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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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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.

 

______________________________________________________________

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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