The Grapes by Matthew James Friday

 

Image / Henri Guérin

The Grapes

 

Standing in Safeway, staring

at grapes, a man approaches.

I heard him talk to his sons

 

with a soft, operatic Spanish.

Inspired by our indecision

he teaches us about the fruit

 

which ones are sweet and soft,

the ones that crunch - his son’s

favorites. He is from Chile,

 

works in agriculture - grapes,

green and red. Those ones.

Recommends with a smile.

 

Later we eat grapes and thank

life for the small, sweet gifts.

 

© Matthew James Friday

Matthew James Friday

Matthew James Friday is a British-born writer and teacher. He has had many poems published in the US and international journals. His first chapbook, ‘The Residents,’ was published by Finishing Line Press in the summer of 2024. His second chapbook, ‘The Be-All and the End-All,’ was published by Bottlecap Press in autumn 2024. He has published numerous micro-chapbooks with the Origami Poems Project. Matthew is a Pushcart Prize-nominated poet. Visit his website at http://matthewfriday.weebly.com.

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Poetry of Love and Light by Shaun R. Pankoski

 

Image / willsantt

Poetry of Love and Light

Rumi Said

be a lamp

or a lifeboat

or a ladder

illuminate the dark

row to safe haven

climb out of the muck

become the lotus

Surrounded

I want to be that wild bee,

drunk on peony nectar.

I want to be the Java sparrow,

sitting in the backyard cherry tree.

I want to be the porcelain crab,

tucked in a left-behind conch shell.

I want to be wrapped in fondant,

soaked in the juice of a dragon fruit,

anointed with the scent

of stargazer lilies.

I want to be the morning sky.

I want to be on fire.

Seeds and Stardust

Earth nudges her seeds.

Sky grabs a fistful of stars.

Seeds reach, though shyly.

Stars run wild in the dark.

Two mothers, two kinds of love.

© Shaun R. Pankoski

Shaun R. Pankoski

Shaun R. Pankoski (she/her) is a poet, most recently from Volcano, Hawaii. A retired county worker and two-time breast cancer survivor, she has been an artist’s model, modern dancer, massage therapist, and an honorably discharged Air Force veteran. A 2024 Pushcart Prize nominee, her poems have appeared in ONE ART, Quartet, SWIMM, Thimble, Mackinaw Journal, and MockingHeart Review, among others. She was selected as a finalist by Lefty Blondie Press for her chapbook manuscript, Tipping the Maids in Chocolate: Observations of Japan, and as a first runner-up for their Editors' Choice Broadside Series for her poem, Lupine.

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Poetry by Catherine Zickgraf

 

Image / MART PRODUCTION

Natives

My kids mountaineer the terrain of my house.

They alpine two by two the fifteen steps to their rooms 

then rappel so fast I worry.  

Must be just recently I carried one of them up the stairs

to lay him down for his nursery nap.

But eventually each son learned to throw himself 

over the crib rail and jump.

They’ve been zip-lining around the house ever since.

While Adults Talked after Church

I would hide in the bushes,

finding forts behind untouched underbrush.

For below the boughs that touched the ground

I’d weave my way in the dirt—

branches scratching dress and tights 

and patent leather shoes. 

I was always running from adults,

sometimes scaling trees spiraled with rings

to blend where the little things live.

I learned to hide from the eye like them.    © Catherine Zickgraf

Catherine Zickgraf

Two lifetimes ago, Catherine performed her poetry in Madrid. Now her main jobs are to write and hang out with her family. You can find her work in Pank, Deep Water Literary Journal, and 7th-Circle Pyrite. Her chapbook, Soul Full of Eye, is published through Kelsay Books. Find her socially in the Bluesky and watch/read more at www.caththegreat.blogspot.com.

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Pail by Carol Barrett

 

Image / Tobias Baur

Pail

From the recesses of the garage, I impulsively pull 

a blue plastic pail, one my daughter used to build 

sand castles at the beach, gulls in a frenzy 

over her emerging masterpiece. It holds 

all the markings of happiness, a thin veneer 

of sand still clinging to the inner wall. 

Summer again. Another scorcher out there, 

107 forecast. I carry my blue vessel to the canal, 

dig heels down to the water’s sheen, as if clogging,

and fill with pleasure sloshing over the rim. 

The ducks quiz me about the venture but 

ultimately paddle nonchalantly downstream,

ripples at their sides. I cart my wet load back 

home, unfold flimsy lawn chair, remove shoes

and socks, dunk blistered feet in the small pool,

toes squirming instead of ducklings, the air

rushing my lungs already a cooler countenance. 

Thus I bring the canal home, grateful for each splash, 

aware the pail may carry the day, trying to make 

of heat just another waffling mood to fashion our brisk footwork in a changing world. © Carol Barrett

Carol Barrett

Carol Barrett has published three volumes of poetry, most recently READING WIND, and one of creative nonfiction, PANSIES. An NEA Fellow in Poetry, Carol supervises creative dissertations for both Antioch and Saybrook Universities.

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By Chance by Daniel Skach-Mills

 

Image/ William O'Hearn

By Chance

Lan Su Chinese Garden, Portland, Oregon

I found a forested wilderness in the city.

Amid human hurry I stroll now, contented and at ease.

Narrow trails lead to lakes and mountains.

A wide heart-mind buffers dust and noise.

Wherever I look, tranquil vistas are visible.

Whenever I think, the remote abode’s obscured.

Far from any monastery, this lacebark pine’s

patchwork trunk is the only robe I need.

“By Chance”/Poem Notes: 

Classical Chinese uses the same word (xin/pronounced: shin) for both heart and mind (heart-mind). 

Dust (often referred to as “red dust” in Chinese poetry) is the negative fallout associated with life lived in the ego-driven human world. 

Poet Tao Yuanming (365-427 CE) wrote, “When thinking is distanced, the abode becomes remote.” 

The lacebark (aka whitebark) pine has multi-colored, mottled bark that peels as the tree matures. Ch’an Buddhist monks often wore patchwork robes that resembled this bark.

This poem was written to commemorate the planting of a lacebark pine in Lan Su Chinese Garden on January 22, 2020.

© Daniel Skach-Mills

Daniel Skach-Mills

Daniel Skach-Mills’ poetry has appeared in Braided Way, Sojourners, Sufi (Featured Poet), and Kosmos Journal. His book, The Hut Beneath the Pine: Tea Poems, was a 2012 Oregon Book Award finalist. A former Trappist monk, Daniel resides in Portland, Oregon, where he has served for fifteen years as a docent at Lan Su Chinese Garden.

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To Lie in Grass by Lee Robison

Image / Mohamed Weaam

To Lie in Grass

To lie in a meadow uncut by suburbia or for the commerce of hay,

to lie in this aura, this odor of soil and curing grass, 

to lie under the flagging blooms of Timothy, Brome, or Western Bunch

bannering against a blue so vast that whole lives cannot know it,

to lie in this overture of death and let timelessness lengthen 

with the shadows of the sun, to lie thus, 

past shadows, into the fuller shadow of night, 

yes, to lie with flickering stars 

and the great lights dancing above wind-wavered grass,

is to worship all that is worthy of worship.

And to lie, when my time is past in this pasture of grass— 

to lie when this overture is over, 

to lie stilled at last, with the winnowed grasses of winter

until roots gather what’s left and lofts, 

molecule by molecule through leaves and blooms–  

to release what no longer is 

and waft it into the light-dappled dark 

where it may dance, perhaps, in the gyre of stars.  

© Lee Robison

Lee Robison

Lee Robison has retired from Federal service. He lives with his wife in Montana on a sliver of the ranch he grew up on, a couple of mountain valleys west of The Paradise. Lee currently works as a potter, poet, and storyteller. His collection of poems, titled Have, was published by David Robert Books in 2019. 

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Grounded by Tina Hudak

 

Image/ Pixabay

Grounded

I have been pinned to this spot

for decades.

Winds blow hard through here. Often.

Rains sweep across the ground

in torrents. 

At times like these I revel in this possibility

I just might become unpinned.

Yet, here I am. Still. Stuck. 

The proverbial butterfly 

in the shadow box

hanging with wings spread;

colors glowing;

people passing to Oooo and Ahhhh

Yet, I remain hopeful. 

My desiccated body

will soon shrivel.

The heavy steel pin will no longer hold me 

And with the coming  storm 

I will blow away. Upwards-

to finally feel the world.

© Tina Hudak

Tina Hudak

Tina Hudak is a writer-artist in the Washington, D.C. area. She has works included in The Library of Congress and the Harvard Art Library, as well as small press publications in the U.S. and overseas. Visit TinaOpines and "A Blue Bunny Studio" on WordPress.

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