Pigeons

As the day star rises over a frozen field,

kissing the roofs of houses, the barren

limbs of pin oak trees and the long arm

of the church spire reaching toward the

wintry sky, I can’t help but think of the

rock pigeons we saw huddled wing-to-

wing early last evening, on two ropes of

electrical wire. We passed by them so

quickly, I only glimpsed these dozens of

dozing birds, though long enough to note

their cozy coexistence, their companion-

able willingness to keep each other warm.

Heads tucked into their necks, their chests

puffed like rising pastries, most slept but

a few, perhaps keeping watch, remained

vigilant. Like twin strings of black pearls,

they enhanced the beauty of the bright

firmament that would soon fold them into

its purpling light — their little bird hearts

beating as one through the cold, dark night.

— Terri Kirby Erickson

Terri Kirby Erickson’s most recent book of poetry is
A Sun Inside My Chest.

Poem

What the Moon Knows

She knows shadow, how to

slip behind clouds. She’s perfected

the art of disappearing. She knows

how to empty herself into the sky,

whisper light into darkness.

She knows the power of silence,

how to keep secrets, even as men

leave footprints in the dust, try to claim her.

Waxing and waning, she summons

the tides. Whole and holy symbol,

she remains perfect truth, tranquility.

Friend and muse, she knows the hearts

of lovers and lunatics. She knows 

she is not the only one that fills the sky,

but the sky is her only home.

— Pat Riviere-Seel

Pat Riviere-Seel is the author of When There Were Horses

Poem

Long Homestead in Winter

— Las Cruces, circa 1932

Not in any literal sense

a homestead: it was purchased

you learned from an old deed

sent you by a cousin. And in this

winter photo, strange with magic

of the never seen, a study in

whites and grays, foreground

trees and background barn shading

towards true black, porch windows

canvas covered against the cold,

original adobe brooding behind, just

one slender strand of air, smokey

warm you guess, rising from a single

flue suggests habitation, warmth

inside. No one living knows

its history now, when the barn

was built; porch facing pristine snow

now fades into surrounding silence. What

was the day like when someone, your

father perhaps, had hiked out the

back door around towards the railroad

track to capture the snow before it turned

to mud underfoot; foot sodden you suspect

later that morning when indoor

voices might have called to breakfast,

but leave your boots outside. All

gone wherever memories are stored —

you never saw the place in winter

but you slept many a summer night there

on that porch already mythical, heard the Santa Fe

hoot by, carry the present away.

—  Julian Long

Julian Long is the author of Reading Evening Prayer in an Empty Church.

Poem

I Swear

This won’t hurt.

I’ll always love you.

You’re perfect.

I do. I will.

I didn’t. It wasn’t —

You’ve got it all wrong.

I only want what’s best for you.

This will be good for both of us.

Nothing can be done.

You’ll never change.

It wasn’t my fault.

I’m only trying to help.

No one’s to blame.

It will be better soon.

— Debra Kaufman

Poem August 2020

Ritual Revived 

She grows impatient waiting 

for gallons of water to boil

in the massive vessel.

Finally, back burner’s roiling ocean  

receives a steel rack of jars packed 

with marmalade — zesty orange,

piquant cranberry.

Ten minutes in water boiling 

inches above metal lids. A rest, 

and she lifts each glass carefully — 

straight up from scalding bath. 

A day to cool; labels affixed,

and the ’lades are now gifts:

holiday, birthday, any day . . .

Sweet memories led to this labor:

her parents on hot August nights, peeling, 

slicing crops green, yellow, red, filling 

Mason jars, hovering over the steaming kettle,

putting up peaches, beans, tomatoes,  

from their small Victory garden,

enough to feed their children,

for yet another wartime winter.

— Barbara Baillet Moran

February Poem

The Arrow

I tried to explain Cupid to a 4-year-old today. 

He was making a Valentine for his grandmother, 

festooning a pink paper heart with stamps and stickers, 

writing ‘I love you’ across it in big, shaky letters. 

Then he asked about one of the stickers: 

Why does that heart have an arrow through it? How sad.

Even after I told him that it was more like being ‘struck by love,’ 

he held his hand over his chest. 

I don’t want Cupid to shoot me, he said. 

That would hurt.

I couldn’t disagree.

— Ashley Wahl

Poem July 2019

Pulling Up the Wild Blackberry Bushes

seems ungrateful but they’re too plentiful

crowding the precious patch of sun

meant for the Heritage Red Raspberry

that cost $16.

So it’s a matter of hubris that we jerk up

those lesser cousins before they bloom

drag them over nubile grass and

toss their torn briars into fire.

Yet when I get to the last bush, I stop

remember how in August I needed

more fruit to nestle around the scant

peaches in my cobbler.

The berries were small but their juice

tasted of mulled wine, piquant but

not too tart, the grace note of a last-minute

potluck, others cooed for the recipe.

So I lay aside the shovel, knowing that

this last bush, cane too tender for thorns,

might one day be our savior

if the raspberry turns to dust.

— Ashley Memory

June 19 Poem

Ode to My Backyard Garden

O mighty, O valiant

flowered phalanxes,

patrolling the patio perimeter!

Sharp-pointed hostas flank

two imposing hydrangeas

holding pride of place,

one uniformed in periwinkle,

the other, salmon pink,

their blooms thrusting

purposefully toward the sky.

Snowy-petaled Shasta daisies

with bright lemon centers —

the next line of defense —

gently wave in formation,

gathering intelligence,

heads pressing together

in silent exchanges.

Outermost are the sturdy sentinels,

daylilies hued in saffron and amber,

their ranks constantly replenished,

ever watchful for marauders,

especially Inscrutable Thomas,

the neighbors’ orange tabby,

a stealthy, persistent intruder.

O carry on, carry on,

my intrepid army

of blossoms!

— Martha Golensky

May Poem 2019

Four Egrets at the Reservoir

Four great egrets,

the wands of their

slender necks waving,

wade through tall

reeds and tranquil

water to the sound

of a kingfisher’s

call. The tops of

surrounding trees

are lit from above,

and the ground below

them, shadowed.

All is serene, from

the gander swimming

in circles to water

striders, skating

across the reservoir’s

still surface. In

summer, lilies

bloom and multiply,

their petals a delicate

shade of pink. But

the wedding-veil-

white of the egrets’

feathers is stark

in early spring,

against umber,

sienna, and olive,

and the evening air,

cool and weightless

here, where egrets

come and go — like

darkness and the light.

— Terri Kirby Erickson

April Poem

The Heaven of Lost Umbrellas

They have to be somewhere;

those ribbed and fabric

servants who have held

off storms so grandly, quietly,

and with such solemn

unassuming elegance.

They come to us

in colors but mostly

that ubiquitous black.

Plaid, polka dots, birds,

butterflies, Monet’s

water lilies . . . he must

be laughing at the irony.

Van Gogh’s sunflowers,

one grand, glorious sun

of yellow.  We have

monograms, advertisements,

golf ones big enough

to cover a room

of golfers . . . except

it never rains on a golf

course. Nor in this

way out of the way

heaven of lost things.

Here umbrellas lie

folded in resting pose.

They hold their own

handles, their work

for the moment

completed. Yet

they wait to be

unfurled

and walked

wherever

they need to go.

— Ruth Moose