Sunday, November 24, 2019

Jackie Anderson ----- four Cinquains


Sipping warm mug
Silent awakening
Newborn day shining pure white light
Clean slate


Shocked and shaken
Cruel attack rends my heart
Healing faith revives, I will rise


Moved on
Went your own way
Voice smiling through my phone
Like a visit at home today
My son


Charms, aggravates
My reaching out falls short
In deep abyss of chasm wide
Love hides

Saturday, November 23, 2019

George Held -------- poem

No Light
   “To Hell in a hand basket”
   “This is the end, my friend”

Only clichés and other folks’ words
come to mind in the lowering dark
of a world gone to pot or to black,
as the pot calls the kettle,

but what are clichés for if not to bring
succor to us suckers who long for light,
not necessarily at the end of the tunnel?
But there’s no light in sight, none.


We who are doomed to die salute you
who motor on in the face of bomb
threats, mass shootings, frightening
policies drawn up by crooked governments,

you who warmly welcome a new child,
you who go to church, synagogue, or mosque
to pray, to receive succor, you who feel divine
peace in the presence of God, a god.


But no god’s in sight, none. So what
if I can’t pray or find peace without,
only rarely within, where there’s no
light, just a reptile response to life?

That’s no question for a lyric;
save it for an ode or an epic
or a drama; stow it away
from the gray light of a new day.

Tuesday, November 19, 2019

Mary Anna Kruch ------------- poem

Angels in the Evening Woods

Far from the city noise,
I walk the woods,
try to block out a president
who has made life hell
for the least among us --
allowing my imagination to wander
Night approaches; I do not fear the dark.

At twilight, the evening woods
create profound silhouettes,
they rise, a line of stiff, solemn soldiers,
heads touching the navy blue of sunset.
I study how the towering red pines
shelter families of deer who live
beneath their fine-scented branches –
how the trees supply sanctuary
for even the least among them.
It is night, but I cannot close my eyes.

Even during the hunt,
deer, owls, and rabbits
will sleep in the shelter of my soldiers,
angels in the evening woods.
It is night, but I cannot close my eyes.

I think how differently guards
at the border view themselves --
follow orders blindly
strike fear in the hearts
of families with no place to hide in the night.

Where are humanity’s protectors?
Who supports and defends families
 who flee violence and death?
Those families are hunted; they fear the dark.
They may be moved out of sight,
but they cannot be erased.
The woods cannot shelter them.

Where are the protective arms
of civilized duty?
Who supplies sanctuary
for even the least among them?

Even as I walk far from the noise
my eyes remain open.
We must learn
from the angels in the evening woods.

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