A Look Back at the Yesteryear's Poetry

featuring Lorraine McLeod, Faith Dincolo, C. G. Howard, W. Casey Carr, Mason Meadows, and A. E. Reese. 

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To My Mum.

 There will be a day, or night

When I see you again, hear your voice, feel your presence.

There will be a night, or day,

When the pain of losing you will be lost forever

And love will fill that space for eternity.

 

There will be a day, or night,

When time will be no more, and our bond stretched between two worlds will be one,

There will be a night, or day,

When you will call me to you,

And I will run so fast to your open arms.

 

Until that day, or night

I live, and love, in gratitude,

Until that night or day,

I treasure our memories

And wait for your light to guide me home

 

Lorraine McLeod 2022

***

The Hidden Meadow

A stag leapt across our path
While we rode our mountain bikes with knobby tires
A tucked away dirt trail ours alone

A stag leapt across our path
We peddled over the twig rabbled road
Mechanized man vanished in the almost wilderness

The very air vibrated in our mouths as we watched
The sixteen point stag
four feet off the ground

25 hands maybe more
Calcified antlers battle earned
the beast startled erect on the tree lined glade.

There we shared a glass of deep still Zin
Red plastic cups, our eyes torched with altitude
we waited, was the he here again?

Wine stained my breast with his lips
Alone in the forest
A stag leapt across our path.

Faith Dincolo 2022

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The Multiversal Me

I am not Bizarro

Except I have cracked white skin

I write absurd yet poignant narratives

that resemble the Mirror Man

that I've become

since travelling to the other side

of grief and death and zombies

Do we have wakes for our undead friends?

Not while they chew on our faces

Or do we? in another version of me

in a place not unlike home-base

where we are boarded in

like black-n-white copies

of classic horror tropes

The pitchfork mob lift their torches

the lighthouse burns

Bizarro Me escapes

I, too, escape...into the mirror

of my own life. 

Bizarro C. G. Howard (2022)

***

Broken Bough

I gather the almost ripe apples

from the broken bough

split by lightning last night

by the withered cow. 

Mother makes a pie 

before the fruit goes bad

the children smile eager

for dessert and glad.

Father cuts the branch

for fire to bake the pie

and warmth tonight

as a new storm fills the sky.

Baby cries with dread

as mother kneads the dough

as father lights the timber

with sister and I aglow.

We gather all at the table

and thank the Lord for our fare

Father scowls as thunder rolls

scaring a whinny from the mare.

Mother drags the knife through the pie

and places a slice on each plate

We attack the crusty portion

blind to our pending fate.  

copyright W. Casey Carr

***

Building Shadows

First must we gather the wandering tools

Where girders await the search-worthy fools.

We mix the concrete of blood sweat and tears

To lay upon the foundation of fears.

Second the architects calm the wild sky

While blueprints measure the knife in its eye. 

We reach beyond the length of our strife

To cage the wonder of death after life. 

Third the malls arise to fill empty halls

Plastic plants line the toxic waterfalls.

Glass windows doors and floors abound

For lone children we have the lost and found.

Last we cut the ribbon with our shears

The light of hell warms the crowd's modest cheers. 

Mason Meadows 2022 copyrighted

***

Lilith

Lilith dear Lilith loves children to death:
She tucks the plump tots into their warm bed.
She tells them sad tales and smells their sweet breath.
By dawn she's long gone when they are found dead.

By daylight she sleeps like corpses at rest.
A crypt in cold darkness makes up her home.
By night she seeks folk that welcome a guest.
She lives out a curse to forever roam.

Behind a veil she hides ruby red lips,
Pale grey skin, eyes of blue, sharp yellow teeth.
She wears a marriage gown over silk slips.
No man alive hath seen her underneath.

They say her flesh is gone or turned to bone.
Yet with your kids she's often left alone.


A. E. Reese 20022

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Thank you to our poets today and especially to our readers for visiting this month.
We hope to bring you more verse next month. We'll see you then.
Anthony Servante