Chicago Writer’s Studio as she plans her MFA journey.  Her publications include Catharsis, copyright 2011; 9-11 Dream from a Steel Beam, circa 2015, Highland Park Poetry Muses Gallery; The Guest, June 2018, The Copperfield Review.

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Kristine Rae Anderson

 Richard III (1452-85), King of England 1483-85
Anne Neville (1456-85), Queen of England 1483-85
Their son, Edward, Prince of Wales 1473-84
  
Forget what you’ve heard. Dismiss it all 
except that Richard could charm the blue from the sky
and wanted, yes, to be king.
Forget Shakespeare’s gift of limp and hump.
Richard stood right, finely formed. I ached
to touch him. I, no victim, chose him,
even as children together among potent green hills,
miles and miles, the undependable spring sun,
and old stone of Warwick Castle. Even then
I wanted him. Only the State—cold spinster—
had me as Edward’s wife, Henry’s daughter. 
But England needed Richard. I needed him—
his voice filling a room gently, his generous touch
the way a child explores a wondrous thing—
a son such insufficient proof of us.
Forget the myth of my murder. We two died a little
with our son: three hearts, then none.
At times Richard believed and at times he fought
and I came to know these as one and the same.
Forget the insults of history, what you’ve heard
about his body. His ambition. My frailty. 
I, his cousin, his wife. The woman
he made widow and orphan then queen. I know:
Put you in my woman’s skin and feed you on my woman’s blood
in the empty hallways of my seasons, in my hard, gray rooms,
in my deep blue nights of life and dreaming,
you too, with all your free will,
would give, would take
exactly this much.
__________________________________________________________________________

Kristine Rae Anderson’s poetry has appeared in Soundings East, ReedCrab Creek Review, and Copperfield Review, among other publications. An award-winning journalist (first place award in criticism from the Society of Professional Journalists, San Diego Chapter, and award for arts story from the San Diego Press Club) and award-winning poet (Tomales Bay Fellowship, Fishtrap Fellowship, and first place in Southern Indiana Review’s Mary C. Mohr Poetry Contest), she teaches English at Norco College in southern California.

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The Minoans Speak

We left that land

                           when ground shook

despite our prayers. We lined

             baskets of bread and grain,

jugs of oil, wheat sheaves

                                          on the stepped east altar,

set out small clay figures, arms raised

to assure good crops, rain.

                                          When still soil rose like dust,

we came to the peak, bore lambs for sacrifice.

When lambs did not appease,

we slaughtered a sacred bull

presented it to the goddess,

sure the wine of such blood,

flowing below frescoes

                                      through furrows

                                                                  and into bronze vessels

would placate wrath.

                                 But when no offering sufficed,

when roadbeds cracked, when

foundations of our homes heaved, collapsed,

                               we called upon the priest to intercede

and in the chamber between west and east,

a ring of silver and iron

                                      on his sinistral hand,

pitiless out of fear, he

                             plunged a dagger

into a young warrior’s throat

then

          laid a boar’s head lance across

the stilled chest.

                       The altar shuddered.

                                                   Amphorae shattered.

West of the village,

                                 when earth shook

bones of the dead

                            exploded against tomb walls.

______________________________________________________________________________

Susan Roney-O’Brien lives in Princeton, MA, works with international students and young writers, curates a monthly poetry venue, and is part of 4 X 4, a group of visual artists and poets. She is the Summer Writing Series Coordinator for The Stanley Kunitz Boyhood Home. Her poetry has been published widely and translated into Braille and Mandarin and been nominated for seven Pushcart Prizes. Publications include two chapbooks: Farmwife, the winner of the William and Kingman Page Poetry Book Award, and Earth published by Cat Rock Press. WordTech published Legacy of the Last World in 2016. Aldrich Press, an imprint of Kelsay Books, published Bone Circle in December 2018. Kelsay Books will publish Thira, a new collection based on ancient Minoan culture, in March 2020.

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Ann Taylor

Finally arrived in this company,
prepped for on-stage wit,
I ease out on my couch,
drape my new robe just-so,
accept my welcome kylix.
 
With two hands,
I tip it straight up,
high to my face,
take a deep draft,
pronouce on gods, the law,
women, war. They laugh.

As the aulos weaves
a wind-song, strings ring,
I refill to the brim,
raise my cup again.
They laugh the more.

My robe slides to the floor,
my sentences blend.
I spy Medusa,
painted inside my drink.
Through wine, she shimmers 
red to the surface – snake hair,
tongue lolling to her chin,
eyes stone, set on me.     

Across the room,
smirking Archynes lifts 
his cup with both hands,
straight at me. Ah!
Now I see blurry black eyes
staring back, his cup base
a gaping mouth, the big handles.
Dionysus donkey ears? 

I see now the all-night joke I’ve been,
a mockery of my besotted self.

Escaping, I trip on my robe,
hurl my cup at his. Miss. 
________________________________________________________________________
Ann Taylor is a Professor of English at Salem State University in Salem, Mass. where she teaches both literature and writing courses. She has written two books on college composition, academic and freelance essays, and a collection of personal essays,Watching Birds: Reflections on the Wing (Ragged Mountain/McGraw Hill). Her first poetry book, The River Within, won first prize in the 2011 Cathlamet Poetry competition at Ravenna Press. Her recent collection, Bound Each to Each, was published by Finishing Line Press in 2013.

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K.V. Martins

He was a wayfarer.

He tramped the misty hills, dusty back roads,
the braided riverbeds and greenstone waters
of Te Waipounamu.

He followed the cool rains
             that sank into flowers.

He rested in barns and haystacks
              under inky skies

                     filled with star trails.

Ma would tell us no wayfarer arrives before sundown,
before the turquoise warmth of day slips into night.

She would sit by the fire turning
the eggshell pages of her book

speak of remittance men from England
disinherited and disgraced

gentlemen and scholars, sugar bags crammed
with blankets, billies swinging from swags.

He knocked on our wire screen door at the violet hour, –
before the silence of night stretched and unfurled.

Eyes the colour of strong black tea,
his wayfaring journey was written in the scars
on his face and sparrow-boned hands.

Can you give me a job, boss? he asked Pa.
His voice unhurried, his accent thick.

Russian perhaps.

He smelled of tobacco
               and something grittier.

We called him Russian Jack.

As the rusty purples of night closed in
Pa asked if he really wanted work
if he would chop wood come morning.

Yes boss, he replied and was sent
to the shearer’s quarters with a handful
of tea leaves, tucker bag full of bread and jam.

But as the trees were burnished with dawn’s golden light,
we could see that no wood had been cut.

Russian Jack was gone.

Ma kept a tally of the numbers she fed,
they were known by many names.

Canterbury Jack, Dublin Jack, Swagger Jack.

But our Russian Jack, weary and footsore
always passed through our town a welcome guest.

As winter’s breath expelled over valleys and hills
Ma read from a newspaper about an old man
frozen –

             in a ditch at the side of the road.

His leather boots cracked and stuffed with newspaper
to keep his feet warm, tobacco pouch and pipe in hand.

Our Russian Jack. A sundowner.

              Gentleman of the road.

__________________________________________________________________________

K.V. Martins is originally from Australia but now lives in New Zealand. 
She writes poetry, short stories, and flash fiction. Kim is a travel 
writer/editor for the Ancient History Encyclopedia and her work has been 
featured in Flash Frontier, Flash Flood Journal, Furtive Dalliance 
Literary Review
, The Drabble, Plum Tree Tavern, “a fine line“, Vamp Cat
the University of Iowa anthology Moving the Margins 2018, and upcoming 
in Fewer than 500 and Moonchild Magazine.

She’s working on a novel set in Italy and New Zealand during World War 
II. Kim has a B.A. (Hons) in History.

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Footsteps

Snatched and bound, loaded on a slaver’s ship

Spoon style in the stench of my countrymen

Sweat to sweat against our skin lost in darkness

a floating hell

* * * * *

Standing on an auction block, examined as if

livestock, my ass, my breast, exposed to the

delight of men who changed my name, leading

me away in cutting chains

* * * * *

Forced to clean his slop, cook his meals, lay

beneath his grunts and squeals, birthing children

for him to sell, trapped in this place, I will not 

forever dwell

* * * * *

Running fast into the woods, vowing no longer

to be considered his goods, open arms kept me

hidden from sight, trusting in those sympathetic

 to my plight     

* * * * *

Finding my way to freedom land, away from

a master, whip in hand, my fate now mine

on my own, no longer tethered, free to roam

______________________________________________________________________________

Aurora M. Lewis is a retiree in her late sixties, having worked in finance for 40 years.  In her fifties, she received a Certificate in Creative Writing-General Studies with honors from UCLA.  Her poems, short stories, and nonfiction have been accepted by The Literary Hatchet, Gemini Magazine, Persimmon TreeCliterature Journal, Jerry Jazz Musician, The Blue Nib, Pilcrow, and Dagger, to name a few.  Aurora has been nominated for two Pushcart Prizes as well as The Best of the Web.  

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Elizabeth Buttimer

 

Red clay, white painted church, and shape notes

eight children with a war in between

crimson blood on the ground with

a mini-ball piercing flesh and bone.

An arm no good for farming, but a voice

hearty for singing harmony.

in songs that shaped a nation with

robust alleluias and melodies,

as haunting the battle fields which

were filled with husbands,

brothers and sons, with neighbors

friends and strangers who in the night

sang to each other from opposing campfires.

In the blackness, as disembodied voices

floating across the silent, bloody fields.

Songs that they took with them to the war

came home with some, or stayed

as melody in a meadow for

those who sang no more,

For those who found rest in the green fields

that had become a red washed theater

for conflict and fallen comrades.

The” fasola” harmony rang discordant with war.

Songs of the everlasting and the eternal,

while the temporal came in rifle shots

and canon blasts and fires that leveled cities,

ripping arms, limbs and families forever.

Red clay and crimson flood from the

blood of soldiers and the Lamb.

Melancholy music sung as community,

strengthening those who sang in accord

to still the cacophony of battle

and sweeten life with the soil,

mending the view from behind the plow.

______________________________________________________________

Elizabeth Buttimer, an entrepreneur, a manufacturer and former educator, she received her Ph.D. from Georgia State University and her M.S.C. and B.A. degrees from Auburn University.

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Peter Bridges

Mount Hope

“In the year 1675, Philip, sachem of the Wampanoags, then residing at Mount Hope, in the present town of Bristol, in Rhode Island, began the most destructive war ever waged by the Indians upon the infant colonies.”
–Thrilling Incidents in American History, J.W. Barber, 1860.

My jaw’s on Cotton Mather’s table,
Skull and brain all gone.
Yet this bone shall speak of tragedy
Though Mather’s not at home,
None to hear but a harmless sparrow
Perched on the sill between a narrow dry room
And a world abounding in green life:
O hear my skull’s rage
O hear the horrid history,
Sons of my murderers,
Dry men in the deadly towns!

My father lived in the loveliest land,
The country of the bay and forest
Rich in fish and deer and songbirds.
Our old men sang proud histories,
Our kings were wise and fearless,
Our girls were merry-matchless,
Our young men gallant, reckless
In the kingdom of corn and maples,
Whales in the bay, bears after berries on woods’ edges:
A kingdom complete, at peace with all its spirits.

I was a boy who knew he’d be a king.
At seventeen I walked north to the mountains
And climbed past hawks to ledges at the high point of our world.
I lay all night on the granite, entranced by the cold white moon,
The silver perfect Mother,
Twin of the tranquil sea:

But sudden came a flight of birds across the moon,
Of cloud-high flyers fleeing north.
I knew that this meant peril for my people.

And now came many white men from the sea
Moving into the east land of our cousins dead of plague,
And now more floods of white men to the west and to the north
Till we lay ringed with dangerous towns
And the braves who stood against them
Fell to slaughter, like the Pequods,
The land fast losing its own people
While the soil stayed soaked with the blood
Of our dead boys.

I came to kingship in a hopeless kingdom.
My people asked me, shall we go
And seek a new land near our cousins
At the cold lakes of the north?
Or shall we stay and seek humble peace
While these axe-men fell our forests
And foreboding fills our dreams–
Or shall we fight, and throw the white men in the sea
And burn their intricate houses, break their careful fences
Until the land gets right again,
Ours again, purified and free?

Philip, the colonists called me
For they saw that I should lead my land
Like some old famous king of white men;
But my name is Metacomet
And I swore to the soul of Massasoit my father
That I should rival his wisdom with my cunning,
His kindness with my vengeance,
His bravery with my own bravery and daring
Until the clapboard houses burned
And the town men all sank bloodless in the sea.

Listen, sparrow, to this jaw, this bone:
There is no truth in Boston,
Only preachers full of fever like this Mather.
There is no truth for red men.
To us the English offered drink or death or exile.
My son was sold to slavery in Jamaica,
My wife then died a beggar on the edge of a bitter town.
They would not even give her back my body.

My throne was a great rock by our village.
I sat comfortable in its curved place
And the strength of granite came to me
And the souls of my fathers said to me
Make war, kill these colonies of toadstools;
Mow down the murderers of our people.

I fell on them with tomahawks and guns
Crushing their fat yellow heads,
Snapping their necks like a wolf who’s got a grouse,
A wolf who knows no master in his forest,
My brother, keen Ontoquas.

We failed, and fell.
Yet I live ever on this Bay
And in the calm of valleys, in the clover meadows,
In bees and lynx and falcons.
I am the freedom of the Maker
The constancy of the granite mountains
The first green shoot in spring
The wild loon calling on the lake
In long lament.

______________________________________________________________

Peter Bridges received degrees from Dartmouth College and Columbia University, served as an Army private in Europe, and then spent three decades as a career Foreign Service officer on four continents, ending as the American ambassador to Somalia. His memoir of Somalia and his biographies of two once-famous Americans, John Moncure Daniel and Donn Piatt, were published by Kent State University Press. In 2013 he self-published a volume of a hundred Sonnets from the Elk Mountains. His poems, articles, and reviews have appeared in American Diplomacy, Eclectica, Michigan Quarterly Review, Mountain Gazette, Virginia Quarterly Review, and elsewhere. “Mount Hope” is an account of what most American historians have called ”King Philip’s War,” as might have been told by Metacomet, whose jawbone did in fact land on the table of Cotton Mather the Puritan.

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