Early this morning I saw them; black against green: A hedgerow packed with Unpicked blackberries; Sweet gifts from nature, all free— And so, left to rot. Time was when we boys, Carrying washed gallon cans, Set off at sunrise To plunder the bramble fruit.
Our mothers told us Blackberries were Nature’s gift, Packed rich with goodness From the summer sun; “Remember the secret, boys: The choicest berries Hide behind green leaves. But watch out for thorns!” they cried. Cans in hand, we ran To plunder the bramble fruit.
Late this afternoon I saw them: father and son Picking and eating Plump rich blackberries. The child learned from the father Where the best fruit lurked And we—all three—were Brothers of the purple mouth, Braving all the thorns To plunder the bramble fruit.
Evita In Her Prime Catherine-Grace Patrick
Sistering came easy to you: natural as April lilacs. Organic as ocean breezes that show up at the shore.
It’s as if you’d waited for your brother.
You, godess of the dance, artfully nurturing your sibling? Of course. Yes. Of course! That defines you head to toe.
Occasional-substitute-mom. Teacher/reminder of manners. The abundant everydayness of your über-tender heart.
Alexander is blessed; he’s fortunate. And exquisite little you? Your brother’s love, his gratitude, have sculpted who you are.
Hyperborea Stewart Young
I want to go North See the crisp, clear blue sky Through thin patches of cirrus clouds See my breath distill into frost Before dawn and after dusk My lungs laboring in the thin air Clearing them of all the Southern Fumes, dust, and soot I want the mind-numbing cold To awaken me My hammering heart Pumping blood To warm my shivering limbs Instead of rubbing-up Against my neighbor for warmth To stand on mountaintops To escape the sweltering valleys Where my limbs Are weighed down by the spirit of gravity My blood slowed Until my mind falls asleep
For So Many Assef Al-Jundi
My anger is strongest when I’m able to do little.
I am most merciful when power rests in my hands.
In the violent frenzy of war, polished metal warm under trigger finger, a tyrant cowers in the line of fire.
How does one take an eye for so many?
A Moment Clark Watts
To start the day I left my room to jog before the town awaked, except I heard the milkman on his rounds behind the fog that hugged the ground as if to say this day has yet to dawn.
I took a path less trod before descending to the river’s side, its way engulfed by drifting clouds its presence marked by restless sounds, the murmur of the flowing stream in concert with its teeming banks.
As I approached the river’s edge the fog, as though a curtain, split and there appeared in stark relief two long and splendid necks erect, of ivory down, with masks of black they slowly drifted off as one.
A treasured glimpse, then just as dense the curtain closed, and I moved on, enough revealed for me to sense how rich can be the day for those who seek the solitude of early morn before the tasks ahead are joined.
What? Earl Salazar*
Ashes to ashes Dust to dust We’re all God’s children So we all must Endure the heartache Endure the pain With everything to lose With everything to gain There will be a fight The light against the night The night against the light Whichever I choose One side will lose The winner gets my soul.
*Mr. Salazar wrote this poem while at Haven for Hope. Haven for Hope is transforming and saving the lives of homeless men, women, and children through job training, education, and behavioral healthcare in San Antonio, TX. For more information, please visit: http://www.havenforhope.org.
There Is Tatjana Debeljacki
Someone is cracking the branch?! Hang on till morning. Here it is inside of me, Innocent, thirsty Still waiting for the bread and milk, Sipping the mint tea. Bring the peace without the aim And the flowers for the vase. Doesn’t know that her soul is freezing, so she takes her time. Every now and then she sees her but never anything happens. Starting to believe in miracles. Is there the heavenly love and Such a flame That it never turns into ashes? Always ripe like an apple! Eh, my quest for the fire... I’m intoxicated by the poem, not wine! Your words are the wind Blowing my love Away!!!
Anniversary Mary Howell
Lesson One: Gravity sucks. Never mind that tons of gleaming turbo-thrust steel plunge us into the sky. People can’t fly and gravity, always hungry, sucks us toward cement. Step out a window a hundred stories up and no matter how the arms flail, the body falls.
Lesson Two: Media sucks. What you see happening on a sixty-inch screen isn’t reality. Ten years later talking heads still turn tragedy into sixty-second sound bites and burning bodies into beacons of hope.
Short Poem
Joyce Collins
How delicious is water when the flavor you savor is clean
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