Michelle Smith

Nana's Heart

Shiny sterling silver

Sparkly and cool to the touch

Inside soft red velvet

A jewelry box reminds me of Nana's Heart.

No music, no jewelry, nor an empty find.

Memories open of childhood past and love,

For our matriarch,

Beautiful teacher, disciplinarian, and kind.

They're stored up like heaven's treasure.

As a little girl, our days spent together

Were collected in a jar as if fireflies,

And our nights glowed like moonbeams.

Imaginary sand flows freely from my hands.

My yesterday is gone in a flash.

All grown up and too old to pretend.

My memories sustain me

and remind me of way back then.

Remember when the world grows cold,

Those crown jewel moments

Will have me captured forever in time.

I Remember When

I lost my way when she wanted to dance. I saw her walk two steps forward and one step back.

I lost my way when I see she was the locomotive train, choo, choo on her 35+ years diligent county of Los Angeles deputy track.

I lost my way when she claimed she couldn't walk anymore because she possessed a work injury that hurt her back.

I lost my way when God's angels freed her from no more suffering, ascended her with their wings

and I realized that she's not coming back.

I lost my way when there would be no more phone calls hearing the words I love you and call me when you get home, no matter how late or early,

especially if I had a suitcase for my next live in assignment to pack.

I lost my way when the corner of my eyes rolled tears on my cheeks and they turned into a water main that did not crack.

I lost my way when the words "on a clear sky you can see forever" did not lack.

Our loss is heavens gain indelible and incredible Queen Mom. We love you to the ends of the earth and carry you in our hearts for you are not very far. 

You are the love and light in the constellation of luminescent stars. 

Mira N Mataric

Aging

Aging is when you notice

that time passes faster than before

and you understand and love life more.

It does not bother you that death is part of life

And you smile thinking how much

Youth had a lot of strife.

 

Old age is when your body slows down,

you forget the names of some old friends

the town where you met your first love

you cannot find your glasses or keys

yet harder and slower succeeds

 

A nice walk, in tune with your mind

with bright flowers lining the path

and sweet song birds sing to you

you enjoy the small everyday things

 

holding my great grand children

and watching the babies play

makes a very precious day

 

The family all say s

To find Mira

look for a baby.

Chopin and I forever

When I was thirteen,

I lived in Europe.

I had pictures of American stars:

men and women.

I was in love with all men,

but it did not last:

they were too far

over the Ocean.

My mom said they were

too old for me, anyway.

So, I did not cry.

 

Only a bit later,

I learned to play

Chopin’s music,

I fell in love with him.

My mother was supportive.

she did not have to worry.

She did not say her usual:

“No dating. You are too young”

 

With Chopin, she asked me

to play for her every day

on my new patient piano.

She did not mind

if I fall in love with Frederic

so I have.

Once forever.

PJ Swift

That collective song

It comes again -- that vision of the collective song, sung by many, each with misty nostalgia in their eyes, each sharing a culminating moment that indicates a common past. Their every unifying word and coordinated undulation testify to the primordial essence of that shared melody.

S. is simply a curious outsider, engaged in this phenomenon not as a member of that swaying chorus but as an amateur anthropologist, studying a tribe which he cannot become a member of. One can mouth the words and hum the tune, but it is far too late to become initiated.

Remembering my modernity

The young girl wanders further through the maze-like structure of the modern art museum. It's a spacious structure with few items. She turns the corner, where an elderly woman sits on the floor against the wall, crying loudly, sobbing. It's not entirely certain to the young girl if the sight of this crying woman is a performance art exhibit or an authentic moment. She asks the woman if she is all right. The woman stops for a moment. Yes, she replies, I am just crying in remembrance of my modernity. I wish I could have my modernity. 

The girl looks puzzled. No answer is expected from her. She walks off as the woman gives her a wan, sublime smile. The girl is now pensive and agitated. She thinks to herself, I am now lamenting my future nostalgia.

Lori Wall-Holloway

I Remember When

 

I remember when

as slowly our cats left

us, Gizmo was the one

always waiting at home

 

I recall

loving to watch her race

through rooms with abandon

when she did not have to hide

from young children who

came to visit

 

I remember

every morning seeing

her lay in sunlight

shining through the window

or her sitting atop her cat tree

to feel warm sunny rays

while gazing at the scene

below

 

I recall

how she curled up on the back

of the couch to signal her desire

to be petted

Or rub against our legs to force

us to notice her demands

It was her way of stating

she owned us

 

I remember

my buddy who slept  

at the foot of the bed

so as not to be disturbed

unless it was too cold

and she would cuddle

next to me to stay warm

 

As I walk into my room

I still see her at the end

of the bed where she allowed

those she feared to pet

her as a way of saying

good-bye; it’s time

 

Now, Gizmo’s original tree

with its worn carpeting

has been removed

but the loss of my little friend

is still tender

because we were forced

to say farewell to our last cat

and an era of pet owning

 

Ashton Cynthia Clarke

Remember Where I Am From

 

I am from little me peering down a dark hallway with locked doors . . . but do I truly remember that or was it a dream?

I am from coarse, sandy soil, blue mountains, and skies redolent with stringy mango and hibiscus . . . one generation removed.

I am from great-great grandmother remembered only as “the white lady Bodden” and her daughter whose name is unknown, whose daughter was Maud, whose daughter was my mother.

I am from aunts’ kitchens where smells of curry, oxtails, and coconut rice hung heavy in the air. And remember that rum-laced sweet red syrup imported from back home.

I am from women who pressed their long hair and twirled in full skirts painted island colors of orange, red, and green as calypso and ska blared from 45s twirling on the record-changer.

I am from being sent to my room when I showed off my drawing of a naked woman. Remember? She was in profile and without a nose.

I am from a mommy who shopped to surround herself with beauty and ease the loneliness unleashed by a bitter and detached spouse.

I am from teen me telling him “I love you” too soon and beginning a dark pattern that’s become a nightmare.

 

Karen Pierce Gonzalez

Faded

I remember when,

into my empty hands,

the long-stemmed rose he bought himself

                                                            petaled.

 

My palms,

a wreath of lines

no fortune teller wants to read

                                                            opened

to catch

what he dropped

on the brambly path we were on.

                                                            Thorns

uphill all the way  

scratched my skin

and hurt when held

                                                             tightly.

Joan McNerney

Same crap, different century

Well I have heard this generation

is a bunch of rude, crude show-offs.

I remember my granny taking me

to a rummage sale for a winter coat.

Even though it was a boy’s coat,

she said. “It’s good enough for her”.

That was after my father died in Arizona

where you did not need winter clothes

and I was shipped back to Brooklyn.

She had chunky cut glass pieces on a

huge table dressed with heavy lace.

Her chandelier hung, of course,

in the special room nobody used.

We sat at the kitchen table covered

with oilcloth and ate canned spitgetti

while white bread turned blue green.

When she asked me to go for a ride,

it was exciting because I thought

we’re going somewhere in her big car.

She drove around for a new parking space.

Some things never change…this world is

full of crazy people who think they are sane.

AND she was devoutly religious too.

Alicia Viguer-Espert

Remembering the Monastery

 

Between the damaged roof and the walnut tree

slightly to the right, I watched Venus appear

using a celestial method long discovered

by astronomers who registered astral details

as we, scribes, illuminated manuscripts

in the dim light of the scriptorium.

 

Those days were sacred, when a robin

sitting on the window sill to preen its tail

caught the brothers’ attention and they

lifted their heads from smooth parchment,

interrupted grinding lapis for a minute

to smile at birds’ ease to reach heaven.

 

Today the empty monastery stands silent,

stone walls crumbled, beehives destroyed,

all bees dying in clusters from pesticides,

its orchard burned years ago, the pigsty

covered with ivy, only a single walnut tree

stands by the wooden door cracked by sun,

 

which, like me, was once new and strong.

In those clear mornings nothing was futile,

the bundles we carried were not burdens

but a fair exchange for the gifts received,

silence, blue skies, tolling bells falling

like rain in May when it was most needed.

 

The roads leading to that door were infinite

and no wind blowing over the hills stopped

a pilgrim seeking the solace of an inner 

contact with Andromeda, Cassiopeia, or

their own soul, from getting their reward.

In another life, eons ago, I must have been

 

one of those monks waiting for the Beloved,

leaning on the walnut tree, closed eyes focused

on the heart chakra counting each breath,

which like heartbeats, connected to my soul.

I remember an eagle resting on that same tree

tried to tell me a secret, but I didn’t listen.

Letter to My Iranian Lover

 

In the old days, voices connected by wire

Now waves carry them unbounded

To our palms, no strings attached

Floating just like our lives

In a limbo of our doing.

 

I think of seagulls’ long calls

Waiting for the sun to warm

Tail and wing to fly away

Early in the morning.

You recognize the behavior.

 

I picture you as a tolling bell

Calling the faithful to Mass

More than the muezzin of youth

Forgotten so effortlessly.

Move away, watch structures crumble

 

Under foreign pressures,

Non halal food, reshaped ideology,

Those openly inviting women

Exactly like open face sandwiches

At Grenouille’s near the Sacré Coeur.

 

Yesterday I visited your mother

Old now, opaque film interferes

With her field of vision, a common experience.

My heart flares up like fireworks knowing

I may be the one weeping when she dies.

 

I won’t join you in Paris,

You’ll never return to our blue beaches,

The Madrassa, Ibrahim’s workshops.

Nor walk by fruit stalls showing their colors,

The one thing you have not shown me.

 

 

Remembering Paris

 

We walk arm on arm,

rain splatters on slate rooftops.

You say, I love you.

 

Everything stops

rain, moon, the wind even.

 

I open my mouth

to lick what I can.

 

It won’t last

two more days of sun

over the sidewalk

and everything will dry

Jeffry Jensen

REMEMBERING THE HORNS OF A DINOSAUR DILEMMA

As far as the eye can see,

it was all one big bloody continent.

No one was figuring on going extinct.

No one had any idea what the hell was extinct.

I guess when we say wipe out

we mean a really humongous downer of a day.

Horsetails come and go, but flying reptiles last forever

or so they thought on those cross-country family vacations.

Jurassic times here we come equipped with fangs

and more fun shit that comes with grazing up a storm.

Pouches for food and a supply of back teeth

that came in handy when a Lufengosaurus herd dropped by.

It was more digging for the dreamers who wanted

to calculate what a collection of bones could be worth.

When the great lizard ran around laying havoc,

no one was calling for mommy to tuck you in.

Surprise surprise when out of the limestone quarries,

a big guy called Megalosaurus danced a pelvic jig.

Whenever I take a stumbling walk

on the wild side of history and land on something Jurassic,

I take pause as I study all the plates

that may give rise to our impending extinction.

jf giraffe

THE SKY WAS SPECIAL (Haiku) 

We stared at the stars.

Remember when love hit us.

What a perfect night. 

CHIRPING HAPPILY (Haiku)

Bird visits each spring.

Remembers her balcony. 

Sings a song for her.

Ellyn Maybe

A MATTER OF WHEN

 

It was a California palm tree in Joni Mitchell’s backyard.

It was a sunny day in LA and the records were being spun on the axis of the stars.

It was a freeway free of traffic.

It was a hat being blown Frisbee like into the teeth of a billboard.

 

The world was changing.
Smart phones were a future gleaming.

The world was orange peel and history biting its tongue.

 

The world was new, very young.

The world was on a first name basis with Earth,

People were not even a thought yet.

 

There was only space and luxurious rain,

There was only glow and the ambition of thunder.

There was only the memory of whatever was.

There was only a glimpse of a kaleidoscope wish.

There was only tomorrow leaving its footprints on today.

There was a lighthouse overlooking the sea like a cloud full of fire.

Things were encroaching.

It was only a matter of time.

Things were close.

It was only a matter of when.

 

Things were turning, spinning.

Things were coming down to the house of the open eye.

Things were coming into focus.

Things were coming into view.

Things were still hopeful.

 

There was an ice cream truck and a piano.

There was an apple and a room full of books.

There was a sky full of chords.

There was a dance still finding its feet.

There was a beach.

There was a billboard.

 

Things were fast.

Technology and the sweet note lived in the mouth of the rain.

Theater and the stage lived in the crook of one’s elbow.

Everything was right where we left it.

Everything there for the moment.

Everything there made of time and flour.

Eating up our life with memory and the time before backyards kept the trees company.

As they rooted the music within.

ellyn & robbie's video of A Matter of When

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=tRsLgO7K2nY

Maria A Arana

I want to share...

I want to share my life with you

but glaciers barre the way

fated for death while love

melts each step I take

It doesn't get me closer

but trying is only good enough

when it matters to you

 

 

I haven't been able...

I haven't been able to find solace in your passing

memories surface when least expected

and regret fills me

for years we were strangers

living and sharing

laughing and fighting

but we didn't know your thoughts

what you went through

how you wanted more

and us your critic

when a heart was all you needed

 

 

falling...

falling when holding on

crying when rain has stopped

running when road is graveled

spinning when standing till

and all the time you hold her hand

forgetting when our love touched the galaxy

 

when I speak the truth

it's like waves crashing on rocks

breaking them until they come sliding off

and you dismiss them

thinking I'd rather live

a heart can take so much

before letting on that you cared

even grains of sand must find cohesion

R A Ruadh

Unremembered

When I was a child

the mornings burst with birds

I’d count their songs

practising my numbers

one day I counted as many

as my grandmother was old

so far this spring

I have counted only one more

than my granddaughter’s years

When I was a child

there were so many fireflies

it was as if the sky had spilled

all of its stars into the yard

when my daughter was the

same age there were only

three fireflies all evening

she knew something was missing

When I was a child

a forest fire was a thing of legend

far away and rare

now my grandchildren

have born the smoke hazed air

wherever they have lived

as have I since their birth

When I was a child

industrial barons and their bribes

were already preparing the world

successful as they are

in everything they do

they have bequeathed life’s absence

a poisoned silence is all

our grandchildren will ever know

having nothing else to remember

Bill Cushing

AT THE STATIONERS

 

Wearing a blue-and-white striped apron, meaty hands resting

on hips, Mrs. Bernstein was as close to a babushka

as suburban Queens got. She stood guard at a freezer

filled with ice cream cups and wooden spoons whose aftertaste

stayed way past the frozen flavor. She surveilled boys

surveying the rows of plastic models in boxes

layered with dust that disbursed into a million motes when moved.

 

At the other end of the corner building, dimly lit

by flickering fluorescent tubes, cluttered

corridors of shelves sat, spilling with sundries: yellow tubes

of airplane glue, boxes of Crayolas, and marbled

notebooks that ended in a wood-and-glass counter

filled with rows of Turkish taffy, paper-wrapped squares

of Bazooka bubble gum, wax lips, and Pez dispensers.

 

Her husband stands, his pear of a body in grey trousers;

strands of hair crossing his balding head. He’d chew his cigar,

eternally unlit, while his look disdained the row of bikes

propped against his storefront window. Then, scowling

at the kids from the school up the street who leafed through

dime comics, he’d bark his ever-reliable mantra:

“Come on, come on! This ain’t no library.”

 

 

DRYDOCKS AND PARADES

 

The warm breezes of great heights

ran through fine

light hair

as I straddled

my father’s neck,

gripping tight to his collar

as veterans marched proudly by:

Ike’s years then.

 

Days of wonderful dizziness,

looking at

that parade of men below me:

 

a fearful pleasure—like now,

climbing kingposts

and stanchions

of eighty-thousand-ton tankers

built with half-inch steel

and starplate from the keel up —

using cables, rivets, bolts,

torches, and welds.

Gladys and Lemuel Pike sitting on the steps of the log cabin they built in Searsburg, VT

GRANDFATHER: LEMUEL GURNEY

 

Born, maybe in 1889; likely ’88;

don’t bother with the day or month.

Passing before I turned three,

I can’t conjure his face, but my shoulders

recall calloused hands that cradled me,

his palms infused by the smell of earth.

 

My mother descended from English courtiers,

but her father hailed from Maine, where

he grew as hard as its granite cliffs,

logging in the White Mountains. Then he moved

to Vermont to build his home in Searsburg,

across from Camel’s Hump, high in the Green Mountains

 

that looked down on Bennington. He constructed a cabin

with tools he made. I knew my grandfather’s brother.

He taught me about long guns, showing me

to cradle the wooden stock in the small of my shoulder.

“Breathe steady. Hold it. Exhale slow when ready.

Squeeze, don’t pull.” My great uncle spoke of his brother,

 

a man whose life blended into nature,

a man hunting squirrels when doctors

ordered him to bed rest after surgery,

a man who slathered his arm with maple sap

to attract bees and prove a point: “See?”

he’d growl. “They don’t attack, only defend.”

Patricia Bailey

I’m Happy When

I’m happy when the morning sunlight peeks into my bedroom window calling me to wake up

I’m happy when fresh brewed coffee rouses my nose to its scent

I’m happy when hummingbirds and monarchs visit my garden

I’m happy when friends leave phone greetings in voice

I’m happy when a monthly bill shows a credit

I’m happy when filling my car at the gas pump and it finishes on a perfect number

I’m happy when my dreams are visits from an ancestor whose eyes meet mine

I’m happy when babies give me a smile

I’m happy when my seeds germinate effortlessly choosing life

I’m happy when songs deliver memories from long ago

I’m happy when in a hurry parking spots appear

I’m happy when the separated sock finds its mate

I’m happy when birds visit my window and linger

I’m happy when the tide is low on a sunny day

I’m happy when a hand written note finds my mailbox

I’m happy when store bought flowers last for weeks

I’m happy when the nightly news is void of trouble

I’m happy when sleeping spoon style with my husband

I’m happy when anyone tells me – I love you.

Jack G Bowman

People Missing in your Life

The Gm chord penetrated h from some 40 feet away

he held back the tears, easier with a dry eye condition

memories of what life has been,

replaying what has occurred,

what has been missed,

those sleepy people out on the edge

that drop from consciousness,

phone numbers that no longer work

disconnected in more than one way,

lines that presently travel through space

away from the streets lined with posts

into orbit, so many miles above the surface

yet penetrate deep below it

a sadness,

perhaps soon, disease of memory will take hold

and all will become moot

if not, there are always ways to search

if one can recall even a part of their name

and when, how, why and

where last

they were seen.

Mary Mayer Shapiro

Mirror 

Depth, reflection perception 

Retains the image for that moment 

Grows along with me 

No judgment, acceptance 

Smiles, frowns 

Knows the true me 

Never shares my faults 

Shows present, not past or future 

My own picture album 

From birth to the end 

Shows health, sickness 

Shock, who is that old person 

Reflects the wall behind me 

Pictures showing years of growth 

Duplicate life on the other side 

Childhood, early adulthood, middle and late 

What has become of me 

Image is fading 

Mirror is cracking 

Like Grandfathers clock 

It is my time 

Bruce Brockmann 

2 / 1981 – 4 / 1981 

Pass dorm eight 

Enter an elevated hill 

To the right is smooth slopes 

Left over from the glacial debris 

A path which circles back 

From once it began 

It is known as the Point 

Upper St. Regis River 

Ebbs and flows 

Leaving gifts 

Then takes it away 

Each year Paul Smiths alumni 

Come to the sanctuary 

Making the annual trip 

Of going to the Point 

Fond memories of 

Past college days 

On top of the hill 

A plaque inserted  

In a boulder written 

Bruce Brockmann 

2 / 1981 – 4 / 1981 

Deep in the ground below 

His heart is buried 

Gaudian of the Point 

Watches over all who come 

To protect or survey the area 

Bruce Brockmann 

Is quite content 

Sitting on the boulder 

Watching the water flow 

Students and visitors 

Come and go 

On a foggy day 

You may see  

A figure in the 

Clouds touching the ground 

Beckoning you 

To share a peaceful moment 

Do you get the point 

 

 

Remember 

Chief Richard C. Frost 

11/18/1958 - 3/31/2024 

As chief of Richmond Volunteer  

Fire Department 

Not an easy job 

Dedicated his service for  

Many years 

Must answer to the board 

Meetings, applying for grants 

Dealing with volunteers 

That cannot be fired 

When calls come in 

At any hour 

Volunteers come pouring in 

Puttin out fires 

Checking gas leaks 

False fire alarms 

Car crashes 

Runaway trees on the road 

By his side the love  

Of his life, Jan 

Who shares his passion 

And daughter Jess 

Who grew up in the firehouse 

A family event 

Always be remembered 

Wearing suspenders 

To hold up his pants 

At times his shirt  

Rises up  

Showing a crack  

As he walks away 

Hail to the chief 

Hail to the chief 

With the ringing of the bells  

David Fewster

I REMEMBER...

the time in 2006 we had coffee

with Fred Dewey and Philomene Long

at a little place off Ocean Park & Main

(I had met them the year before.)

Philomene was very excited we had bought

"Semina Culture: Wallace Berman & His Circle" and gushed

"Those were IMPORTANT times"

and told of flying to Paris

to attend a conference on the Venice beats

and drinking a lot of red wine on the plane.

She asked me who my favorite poet was

and I said "Don Marquis."

She didn't know who he was.

The next year, we visited LA again.

I had Philomene's address from the check

she had given me for my book in 2005

(an event I immortalized in my poem

"Her Poetry Lives on Bathroom Walls")

so we stopped by her place

just off the Boardwalk.

I had prepared a package containing

"the lives and times of archy & mehitabel"

along with a Folksingers In Hell CD

and a poetry broadside.

The gate was locked and she didn't answer the buzzer,

so I just wrote a note and

pushed our offering thru the bars

into the courtyard.

We found out later

she had died that weekend.

Leah Mueller

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Angelina Saenz