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| Jimmy Carter |
Ghost in the closet
the closet
is locked
chock full
of afghans in
zippered pouches
shirts on
plastic hangers
jeans stiff from
being folded
for decades
the bare light
pull string
too short
to reach
in the dark
a pair of
leather loafers
wait for feet
that never return.
Judith Janoo
The Red Kettle—What I Learned from Poetry
It matters
the red kettle
the bell
the salvation army
making it
through with food
—only ones
says the infantryman
emptying his
thin pocket into
the red well
Mark Creaven
SISTER MARY ROBARD’S FINAL VOWS
Today is the
day
I become a
bride of the risen Christ
I hear the
bishop droning on
I know he
means well, but….
I feel
nervous
“Get on with
it.”
“No, don’t. I
must listen.”
The novices
seated next to me
smile and
nod, great eye contact
with the
bishop as though they
are following
his every word,
“...sacrifice…..” “...holiness…..”
“Blessed Virgin Mary….”
“...Example
to the world…..”.
Am I really
ready for this life?
Push those
doubts away.
The devil
will tempt me.
Focus.
I turn my
head ever so slightly.
Out of the
corner of my eye
I see my
mother.
I have to be
careful,
can't give
any hint
I will miss
her.
Are those
feelings a temptation?
Giving her
what she has wanted
for me all my
life.
What do I
want?
The devil
again.
My confessor
says I am
“stiff
necked.”
I know I am.
Why can't that
be valuable
to God?
Now the three
of us prostrate ourselves.
The floor is
cold and hard.
I know we
practiced laying down
and getting
back up.
My hands
cradle my head.
My breath
reflects back to me
cool from the
marble floor.
The bulges of
my breasts
press flat to
my rib cage.
I want to
shift my body a little.
I am afraid
to move.
Christ
suffered. I can too,
enduring a
little discomfort
in His name.
I hear the
names of saints
chanted by
Sister Rose.
She still
sings just a little off key.
I don’t like
her.
My left ankle
starts to hurt.
Why isn't my
father here?
My mouth is
dry, no water for a while.
No bathroom right now anyhow.
Finally the
bishop stops.
The chanting
stops.
The three of
us swing to our feet.
Smooth.
My feet don’t
tangle in the habit.
I kneel
before Mother.
I read my
vows off the pamphlet.
She kisses my
cheek.
I feel warm.
I reach out
my left hand.
I feel the
coolness of the gold
as it slides
over the knuckles of my finger.
There. I did
it.
Here you go, Mother.
Your daughter
has insured you have a place
in heaven.
I hope you
are happy.
Helette Gagnon
Poetry as Beacon
When everything you see
reveals itself
in verse
As story with its own future—alone—
past-present tense—special
Skeptic’s song on how to
belong to
this tribe
A world of insights—head of
the class
style
An ocean of words slung together
but
fluid
Exposing the earth with its
deep seated
problems
Bits and pieces of filth in
fish’s gills—
when all it wants to do is
breathe
Wave after wave barefoot
dangerous
—spill the content of life
See blue in every
shade—wonder
if salty water cures
To be cured in brine—tides
litter more—
try to recreate the moon
Every Wednesday afternoon
in your
leather chair—sharing
Grey tunes of a
moment—mostly of
peril—the time you skimmed
your knee
The burn of sand—shells
inside your
head—renew—renew
Ellen Mass
39th US President
I grew up in Macon near Jimmy’s Plains
Truly like its name
Poor and black
No fanfare or fame
-the Georgia backwoods
from where he came
from misery and strife
to guide the country to a different pose
with kindness without lies,
he brought mean spirits down to size
Taught and learned deeply from their hardened hands-
Its what transformed the man,
to change the country into something grand
infiltrated our would-be-saint
from governorship to president-
He was not safe; and
even at his best,
could not reach his blessed quest
Nepotism and heavy political hands
took away his will to heal our land
But after his term,
he traveled the world to understand and expand.
He vowed to heal - seeing such dismay
And bravely told the sad MidEast tale along his way,
kindling the Palestinians' saga from 1948,
Shared their story and quest-
so to listen and sympathize-- And maybe, Jimmy,
Some
times: justified draft of a rant with a
nod to the Argument from Evil
Sometimes
you almost all most let yourself believe be lief to accept emergence, a theory
you could once intuit in-tรบ-it to mean surprise clarity, something like intelligently-designed
epiphany. Really. Said to be sedative.
Some days are too gray even to try for the
try in poetry even if it’s in there unless you’re Billy Collins calling in with
his stand-up smugalug grin. (Somewhere
in all this mess his latest, already all ready late to be taken back – one is
taken aback – to where it came from.)
Some newsome Nous Sommes Old Chum days,
gruesomely glum, we’re gonna gun-ah Gun!-Ah! have news (Who knew? Who new?) an
underpaid undereducated underling custodian dies beside a well-paid
administrator educator and others only nine years old this time, just three
this time, so that you will fear there’s no substitute for despair not in the
very air we breathe in this world famous democracy this time in Tennesee you
see. Des-pair, despaired,
despairing. (It’s said to be a sin,
despair, but it’s just a word made with marks -- or in the air.)
Or while you’re beside yourself good grief a tornado kills dozens of ordinary folk in Mississippi. Not in Money -- one supposes, doesn’t know -- in some other towns with people out and about and without.)
Some days there’s no OM in some and of
course there never is unless you can see it.
Some days – back to emergence and liefness to
believe it – some 40 men detainees all but also deportees (all so-called) die
from smoke inhalation after being locked out of the land of the free to be kept
locked-in in another so-called Safe Country.
Some days it won’t work to try for the try or even the tree in poetry.
Some day you may have to read that Yeats was
a nascent fascist.
Some days are even too sad for Billy
Collins. Better for a Tom Collins, if
you have some gin. But then again, better
not to begin.
Adrien Helm
The Truth of Water
Dip a fore finger
Through the shivering
Skin stretched, from
Rim to rim.
The fragile nerves
Beneath the pad
Quake in sensory rush.
Or, plunge grubby fists
Under a gushing tap,
Cleansing heat,
Aerated spate,
Shimmering blanket,
Sparkling wash.
Skin, organ of senses
Dazzled all over
Beneath a shower’s
Needling jets,
Engulfed, ecstatic
In overload.
Soles bare on sand
Calluses abrade,
Then playful, foamy
Tickles the arch.
It’s too much,
You dance.
Or, dive too hot,
Cool spank, too sharp,
Bubbles erupt,
Hair streams --
Sudden reprieve,
Familial return.
3-29-23
