Voices de la Luna

A Quarterly Poetry and Arts Magazine

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Editors' Poems


Thanksgiving Leftovers
Mo H. Saidi

For Rebecca Brown

 

It’s three days later and in the evening

she reheats the mashed dressing; the dark

meat gets juicy after I add mushroom broth

and instead of having the noisy football game

on TV, we hear the soft classical music.

 

Tomorrow we will clean the guest bedrooms

pack the grandchildren’s toys

redact the son’s updated resume

add two more places to the list for him to apply.

Tomorrow we will join the crowd in the mall

 

we will buy a few trinkets for a daughter

whom we haven’t seen for three years

and a chess-set for the grandson who

at eight practices the endgames,  and

an illustrated book for the granddaughter.

 

A scoop of vanilla ice-cream melts over a slice

of  pecan pie. She reads “The Week in Review”

I “A Reporter at Large: Nightmare Scenario.”

Outside, the dark night has obscured

the live oak trees, the yellow pansies.


MEET ME ON THE PIER
Joan Seifert

I savor salty sea winds!
I feel the splash of waves that pull my line
then gently end here from some far shore
and stroke this trusty pier that holds such sea tales!

A hungry pelican caws, flippant,
hoping for the small fish I caught
to be cast skyward for his easy lunch.
The bird and I both laugh—Maybe so!

Up I toss it; then on kindly winds
my mind soars on toward open skies
asking no permission—
(Well, no one’s but yours.)

And so, John, what of us?
Will we revel here together
in the roving breeze,
our tender riddles capering in the waves?  

The pelican has flown,
now sated with his tiny gift.
So, will you meet me on the pier?
Together, we may catch a keeper!
                    

>

Dancing into Darkness
For Maeca
James Brandenburg
 
It is time
to begin a new dance
the dance in the caverns
to greet the darkness
a time of renewal
for only in darkness
does light seep through
on the other side of the mirror
where there is no reflection
only what is true
what is real
what is beautiful
what lasts
what is me
I can sing
I can dance
I can cry
I can laugh
I am
who I am
the other side
of my face
my heart
dances my beat
intensifies
blending darkness
in the light.
 

No Ordinary Picnic

Valerie Martin Bailey

 

No basket filled with sandwiches

or cold fried chicken, no paper

plates or plastic forks—

this is no ordinary picnic.

Flowering shrubs—one pink, one purple—

bursting with fragrant blossoms

provide a serve yourself buffet

for golden honey bees,

dancing butterflies,

and two hummingbirds—

tiny iridescent green jewels

flashing backward, forward, hovering—

wings beating in a blur,

soda-straw beaks sipping sweetness

from the flowers’ delicate hearts.

Having no slender beak or proboscis,

I can only watch the airy repast

from the window

as the dainty creatures flit from bloom

to bloom to nip quick snacks.

I am a fascinated spectator

enjoying the breathtaking beauty

of winged picnickers

drinking a sugary nectar feast.

 


Purpose
P.C. McKinnon

The green john-boat, its
ribbed bottom basking, its
long shadow from the
sun’s final hours, stretches
east up the small rise.

I never analyzed the
simple act of sitting until
your reflection on the pond
reminded me why the boat
was there in the first place.

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