A lone tree fell in my woods
But it didn’t hit the ground
Or make that debated sound
It fell into the steadfast embrace
of another tree
With its outstretched branches free
They lean into each other
The broken and the strong
The living and the gone
It’s only with a passing breeze
And a creaking, crying bough
That they make sure we hear them now
— Kayla Stuhr
Kayla Stuhr is a Scottish visual artist, writer, and award-winning filmmaker.
They don’t so much sing as plead
In their droning sound stampede.
I hope they find the love they need —
Something more than meet-and-breed.
Can that even be with insects —
To have sensations beyond touch?
Do they know joy as well as sex?
They don’t so much.
— Paul Jones
Paul Jones is a professor emeritus at the University of North Carolina at Chapel Hill and the author of the collection Something Wonderful.
Scrub your face with a vengeance.
Brush your teeth till your gums bleed.
Comb your hair into a pompadour, braid it
into cornrows, buzz cut a flattop with side skirts,
spit-paste that cowlick to your forehead.
That’s how it begins, this becoming who you aren’t.
A twitch or tic or two you may inherit, but the face
in the mirror you recognized only once
before you’re beguiled by the frailties of those who
precede you — your wayward Aunt Amelia,
the lying politician, tongue flickering through his false
teeth, the long-legged temptress slyly sipping a latté
at the corner coffee shop, your scapegrace
one-eyed Uncle Bill — all of them competing
for your attention, all of them wanting you to become
who they believed they were going to be.
Between intention and action, take a deep breath
and welcome the moment you become who you aren’t.
Slap on Uncle Bill’s black eye patch,
stuff those willful curls under Aunt Amelia’s cloche,
pluck your eyebrows, rouge your cheeks, bleach
those teeth whiter than light: then stare deep into
the reflection behind the mirror: who you’ve become
will trouble you, even if you shut your eyes.
— Stephen E. Smith
Stephen E. Smith is a retired professor and the author of seven books of poetry and prose. His memoir The Year We Danced is being released this month by Apprentice House Press.
My father taught me a civil trick.
If you get caught during a rainstorm
at a downtown restaurant, just ask
the bartender if someone left a black umbrella. They will present you with
a cardboard box chock full of them.
It is not a lie: Someone really has left behind each one. You have left many. Part of the loophole is to make sure to give that umbrella to someone who needs it, or at the very least, leave it
in a shady vestibule, on the coat rack next to that sad windbreaker. Otherwise it doesn’t count. Now they could call this all a life hack, but I consider that lacking. The process of inheritance is about so much more than getting what you need.
— Maura Way
Maura Way’s second collection of poetry, Mummery,
was published in November 2023 by Press 53.
Because she was fast in her way
And he followed her suit,
They launched horizon’s fruitful gaze
To fortify their fruit.
In short parlance, ahead of him,
She was a gushing bride
Until gray moods turned dark to bend
Their rivers for her tide.
They never had one dissension.
He lived his love the same
Beyond single thought’s contention.
Her body chemistry!
A drinking fountain salutes thirst,
Instant bubble, wet lips.
Then comes what earthly love holds first,
Her muscles fell to slips.
So he slept and woke up alone,
For she was processioned
In Smithfield Manor Nursing Home,
Tenacity, a test.
His eye-lids open every morn.
The bones to him creak rise.
The sun’s obeying crown adorns
Remembrances, her sighs.
— Shelby Stephenson
Shelby Stephenson was North Carolina’s poet laureate from 2014-16. His most recent volume of poetry is Praises.
The Latin teacher finally did retire. Her balcony now bends toward the sea. She is in a high-rise looking down at birds. Gulls scream and fly north to the next resort. All that’s left now are pigeons on the patio. They scavenge through the purpling decorative cabbage. She hasn’t seen a pelican yet, just the same birds she came here to get away from. They look like feathered cataracts in a kale eyeball. She sees a buried Titan with umbrella pectorals. It struggles to emerge from beneath the sodden November sand, beaten down by so many tenacious dog walkers. He has his eye on her.
— Maura Way
Maura Way’s second collection of poetry, Mummery, was published by Press 53.
When the preacher’s son told me
my aura was part halo, part rainbow,
I saw him see me
saintly. God
appeared instantly and everywhere
that summer:
smiling in the pansies,
reflecting us in the farm pond,
beside us on our bikes,
in the barn fragrant with warm cows,
glinting from the hay chaff,
the slatted light.
God touched us as we touched,
electricity in our fingers,
we were shimmery and dewy,
our skin golden, hair sun-bleached.
Angels sang in our voices.
The moon rose in heaven, love,
heaven in the moon.
— Debra Kaufman
Debra Kaufman’s newest poerty collection, Outwalking the Shadow, is forthcoming from Redhawk Publications.
Today the trees release their leaves. The wind
a breath that calls the colors down to earth —
wild dance with crimson, gold, and brown
aloft in death, unfurling flaming fields
and forest floor. If I could hurl myself
like this into each ending, long for nothing
sure or safe, but celebrate the letting go,
descend, a woman trusting the fall.
I’d release all claim to expectation,
breathe the air of possibility,
find beginnings everywhere.
I’d settle down to loamy earth long enough
to nourish life that waits, growing still
in the summons from a savage world.
— Pat Riviere-Seel
Pat Riviere-Seel’s latest collection, When There Were Horses, is available from Main Street Rag Publishing Company.
Take me to a place where thoughts taste like sounds
Where faith feels and passion runs
Where touch can swim and energy flow
Where reasons don’t demand, season’s blossom and suns rise
Where water walks and life don’t pass you by, but instead waits patiently
Where people’s attention spans decades
Allow me to be more, so much more
Where my words are more than food for thought, but rather thoughts that provide food
Where I can be more than a poet
And what I say more than words
Where what I do is more than actions
Where revolution is daily and change is voluntary
Where red lights don’t stop traffic, but instead influence all to go respectfully
Creating infinite synergy
Take me to a place where we all prosper normally
Growing hereditarily, moving toward unity
Soon to be so much more than just inspiring
I want to breathe change and walk freedom
To sing strength and run like the wind
Where I can bleed passion and birth ideas that grow to be the future
Where suits are more than clothes or court cases
But represent a race of people all created equal
Where color is no boundary, where money no discriminating factor
Where like actors we are all just waiting to receive our academy award
Their time in the lime light, but this spectrum touches all of us leaving out no one
That light too bright to be held captive
I want to be there where the stairs lead upward and onward and life never ends
Where goodness and peace transcend and everyone is your friend
It’s too bad the only way to get there is at this life’s end
Heaven
— Josephus III
Tryon Place, 1791
Washington comes in. He is wearing
black velvet with gold buckles at the knee
and foot,
a sword with finely wrought
steel hilt, in scabbard
of white leather,
a cocked hat with a cockade and a feather,
also black. His powdered hair
is gathered in a black silk bag.
His hands in gloves of yellow
clasp extended hands.
Above his head medallions
of King and Queen
flicker beneath dripping wicks, the little flames
in circles on the chandeliers
surrounded by bits of glass, like worlds
in the sky, the telescopes of astronomers.
The crystals like Newton’s prisms split
the flames, blue, yellow, red, violet.
As in the “The Masque of the Red Death”
the dance goes on in rooms, where colors
glint from rubies in women’s ears.
He bows deeply, his corneas
refract ideas: science
dances from tiaras, bracelets, rings.
The battle of Alamance
was lost. The Regulators’
defeat had finished the rebellion,
or so Tryon thought.
Washington’s eyes grow red.
He leads the minuet.
— Paul Baker Newman
