National Poetry Month Community Project Posts

by Anne Kelly-Edmunds, 2022

Tight buds open,

        arch toward freedom.

Crimson wishes bloom,

        unfurl with hope.

by Charlotte Heotis, edited by Peter Heotis, 2022

I strolled along the sandy beach

My tracing the ocean could not reach

But when I look behind

There were only the sands of time.

So, it is with earthly things

We come, we go

Tears only memory we know

Rage and torment are for naught

And only peace and love not forgot.

by Linda Sleszynski, 2022

At long last

Quiet,

Still

Difficult to be

Still

Can’t Concentrate on just being

Still

The worries haunt

Still

The memories taunt

Still

Nature is called forth

Still

Heart rate slows

Still

These years have been a test

Still

So much unrest

Still

by Linda Sleszynski, 2022

Not long ago

did I feel the possibility of hope

as Spring I knew was coming

and my dear snow-crusted city

would turn from shadow to light

and gray to blossoms of crocus and narcissus.

The others did not want to hear of my worry

of the madmen

and the threat.

Still I held that silent ache.

It gripped me in its embrace.

Each day would I move my eyes

to circle my apartment,

this symbol of my adulthood.

I scanned my treasures

as well as my necessities.

What to take

if there were no choices?

What could I bear to leave behind?

Always did my gaze fall upon

my most treasured possession;

an antique perfume bottle.

It was my grandmother’s

and my mother’s befor eme.

It had the delicate curves of a woman;

the color of red currants,

and a faint scent

remained inside its depths.

As the threat

and my ache both expanded

each day I added another necessity

to my suitcase:

wool socks, gloves and hat,

two hand-knit sweaters

and thick tights,

some toilet items

and fruits and nuts.

Would I be a coward for leaving?

The others wanted to stay

with their guns

and fight if it was needed.

At the first sign of fire in the sky

I carefully wrapped the perfume bottle

in package paper

and among my woolens

I protected it.

I wrapped myself warmly as I could think

and began the long trek to the border

praying they would not think lower of me

for leaving.

by Charlotte Heotis, edited by Peter Heotis, 2022

Life is a tapestry

Woven with many threads

Light and bright

Dark and white

Of silk and knobby tweed

What every fills the need

Each weft and warp

Adds to the scene

Revealing the weaver’s theme.

by Anne Kelly-Edmunds, 2022

Even as multi-hued leaves release

         twirl toward earth

two bright blue

      morning glories bloom

open to October’s cool light

         protectively cup

yellow throats rich with songs

       welcoming this day

by Adam D. Fisher, 2022

Fred, whose car broke down,

didn’t have money to fix it

and lost his minimum wage job

because he couldn’t get to work.

Then, because he couldn’t

pay his rent, he was evicted

from his basement apartment.

Now he lives in the woods

off Rogers Road in a spot

among the bushes so he can’t

be seen even in winter.

He’s made a bed of old quilts

he found in a dumpster;

keeps a sharp knife under

his pillow just in case.

He collects bottles to make

a few dollars, stole a bike

he uses to get around

and ask for work,

eats in soup kitchens,

washes in their bathrooms.

Finally he got a job

as a night cleaner in an office.

He washes the floor,

empties baskets and cleans

the bathrooms.

At least it is warm.

Soon, he’ll save enough

to rent a basement apartment

but he won’t get a car—

won’t take a chance

on unexpected bills.