Archives: Poetry Submissions

My left arm is on fire. My right arm is a metal rod.
Or so it feels.
But still, my arms move.

The world is grainy. Black and gold dots.
Or so it looks.
But still, I can see.

My feet burn. Every small, slow step must make scorch marks upon the Earth.
Or so it seems.
But still, I can walk.

‘Health’ is forgotten.
Pain is my norm.
But still, I live.

And beauty is my life. The sunlight shines into my dark room. And I remember to love life. And so, still, I will live.

By Pat Fero

The Rhythm of Life
The earth knows.
Current flows to the continental divide.
Planting season in Portugal.
Monet meadow flowers the mountain.

The earth knows.
Storms wash the land, reviving life.
Fires sear old pine, sowing growth.
Snow slides shatter silence
sculpting the hillside.

Creatures know.
Salmon swim upstream.
Cubs emerge in Spring.
Hatchling turtles scramble to the sea.

Creatures know.
Wolves sense diseased marrow.
Whales beach in the shallows.
Death comes as it does and so it goes.

Humans know.
The night sleep and the day break.
Joyful hours mesh one hot summer eve
with Monday morning routine.

Humans know.
Life on 24/7.
Chop, clock, tick. stop. Diced thoughts.
Manage the moment lost.
I’m late, I’m late.
Apologize, euphemize.
The rat race, time crunch, time flies,
time is money. Catch you later.

But I don’t know.
Days go by as night. Night, days.
Weeks pass unnoticed.
Where am I now?
What happened when?
Time lost. I dawdle and find ways,
“How are you today?”
Today. Day. Fine today.
Time threads tangled, stuttering, staccato memories, shapeless images
gray, blue – green, pink, yellow.
A Monet without perspective.

Last year, decades passed
a blur and a muddle.
I wandered cursing Alice.
Was it the March Hare? May?
The Queen of Hearts? Spades?
Why does it make a difference?
A Monet has perspective.

This year, I am the eye of the needle.
My rhythm of life pulses and beats
and so it goes seamless transition
one day to the next, a flow
mindlessly sculpting a stream
to the river to the sea.

It’s quiet this night 
inside my mind’s bouquet.
Slender stalks and weeping willow boughs
sway into clusters and tiny blossoms.
Yellow and red and parrot blue
move through green leafy shadows.

I know the clock stopped and rats don’t race.
Time can’t crunch nor fly
or buy my ice cream
Bubble Gum Dreams.

My rhythm of life pulses and beats,
then flows as it does and so it goes…

Cold air in July from a vent
on a windowsill in a hospital room
killed the mums,
but the lilies, yellow, bloomed.

A precious gift, this fluidity.

PF

By Maija Haavisto

glossy magazines tout hottest pajama looks
palest facial tones untouched by the savage sun
sexiest sunglasses to match your pillowcase
most stunning impressions left on the mattress

posh ceremonies honor toes touching the floor
heroic ventures to the bathroom
the superhuman strength needed to chew food
best attempts to leave the house
words laboriously uttered: one, two, three
no, that’s enough, please stop, don’t wear yourself out

empty chairs at gala dinners hosting only we’re-there-in-spirits
my cheek caressing the red carpet of the so-called living room

would you spoon more smoothie in my mouth, my darling
I swear the bits of kale taste like finest chocolates in my dreams
next year, every year, in my dreams
I will win the trophy for finest daydreams
moved to tears in my whispered speech
I picture you gently picking kale bits
stuck between my teeth