Poetry

A SUMMER HAT

Woven from wild grasses,
a cluster of wild flowers
tucked in its band,
a single gull feather worn aft:
on a day shifting between
summer’s end and fall’s beginning,
we stand at the dock
waving goodbye to parting friends
when a sudden gust
lifts the hat from your head,
sends it, brim flapping,
winging its way out to sea,
wildness reclaimed,
borrowed, it seems,
for a season.

Marjorie Mir

SUNDAY MORNING, OFF THE COAST OF MAINE – MARILYN RINGER

SUNDAY MORNING, OFF THE COAST OF MAINE

 The basement Laundromat is deserted
I fill both machines, then head upstairs
to the Black Duck for a scone and chai.
I sit at the cribbage table, watch
the day wander in.

 
There is gypsy jazz playing, Django Reinhardt style,
its foot-tapping rhythm contagious. Arline and Mo
sit at the next table. We talk about Barcelona, Gaudi,
his Sagrada Familia, Japanese baseball. The tables
so close, everyone chimes in an opinion.

 
It’s time to move the wash to the dryer.
I pull out things to hang on the line,
make my way back through the small bustle
of dogs and dog toys to the pew by the window
as the church bell rings its call to prayer.

 
Marilyn Ringer
Reprinted from Island Aubade
Finishing Line Press
PO Box 1626, Georgetown KY, 40324

Also available from The Black Duck and Amazon.com

 

Monhegan XVIII (Sunset)

by Kate Cheney Chappell

MONHEGAN VILLANELLE

When day descends the stair of sky
And ribs of clouds exhale the light,
The sea breathes deep as colors die.

West bellows blow the embers high
And dark-winged terns stitch flames in flight.
When day descends the stair of sky,

She walks the stones where wild tongues lie,
and, lambent, searches cloud’s delight.
The sea breathes deep as colors die.

And sieves the gold, the rose, the rye
Like coins through colanders of light.
When day descends the stair of sky,

Bright water cups, then darkly sighs
And laps the petal edge of night.
The sea breathes deep as colors die,

Makes grief in phosphorescence fly,
And spills it on horizon’s height,
When day descends the stair of sky,
The sea breathes deep as colors die.

Kate Cheney Chappell

NACE EL FUEGO

NACE EL FUEGO

~After reading “It Is Born,” by Pablo Neruda

I have consulted his poems about the sea
to dampen the dust of my dry yearning,
but even here a fire is born. I am left
thirsty for blue, for air whetted with salt.

Where is the hidden cove with its
sea glass treasures, the gulls afloat
on evening’s wind? The soul
conspires to meet me there,

but the body, weighted by entropy,
its possessions, the accoutrements
of age, cannot be moved so fettered
by its limitations.

Marilyn Ringer

from, Island Aubade, Finishing Line Press, 2012

P.O. Box 1626

Georgetown, Kentucky 40324

WINTER ON ISLAND – BONNIE ENES

WINTER ON ISLAND

Wicked cold day.
An afternoon walk with the dogs
down to the dock
where buffleheads, like bath toys,
teeter on waves. Distant islands
are in mirage. If only I could
sense summer–
whiff of salt, touch
of hand to warm rock or
to stand in the middle of a cloudless
aquamarine summer day
and chew on buttery steamers
cooked in a black iron pot
over a beach fire.
Some
thing any
thing.
The dogs look up at me,
wide-eyed, plead
walk us back, walk us
back to the house, walk us
back inside where the fire blazes.
They will not leave
until I do. I sigh, move back up the path,
return to leafing through photo albums
filled with aquamarine summer days.

Bonnie Thompson Enes

Mnemonic by Marjorie Mir

photo by Dori Schweier

 

MNEMONIC

“Fall back,” we tell ourselves,
beginning the trek toward early dark,
and we do, still do,
coming from cold streets
into lamplight,
cupping a mug in both hands;
limits, the comfort of habit,
these are not yet taken from us,
nor a darkness whose face is familial,
winter that closes us in.

Marjorie Mir