Lucette Bernard, whose poem,
After the Election, follows.
AFTER THE ELECTION
Some
commented on the exhale
powerful,
curative
almost
enough
to
empty that deep reservoir
of
breath held for so
damn
long.
They
wondered,
was
it enough
to
sweep away the daily dramas
of
a deranged dictator,
enough
to snuff out
the
runaway greed of stalwart
party
politicians
whose
hearts were little
more
than hardened fists squashing
every
notion of the common
good?
Was it enough to blow
all
of that adrift
like
flyaway fluff
in
a field
of
wasted dandelions?
Others
remarked on the inhale,
clean,
restorative
warm
enough to revive
the
belief that all was not lost,
a
fresh breath
deep
enough to fill the slackened
sails
of an entire ocean
of
broken dreams.
They
hoped
enough
of us had rallied
enough
of us had spoken
enough
of us still trusted
in
the winds of change.
Winds
so strong, so storm-laden
that
they might heave
and
whirl and tilt, stirring
up
tempest enough
to
tear down the whole monstrous
sticky
web and shake it
forever
loose.
Lucette
Bernard
November
11, 2020
***************************************************************
Outcomes
by Ange Kahn
I shall not die
of loving you
My love
unanswered and un-owned,
But I shall die
of wanting you
In nights
alone.
I will grow old
and odd and strange
A solitary
wanderer
Who mines the
subway floors for change
A thing of rags
and melted wax
Gangrenous
stenches and foul air
Of crumpled
greasy paper sacks
An animal
without a lair.
I will become a
mumbler
Of polyglot
morphologies
A prophetess of
tragedies
And some who
pass
Will think it
sad
But none
will look into my eyes
For fear
of going mad
I shall
not die of loving you
My
love unanswered and un-owned
But
I shall die of wanting you
In
nights alone.
**************************************************************
A Wake
Adrien Helm
What wakes me up
in the starless night?
Is it the wings of
a bird in flight?
It is so dark. The
only light
The amber
“necklace” on the causeway shore.
I lay and listen,
now awake,
Aware of every
breath I take,
With feral
sensitivity I make
No move, with
tense stillness deep in my core.
Alone I wait in
our wide bed.
You work away from
home instead
Of lying here with
me. You said
It was necessity
that made you choose
To keep a job so
far from us.
My nature’s not to
make a fuss.
So I accept, with
silent cuss,
The role of single
parent. So you lose
The daily joys I
get to reap,
The smiles and
hugs that keep
Me compensated for
the heap
Of laundry, meals,
and other endless chores.
Our splendid
children thrive and grow.
I doubt that you
will ever know
Your absence’s
toll. I’ll not show
The cost, not pour
more guilt onto the sore.
There’s a quality
of suspense
As days and weeks
unfold in tense
Apprehension. Atop
a fence
Waiting how long;
how much more?
Twelve years of
nightly calls to read
Bedtime stories,
to fill a need --
Crossing the
distance to feed
Affection of those
who mutually adore.
So I’m alone when
I awake
My regular lot as
I take
Deep breaths to
try again to make
Peace, to fuel
another day without you.
Wavelets slap the
seawall below
Consoling wet
rhythm softly low,
I hear a friendly
dolphin blow,
Drifting to rest,
faithful to me and you.
AWH
11/11/2020
*****************************************
DEATH OF A LIEUTENANT
by Mark Creaven
He was a believer,
a Buddhist.
The night was cool
in his village
But he wasn’t there.
He had emerged
from his tunnel
Thankful to be
breathing the air
above ground.
He and his cell
moved quietly
Through the trees
on the path everyone used.
They buried the 105mm
round on its side,
just off the
trail.
They covered it
with dirt and branches.
The trip wire was
connected to the detonator.
In the dim light
of dawn he
Saw that it
blended nicely with the dead grasses
Worn down by foot
traffic.
Tired now he went
back to his tunnel
And slept.
Later that day he
heard the explosion,
Muted by the depth
of earth above him.
He smiled.
****************************************
Liam’s Lyric
He was younger than the others then,
A quiet, less obvious voice, helping when
Subtlety was called for, a smoother blend
And quieter backing tenor he could lend.
I could hear him though the others reign
He could be heard in the backup only,
Not in songs of revolution and heroes lonely
Yet he brought a greater dimension, surely,
To songs and narratives, though known to me hardly,
Songs my grandfather vaguely named.
In quiet times of love songs true
He sang through brightly, the others subdued,
Clearly lending power and beauty accrued
From expressive lyrics in narrative pursued.
We heard beauty in tragedy untamed.
The others had seen war as airmen brave.
Lure of battle never fulfilled in his life, saved,
Never admitting the life’s extinction waved.
In quiet songs and in the back
Until the longing for danger waned.
Dylan, from the Midwest clime
Not seeing the lyrical in his songs of the time
And no beauty in his inherent whine
Lyrical only implicit in his lyrics fine.
But Liam finding inherent in feelings maimed.
Stephen Hickey
