A Letter Poem by Michael Estabrook

Dear Lennie

Because of the awful winter we had here in New England we’ve been enduring a spate of workers in and around the house (jackals, hyenas, vultures, a lion or 2 feasting upon a fallen wildebeest)
Had a new roof put on
And then today having a new ceiling put in the kitchen
And a new floor in the family room
And the walls in the garage torn down and rebuilt
All thanks to the water damage from the monster ice dams it has been such fun
Time to move to a condo I think
I’ll do the painting, save a few bucks that way anyway
Unless of course I fall the hell off the ladder!
It’s all a test you know, God checking to see if we can or cannot stand the rigors of Hell!
Anyway, thought it might be time to check in send along a few of poems for your consideration.
thanks as always for your time and consideration,
and I hope all is well

Michael Estabrook

Home Fragments

A Poem by Susan Dale

(1)

My mother’s eyes
My father’s shroud
The breath of home

(2)

Behind curtains of darkness
The candles of truth burn
into time

(3)

Reaching out to find
to touch again
An ever-elusive phantom
Home

(4)

Colors escaping their forms
Floating free
Falling rosy-red
Into the heart

(5)

What has met
To cross my mind
Lingers long
Memories of home

(6)

Fingers of time
Pointing to the heavy scent
Of home

(7)

Pawprints across the night
Lead me to the
World of all things
Home

(8)

Looking back
With half-closed eyes
The smoke and mirrors
of remembering

(9)

Home
A place I search to find
In my mind

(10)

Walking the chalk lines
Of daybreak
Taking me home

(11)

Trickling down
Sometimes
Memories of home

(12)

In a world saturated with dreams
Carrying a song
Of forever

Before Michael Brown and Freddie Gray

A Poem by Donal Mahoney

Who celebrates
the birthday of a tree?
Birds and squirrels, perhaps,
but not Michael Brown
and not Freddie Gray
and not Rufus Jackson, who was
hung from a weeping willow in 1863.

Rufus stole an apple pie
cooling on a window sill,
a farmer’s wife said.
She told her husband about it
when he came in from threshing.
An uncle found Rufus
and cut him from the tree.

His family buried him
behind a willow not too far
from a barn in Mississippi
where two men took Emmitt Till,
a boy from the city, in 1958.
Both men said Emmitt had
whistled at a white man’s wife.

The two men beat Emmitt,
gouged an eye out, shot him
in the head, tossed his body
in the Tallahatchie River, not far
from the grave of Rufus Jackson,
said to have stolen an apple pie, then
hung from a weeping willow in 1863.

REPORT CARD PRISON

A Poem by Korea J. Brownstein

One door opens.
What I thought I should have done
Sticks in my side.
I could have done better–
I thought I did enough.
It wasn’t what they wanted.
I didn’t do enough

The door opens
I want to get through.
I say that I can learn,
But I cannot.
Numbers surrounds me
Like dirty clouds,
like dirty words.
I’m confined.

Veterans Cemetery

A Poem by Donal Mahoney

Families come
on Memorial Day
depending on the weather;
otherwise the Fourth of July,
if it’s not too hot.

You can hear them coming,
adults in the rear,
reminiscing and talking,
children who can read
announcing the names
on the stones until they
discover the right one.
Then they shout.

Adults bring flowers,
placing them softly
in front of the stones
near our heads.
Children stick little
flags from parades
in our waistlines.

Some ladies bring towels
and wipe down the stones;
others towelettes to remove
gunk from the lettering.

All mean well and we
appreciate the visit and wish
we could say something.
It’s a thrill to hear voices.
Otherwise it’s lawn mowers,
leaf blowers, snow plows
the rest of the year.

Untitled

A Poem by Randall Rogers

the minds
of madness

made

in complete

the offal

and where will you/we

be when it all starts

again

before
it hasn’t

begun

after the finish

which is nice

for a while

rest. free dream

before not begun again
begin

The dying Field. Renewing

again

a Shiva wheel

stuck
page won’t display

grey

goo

and hallo

to all of you
unformed uniformed
incontinent
unpossibilities

waiting

to bust out

of jail.

yeah, where to come

before I guess we gotta go

or do something

no change

is coinless

boring
a coverup
to convince

thinkin’’

don’t think

with no head peace.
Oye.