National Poetry Month Community Project Posts

by Charlotte Heotis, edited by Peter Heotis, 2022

It was not north nor South

Neither east nor West

T’was where they met

This is a place of rest

It was not black nor white

Nor any shade in between

It was a blend of all

Just, one to be seen

It was there I met my enemy

I saw him eye to eye

We speak of keth and kin

Realized he like me

Hold all so dear

It was better to be friends.

We vowed right here and now

No more shall be war

That nothing here was his or mine

but all upon the earth was Thine.

So at a crossroads

Where all do meet

The cross is born

On all men’s feet

by Adam D. Fisher, 2022

Trying to keep

awake on the LIE

while going 70,

I blink, turn up the radio

lick my fingers to wet

my eyelids, catch

myself weaving

into other

lanes,

feel like a kid trying

to color

in the lines except

if I go over these lines,

I will get killed.

by Charlotte Heotis, edited by Peter Heotis, 2022

Those who fish for trout

Go where beauty is

Where air is incense, where

No poison strains.

Congenial friends may share

These lonely streams,

But they must stay past bend

Or waterfall.

Testing oneself is best

When done alone.

We try to learn the secrets

Of the stream

How currents run , what drifts

In quiet depths

0r sweeps around the stones

to tempt a fish;

what artifice can stir

the same desire

with feathers and some fur

a barb within

A trout is never trusting

We learn by using

Simple, ancient gear,

The history of an art-

And we learn patience, too,

Sometimes the hardest part.

The solitude,

Relief from care,

Frustrating doubt

About our angling skills-

These stay with those who fish for trout

by Anne Kelly-Edmunds, 2022

Her golden-petaled crown

surrounds a burnt-sienna center

seeded with possibilities.

by Adam D. Fisher, 2022

I like the art room at the museum—

a nice space, lots of light

through skylights. I change

behind a screen, put on a robe

which I remove when posing.

Today there are museum goers who want

to try their hand at figure drawing.

Of course I sit motionless. At first my mind

goes blank. Then I meditate focusing

on my breath and looking at

a spot on the wall. Later,

I anticipate my drive home,

stopping at the super market—

eggs, milk, bread. And I’d

better get gas. The

station near the Post Office

has the best price. When I get home

my girls will be playing with dolls.

My husband, so handsome,

home from nursing at the hospital

will start dinner. Later

the kids will go up

for baths and to bed.

We’ll read the girls some stories

then Jack and will get

to sit on the couch

and have a glass of wine.

We’ll neck like a couple

of teenagers and he’ll unclasp my bra

and take my breasts in his hands,

and then we’ll go upstairs and

make love. Oh, there’s

the alarm—time to get dressed.

What a great day-dream

that will come true.

by Adam D Fisher, 2022

Cicadas are the garden’s continuo

a gentle bass background

under dove’s early coo,

cardinals’ proclamation of presence.

Deep under maple shade

green and white hostas thrive

with ferns and woodruff. The great

blue-gray spruce rises like a bearded

sage near peonies whose purple

and pink flowers are an extravagant

welcome to more modest ivy geraniums.

Birds feed in front of rose of Sharon, prodigious

summer bloomers in pink and purple, high above

hydrangeas adorned with white, blue and pink balls.

Lythrum is fading white while anemones hold

budding promise of blue September flowers. Wygelia

is  a wan memory of spring, but palest pink

baby’s breath is a small cloud near the grass.

Purple balloon flowers and feathery

Russian sage rise against the gray fence.

Spent Japanese irises are next to

gaudy yellow-orange rudebeckia

while phlox, pink and white,+ are next to

yellow “Peace,” roses.

Yes. Peace.