A Poem: Wild Goose Chase by Tina Hudak

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A Poem: Wild Goose Chase

Dogged in the pursuit of peace,

the windows slam shut. Sounds 

of leaf blowers, lawn mowers

are muffled if not erased by her

chosen confinement. 

The phone is on "Rest." No dings, 

no music suddenly interrupting

time needed to regroup. To

rethink what has sent her on

a wild goose chase at finding

happiness this late in life.

© Tina Hudak

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Tina Hudak

Tina Hudak is an artist and writer who lives only six miles from the U.S. Capitol. She wishes it were further. Her work is held by The Library of Congress, the University of Maryland Special Collections, and other esteemed institutions. She is not sure why. She appreciates those who are kind to all living things.

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HAPPY AS A MUDLARK by Vern Fein

 

Kiril Gruev

HAPPY AS A MUDLARK

I've said it. You've said it.

What does it mean?

Just a bird being happy?

Aren't all birds happy?

Mudlarks, robins, bluebirds.

In 18th-century England, though, 

the unhappy poor struggled, 

doomed to a life of poverty, 

desperate for the family to eat daily.

They scoured the shores

of the murky Thames River.

It was their bank, grocery store.

Combed the beaches 

for every item that might

bring a coin or two, 

lumps of coal, scraps of metal,

pieces of cargo lost in wrecks.

Anything salvaged, fair game. 

A pitiable scene, women and girls

mostly, dirty aprons filled

with smut and bother,

hoped to sell anything.

But the local reports saw

who they called mudlarks 

differently, happy and smiling 

and grateful as they 

gathered their daily wares, 

rain or shine, mud or sand. 

In Chekov's play, 

The Cherry Orchard,

a serf named Anfisa

has a small scene.

She kneels in her tiny room,

beside her straw bed,

and thanks to God 

for what she has,

while her masters pule

as their estate is sold.

Anfisa was a mudlark.

How easy should it be

for us, in our privilege,

to be mudlark happy too? 

© Vern Fein

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Vern Fein

A recent octogenarian, Vern Fein, has published over 300 poems and short prose pieces on more than 100 websites. A few are Gyroscope Review, Young Raven’s Review, Bindweed, *82 Review, River And South, Grey Sparrow Journal, and One Art.  His second poetry book—REFLECTION ON DOTS—was released late last year. 

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Pail by Carol Barrett

 

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

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Carol Barrett

Carol Barrett began writing poetry to support the widowed women she was counseling. Her most recent book is READING WIND. Currently living in Oregon, Carol supervises creative dissertations for students at two universities.

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You in me, I in you by Pulkita Anand

 

AS Photography

You in me, I in you

Woke up to the rustling of the pages of the morning

The night’s smoke of failure cleared by the sunlight

Lightening pours from every pore, boiling and boiling

Expanding cloud of nothingness carrying the self

Wafted in the vast sky, wheezes the oceanic soul

Ferrying on the fleet of forgiveness

My distant relative, happiness comes daily

Whom I don’t remember or recognise

Meanwhile, the song is drifting and again

From an empty cup, I filled my cup

Freshened by the dews, the soul feasted

Listening to the silence of grass, trees, and stone

Nothing is lost, hold the golden moment

We are a special limited edition

In the dark, constellations of stars and white flowers shine

Love, hold, and let go with faith in every hour

Fall and rise again with every fall

On the whole, I learned my role

© Pulkita Anand

Pulkita Anand

Pulkita Anand is an avid reader of poetry. Author of two children’s e-books, her recent eco-poetry collection is we were not born to be erased. Her work has appeared in Tint Journal, Origami Press, New Verse News, Green Verse: An anthology of poems for our planet (Saraband Publication), Comparative Women, Asiatic, Inanna Publication, Bronze Bird Books, SAGE Magazine, The Sunlight Press, and elsewhere.

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A fine line between happiness and contentment by Ken Tomaro

Lisa Fotios 

A fine line between happiness and contentment

 

From Ken’s Gratitude Journal

2 pm the Wednesday afternoon of Thanksgiving eve. I’m off work, and for the first time in years, I have no engagements or familial responsibilities. No dog-sitting duties for a coworker. No work emails to answer. Nothing. I am sitting in my chair waiting for the gummy to kick in so that the angels might dance across the wall in front of me. I ordered some ceramic mushrooms online to add to the plants I have on the table next to me. 

 

There is a pot simmering on the stove with orange & apple slices, cinnamon, cloves, and honey because, for once, I want to be in some kind of holiday spirit. Unlike in many previous years, I am honestly thankful for what’s in front of me. This, in all its simplicity, could very well be as good as it gets, and I am ok with it. I am content. And while there may be a fine line between happiness and contentment, I will always believe they are one and the same.

© Ken Tomaro

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Ken Tomaro

Ken Tomaro is a writer living in Cleveland, Ohio, whose work reflects everyday life with depression. His poetry has appeared in several online and print journals, exploring the common themes we all experience in life. Sometimes blunt, often dark, but always grounded in reality.

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Poetry by Lisa Tomey-Zonneveld

Photo from Unsplash

Ten Lines about Bluebirds

Bluebirds

blue-winged flitters

Flit, fly, freely

Bounces, just a few ounces

Gathers grub for love

Unites for family delights

Here’s a treat

Happily, perched, chirps

Bellies belie gluttony

A Poem About Things I Love

In this breath-filled life, the first is family among my loves.
Next, are friends like family, adopted in hearts with ease.
Colors of all sorts have value, satisfy a sweeter view.
Paintbrushes, water, mugs united for the creation of artful things.
Papers of all colors and textures that wait patiently for my attention.
Photographs of almost everything, no matter if I know your Aunt Sally.
Friendly faces, covered with grins, even if I don’t know them.
Scents of lavender, vanilla, caramel, and floral sweetness as I walk past.
Coffee, chocolate, and peanut butter.
Blue ink, yellow paper, and ideas.
Dream-filled naps I want to remember, when people I have lost come back to see me.
These are just some of the things that make me smile with joy.
I am curious to know what makes others fill with glee.

Haikus About Harvest

The Petals of Pie

petals flavor pie
savory from herb harvest
grown from history
 
Memories of Sweet Taste

taste the memories
harvests after sweat and spade
earth has its own soul
 
Applesauce

gleaned apples so ripe
chopped, cooked until soft to press
push, turn, plop, it’s done

© Lisa Tomey-Zonneveld

Lisa Tomey-Zonneveld

Lisa Tomey-Zonneveld is the founder and manager of Prolific Pulse Press LLC and a widely published poet and writer. She is the editor of numerous anthologies and is an editor for Fine Lines Journal. Tomey-Zonneveld is Poet Laureate Emeritus of Garden of Neuro Institute and resides in North Carolina. You can follow her at ProlificPulse.blog

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