Poetry

Carrying On
by Karen Ethelsdattar • Jersey City, NJ

Out my kitchen window
a crimson cardinal
darts back & forth across the yard,
humbly as the smallest
brown sparrow,
fetching dried grasses & weed stalks
for the nest he must be building.
Outside the screen door
I spy white & yellow daffodils,
& white tulips streaked with yellow,
ready for the picking,
for the ruffled blue glass vase
on the table.
Crossing the yard to snip them,
I behold the first bumblebee,
fat & black & yellow & busy
carrying on, carrying on.

Stillness
by Kathleen Picarelli • Bay Shore

Before me, a vast expanse of sage
as far as the eye can see
blends into the redrock mesas
rising above the desert flat
It is quiet, save for the river
as it meanders down to the
open country below
The sun has just set,
a nearly full moon rises
luminescent against the darkening sky
The air is so thick and warm,
I can scarcely breathe
The silence so deep,
very few would understand
A lone rabbit sits among the sage,
perfectly still
I am reminded of myself
stilled by circumstances unforeseen
What has brought me out here
away from the security of my friends
alone with quieted energy,
an unclear mind
and a back aching for
God knows what reason
I feel vulnerable in this rickety house
though somehow, the simplicity
and severity
of the landscape gives me strength
I will endure and in time
will come to know
there is something special to be
learned, here, in this place
Something that goes right to
the heart of the matter

Hors d’ouvres
by Arlene Ang, Spinea, Italy

This quest for
hors d'ouvres to placate 97 guests are
as unappetizing as the dinner
squabbles of relatives who have
planed to town for the wedding. Is
seafood still politically correct, I
wonder? He refuses to be
implicated in my decisions.
A salad
platter of noxious mushrooms
begins to look good.
We might as well
elope, he sighs. It's the best idea he's
had so far.
Our parents will never live
it up. We start packing for Bahamas,
excited as ten-year-olds.

She Isn’t Just A Spanish Dancer
by Isabelle Pascale Granet, NYC

For Andrea Del Conte

her moves are precise
like the right decision
they leave a mark behind
like a shimmering fan
she dances with the air
and the air binds
her sounds, her circles,
her bewitching hands
all are calling to the Invisible
she must be a south wind
but she is in disguise
I find myself staring
ill at ease, like a child
catching on her mother’s
most guarded secret charm