Not Just a Vase of Flowers

Karen Freeman

an array of crimson petals mingled
with emerald stems lay amongst
shards of rose-tinted glass; tears
gleamed on a terracotta pond, splintered
elegance reflected light, colours fractaled
hope. Simple lines slid through
her fingers, shattered. Her stillness
solidified. She stooped, prudent fingers
collected rose slivers, petals, stems,
each element lamented, archived not
erased. She straightened, picked out
a new vase, uncluttered transparent
clean-lines, filled with spring daffodils.

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Lullaby for Joseph

Karen Freeman

Damp the fires down, douse the lantern
lights, now is the time to sleep. Allow
tawny owls too wit to you, listen to
unseen nightingales sing their stories.
Unfurl Morpheus’ pillowed blankets, allow
midnight stars to shine, allow the gibbous
moon’s bright glow. Shush, rest,
sleep, disregard skylarks’ rising. Sleep
deep, for now it’s time to say goodnight.

Tawny owls too wit to you; nightingales
sing stories. Morpheus’ pillowed blankets
unfurl. Shush, rest, sleep. Ignore
skylarks’ climbing. Sleep deep, for now
it’s time to say goodnight. For now it’s
time to say
                       goodbye.

 

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Elegy

Mary Mahoney

And the doves of the prison call in the distance,
And the boats of the Neva go by in silence.
                                                    - Anna Akhmatova
                                                       Leningrad, March 1940

And the sons drift
like will-o-the-wisps,
cinders, borne on the breeze.
Sons,
whose long limbs once folded
within their mother’s ripened womb.
Whose hands grasped, with utter trust,
their mother’s skirt,
whose mouths fed
at their mother’s table.
Suckled on the promise of a new day.

All those sons, stacked in a heap
against the red unseeing wall.

And all those mothers,
whose twisted mouths
leak lifeblood as
a blackened slick, that
stains their bluish lips.
Mothers,
that walk along the banks of the Neva
until the leather of their shoes
wears through and the
soles of their feet become leather,
and their eyes
            become stone,
washed smooth
by the lapping swell, pecked
bare by the vultures
from the prison in the distance –
as the silent boats go by.

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The Smell of Fallen Leaves Evokes a Memory

Tom Black

Of half remembered seasons long ago,
Spent lazing under rays of golden sun,
Or forging skyward through the limbs of oak,
Until the call spurs on the race to home.

The turning seasons twisted like a vane,
By blind and probing fingers of the gale,
Seeks through concrete forests and drives the rain,
As pedestrians envy road and rail.

Caught up by the relentless march of time,
In dark uniform herded toward the gates,
A redbrick fortress looming slick with rime,
Where glowing portals in the gloom await.

Each memory like a falling leaf decays,
Yet the scent of rain ere unlocks the way.

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