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SOMETHING LIKE A WHEEL
I was falling apart in the waiting room when I gazed across the aisle and saw another woman whose looks I didn’t share. Her skin was dark and mine is light. Her clothes were stained and torn. But when I took another look I saw a similarity. Her head was bald, and so was mine. We shared a damn disease. We looked into each other’s eyes, hers a darkish brown, mine a grayish blue. We saw a common core filled with fear and filled with hope and filled with something more. Our expressions were in sync as we gave a knowing look and shared a simple smile binding us together. We are all unique, yet somehow we’re the same. We’re something like a wheel, each of us a separate spoke bound by the rim and joined at the hub rolling along together. If we forget the rim that binds or disregard the hub that joins and focus on our separateness we’ll surely fall apart. (Alice Smith lives in Chattanooga, TN with her husband Alfred and their dog Leroy. Together they have four children and four grandchildren. Alice is a breast cancer survivor and the author of five collections of poetry including That Little Girl)
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Yet another encore
I look at you all but you don't know how I'm feeling Because your eyes ears and minds are asleep I pass by you all with an expression of not believing But your eyes ears and minds are still asleep I try to smile through the tears that I'm crying But your eyes ears and minds are still asleep At times when I'm alone I feel like I'm dying But your eyes ears and minds are still asleep My heart and soul feels like their bleeding While your eyes ears and minds are still asleep And though I fit in it's not the real me that your seeing While your eyes ears and minds are still asleep I can't say why but it hurts not to be part of you And at times I feel like a ghost you can see through I would ask for your help but I don't want to be a burden So for now I'll take the applause under stage lights before Hiding my pain behind the stage curtain (Ronald Finn first started writing fifteen years ago. To date he had over fifty poems published on various themes in different publications.) Silence
I am Silence. When God spoke to the formless void at the beginning of time; I was there giving meaning to the sounds, transforming them into commands. When God questioned Adam and Eve; I was there in the midst of the questions helping them to understand their deed. I was the essence of their response. I dance between the music notes and make the sound so sweet. I give rhythm to the drum and melody to its’ beat. I am the response when love’s trust is destroyed. When hearts are bruised and tender they suffer in my embrace. I am present in life and death, explaining both of their mysteries. When life walks out of the body it is my song that fills the ear. I am Silence. And If I Should Fall, Then What? It is complexed - frightening - this asana called life. I bend and twist, surrendering to it. My mind, my body, my spirit, taxed. And if I should fall, then what? Frightening, complexed, this asana called life; I bend and twist losing sight of the familiar mind, body, spirit, disoriented. And if I should fall, then what? Fear of losing the familiar brings pain. Fear of the unfamiliar brings anxiety. Mind, body, spirit, disoriented. And if I should fall, then what? Breathe away the familiar. Breathe into the unfamiliar. Breathe and know what you cannot sense. Breathe mind, body, spirit into harmony. And if I should fall, then what? Breathe and fall into compassion, fall until you touch pure love. Breathe and fall, fall and discover harmony with the universe. (A native of Chattanooga, Tennessee, Anthony Crutcher is the husband of one wife and the father of two children. He discovered poetry as a form of self-expression and encouragement to others. After a career as an economist he now concentrates his efforts on writing and teaching yoga) Reclaiming Red
Red is the color of the body bag spiritlessly zipped on the gurney. A sagging haze settles on the empty bed, no longer the centerpiece of our lives. The numbing silence of the unplugged oxygen tank persists. No words just hugs long hugs longing for answers Possessions bestowed as gifts or tossed; photographs, her life paralyzed in time, dropped into boxes, destination unknown. A son’s heartfelt eulogy fills the small church with gravity, and questions. A community gathers for a potluck sharing stories of blessings and mishaps, the weight of the incomprehensible A black lettered “FOR RENT” sign soon appears on the door where the “Welcome” wreath once heralded the warmth of her greeting. Red is the color, scarlet red, Barcelona red, of the geraniums boldly bursting into bloom in her garden. Core In these our final years, I am an unwilling witness as the pernicious intruder fills your limbs with tremors, even as you sleep. The words that once connected us are fleeting whispers as you struggle to capture meaning. I watch as you search for the scent of jasmine in spring, the smell of Beef Wellington in Patti’s kitchen. admirably accepting a life in four senses. Searching your face for expressions of joy, love, focus, I often find distraction, lethargy. I wonder how to make peace with your slo-mo pace as the world around us accelerates and obfuscates. Yet, I hold on to the hope, the belief perhaps, while nothing is certain our core is impenetrable Into the woods the rivulet cascading down the darkened bark as a heavy downpour awakens the earth. the daffodils bursting with color, harbingers of better times. the rust colored buds tightly cocooning the promises of spring the mallard duck undaunted by the rain, maneuvering knowingly as the angry creek rushes downstream. the robin hopping in the open field in search of wily worms or a handsome mate. the lone human traveler on this trail here and now casting uncertainty into the fertile soil. (Barbara D’Emilio, a long-time educator and poet, lives in Washington DC and finds inspiration and solace on the trails of Rock Creek Park. Publications include: What's Ahead: Transitioning from Adult Education to a Career, various articles on family involvement and most recent poetry in District Lines, Volume V.) |
The Beautiful Space-
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