Anticipation
The vivid hues of flowers are muted by the dust.
The radiant green of leaves now dully turned to rust.
The nightly coquetries of dews,
Prove but a faithless lover’s ruse.
The empurpled glory of jacaranda bloom,
lie in dusty heaps beneath a gardener’s broom.
The barbed-wire whine of the cicadas,
disturb the heated air.
Pelican bereft, the listless lake,
looks skyward with a vacant stare.
The hills adorned in somber gowns,
Gaze down with pensive eyes.
Furrowed fields lie fallow like dusty, open thighs,
beneath the knife-blue, sterile, unresponsive skies.
All await with bated breath the groom with all his train,
his attendant, cloudy lords and life producing rain.
Steve Griffin
*****
Dressed in All Our Decades
from Poems for Flourishing
We’re dressed in all our decades,
in rich brocades of life
well-worn, and regularly mended.
Vivid restoration patches—
the hip, the shoulder, the knee–
make us into living art!
Our tatty brains
save us from the trivial
forgotten things,
spare us for what matters.
Delightfully scuffed by life’s great dance,
we’re rubbed, at circle’s end,
to the luster of original wonder.
In the spacious present called aging,
we rouse and wake,
more alive than we have ever been.
Susa Silvermarie
*****
from When to Say, “When?”
Two crutches tied to
the seat of his motorcycle.
The old man, losing control,
falls off.
Unscathed, he tries to
right himself.
Too frail, he’s unable.
A stranger, happens by,
offers assistance.
That day, a short time later,
falls off, again.
Sitting on the roadway,
he attempts once more, to stand.
Struggles, but on each
of several attempts,
comes to the realization,
he’s unable.
And so, he sits
on the side of the road,
and ponders, maybe,
just maybe….
When is it time to say,
“When? When is it enough?”
When is it time to walk away?
The mental acuity to make
split second decisions, when
life or death may lie in the balance.
One wrong choice after another,
one too many?
When is it time to say “When?”
Martin A. Bojan
*****
I Am Learning
I am learning to love myself
the way the shore loves the ocean
and accepts waves that diminish it.
I am learning to love my body
the way b’s and d’s are shaped
like the bellies of pregnant women
because everything I write is birth.
I am learning to love my name
even after I learned it was not my name
because my father had been adopted
and was given his step-father’s name.
I am learning to love the warm sun
although I always consider
I have a limited number of days.
I am learning to love the night because
the moon climbs over the city
the way a reader waits for a story to build to a climax.
I am learning to love the future although
it may not be what I imagine
because it is uncertain like opening my eyes
in the dark room of forgiveness
and receiving what I have not earned
so I always give money to beggars
at the stop lights and topes.
My mother always kept a separate plate and cup
for men who came to our door for a meal.
I am learning to love life
although I think about death
and the sadness it will cause others.
Mel Goldberg
*****
Jacaranda
Purple on powder blue, it’s hard to tell
where jacaranda ends and sky begins:
across the morning haze, a single bell
summons the faithful to confess their sins.
It’s hard to tell where living seems to end
and death begins. The tendrils ache
towards the blue, and move and blend
in silence with the wind – for living’s sake
they die, and flake by secret flake
carpet the earth which once they canopied.
The azure tent above shakes in the breeze:
behind and beyond the village bell
I almost hear a sound – it’s hard to tell –
a memory of distant deep blue harmonies.
Michael Warren
*****
Meditation
Love of another human with whom
we are able to share our dreams
alters our perspective and grasp
of what it means to be human in a
world filled with glitter lined alleys
that lead into route-less, empty
landscapes devoid of life. Within
this rock filled darkness of blind
existence, life looses all meaning.
Perception opens infinite doors
locked by the hand of ignorance,
in a time and universe where
isolation clouds our focus and
blinds our future eyes so that what
we see has no meaningful form.
The emptiness we wrap around us
becomes a useless coat against
the cold reality of this mutant
world in which we now exist.
Challenges offer the way forward
as we cultivate plantings whose
fruit is wisdom which sets us free.
Rob Moore
*****
Refugees
All it took were two: the primordial man
and woman were the first to be expelled.
The soil, the orchard, the pile of leaves
on which they dreamed, the beasts that
they had named—the sum of the familiar
they thought was theirs.
A sword at the back corrected them.
They did as countless refugees to come:
no questions asked, they placed one foot
before the other until they crossed a line.
Pained witnesses of forced flight—
whatever the flame that drives them out—
we weep for the home land lost.
Margaret Van Every
*****
The Paper Bark Tree
The dropping of leaves by deciduous trees
Leaves fall forest floors all but drowned in debris.
Evergreen droppings: cone, seed, and nut
Lure rodents and birds to indulge in the glut.
We too have an evergreen, larger than you’ve ever seen.
Linnaeus first named him: “I dub thee Melalucca,
Just as I dubbed the saguaro and yucca”
But the eight-storey monster that looms in our yard
Has a popular name conceived by a bard.
The Paper Bark tree, as it’s known in the wood,
Is the shaggiest tree in this neck of the hood.
Brown envelope brown, but spongy and worn;
Like wallpaper peeling, shredded and torn,
Parchment-like bark—papyrus-like pages;
Evolved for some reason according to sages.
To our brawny beast, crown to root:
Your majesty is absolute.
Mark Sconce
For more information about Lake Chapala visit: www.chapala.com
CONTACT US
After he retired and moved to Sedona, Arizona, he taught literature at Yavapai College in Clarkdale, Arizona.
He and professional artist Bev Kephart bought a small motor home in 2003, sold most of their possessions, and traveled the U. S. for seven years. After visiting Mexico several times, they settled in the village of Ajijic, joining the ex-pat artist and writing communities.
Mel’s writing has been published online and in print in The United Kingdom, The United States, Mexico, New Zealand, and Australia. He is the author of three novels, a book of short stories, and several books of poetry. He and his wife now make their home in the village of San Nicholas de Ibarra.
- Poetry Niche – March 2023 - February 28, 2023
- Escape - February 28, 2023
- Poetry Niche – February 2023 - January 30, 2023
