Each poet will read one poem followed by the next poet and so on and so on. There will be several rounds, so bring a number of poems to read. Seasonal poems/Fourth of July poems/ humorous/serious - bring them all!
JUST FOR FUN! LOOKING FORWARD TO SEEING YOU THERE!
Write Maja@moonrisepress.com or DMHSkiles@gmail.com for the Zoom link.
Moody Day
outside this window i see blue skies,
mountains with sparkles rejoicing.
trees playing with sunlight on their leaves.
yet beneath my boots is mud.
i sink deep into it like a frog
unafraid of annihilation
i saw a manatee stranded,
struggling on the dry river.
i chose once to become one,
a round, docile, useless creature.
manatees just eat and sleep, yes?
with nothing to harm them. oh,
everything has something to fear.
after the earthquake the people cried out
but the daffodils stood tall and yellow
basked in sunshine
against the morning colored hills.
the cat jumped from the roof
right into my arms.
(c) Marlene Hitt
Need the Light
I thought I would like the deep, dark woods as I had loved
the darkness around my sunlit home, the cries of the night.
In these midnight hollows I stumble, tree to tree
find nothing of comfort no safety as tree bark scrapes
roots trip, the wind is no longer music played through needles.
I need light for I feel danger lurking, heavy to bear as I question
the not knowing of eyes staring as I pass by, nor the thoughts
born behind those quiet stares.
Yes, I need the Light for it is in the light that I see loveliness
hear the songs and the sweet whispering voices.
at dawn the crows fly across the sky dark winged
ready to clean the world, as sunlight cleans the deep dark woods.
(C) by Marlene Hitt
The house finches are back! The four little ones disappeared
on Friday. Their crowded nest under the porch roof
was full of wide-open yellow beaks crying out for breakfast.
Now, blades of grass are scattered on my front steps.
The nest is empty. They learned how to fly.
I was happy yet sad, a bittersweet moment.
My home was their home. Here they grew up undisturbed
in the safety behind switches for Christmas lights,
on top of a white wooden beam. Gone to their new adventures
like my children to Boston, Tucson, San Diego.
Look, my finches are back! They returned to the only
home they knew to practice flight from rooftop to rooftop,
porch to garage, to the end of the driveway, the Japanese pine
that all birds love to perch on, its branches stretching
like fingers to the sky – an open palm of a tree.
Listen, my finches are back! They study their song
at six in the morning. It is simple, repetitive, one phrase
spiraling down through fluted eddies of pure music,
measuring the hours of summer. The song never changes,
I used to think it boring – just a step up from
the monotone chirping of sparrows, and yet –
My finches are back and are learning to sing.
Note by note, motif by motif, they try out brief snatches
of their Dad’s tune and fail, and fail, and fail again.
I did not know it was so hard. The three notes on the top
ti-ti-ti – these are easy – then, the babies stop, all confused.
“Let me show you, how it’s done!” The patient parent sings
again and again. Young birds repeat the fluid patterns
in shy, quiet voices, growing louder, more confident, true –
until descending swirls tumble at top speed, like droplets
in a mountain stream, rushing on, sparkling in sunlight.
The finches are back.
(c) 2020 by Maja Trochimczyk
like pets on a leash. Sometimes, they wantonly resist
the pull, to crash-land on brush-covered hillside.
The strange, geometric delta champion, with black-and-white
checkers on its chest, rainbow wings and tail, flaps its fins
as a flying fish that floats higher and higher, into the azure.
The swirling circle, a tribute to the ingenuity of unknown
engineers, is an air turbine, turning so fast that it seems ready
to power a lightbulb or open a portal to another universe.
The green baby dragon with red wingtips and streamers
capriciously turns here and there. Unstable, garishly bright,
it falls suddenly onto a thicket of dry chaparral bushes.
The golden macaw, enormous and silent, is so different
from its loud, obnoxious cousins. My parrot blissfully swings
from left to right, in an ethereal waltz of gold and red ribbons.
The laughing dolphin soars straight up – I look up to follow
the pathway of this magnificent guardian of the world,
crossing the ocean of air, so alive in oxygen blue.
Flying kites is defying gravity. Flying kites is pure joy.
This is freedom itself, soaring towards the Sun,
circling around the Moon, tracing patterns among clouds.
My favorite is the simple diamond of colorful squares –
red, yellow, green, blue, violet – that shines in sunlight,
twirling on the end of its string, pointing the way home.
We used to make such diamonds of thin balsa wood
sticks and light parchment paper, our hands stained by glue.
The tail, a row of paper bowties tied to a string, undulated
above dark soil of potato fields, stretching to the horizon.
a dance of give and take – moving, shifting along
air currents that swirl above the hills at sunset.
Flying kites is an apology for years lost to not being
little children that skip along the path, straight to heaven.
Flying kites is prayer, supplication, hymn of praise.
Flying kites is defying gravity. Flying kites is pure joy.
This is freedom itself, soaring towards the setting Sun,
circling around the Moon, tracing patterns among clouds.
It is like swimming in the air, below a violet butterfly
with outstretched wings, ascending into the purity of distance,
along the pillar of light that connects the Earth and the Sky.
Lake Tahoe Trip - For Father
Beneath mauve mountains
Clear blue lake waters flow
The color of my father’s eyes
And mine too
Emotions rise from depths
Rippling, spilling down cheeks
Early morning risings
To water-ski on azure
Or transverse across snow
I share memories with my son
Whose eyes are blue too
Cycles swirl like seasons
By Pamela Shea
published in Spectrum Special Edition, Poems for Fathers
Never-Ending Childhood
Sun shines on ocean
Grandson sees pirate ships floating
Far off in the distance
Glimmering in light
Off Carpinteria coast
I won’t spoil the magic
And tell him they are oil platforms
We play Neverland
In the sand with driftwood swords
He Peter, his sister Wendy
And I old Granny Nana
We keep Captain Hook away
On warm, sun-kissed summer days
On the sand stands a teepee
Made of burned logs from last year’s fires
A perfect palace
For Tigerlily and friends
And all other lost children
Plus those who never grow up
By Pamela Shea
Tidepools
The seagulls and sandpipers
Play cat and mouse with the waves
Heron comes careening in
For morning delicacies
Harbor seals lounge and relax
As waves sing their lullaby
Soft waves, gently churn my heart
And cleanse my soul of strife
Primordial soup stirs, sustains,
and nourishes creation
By Pamela Shea
Mission Bay Mer People
Grandmerchildren swim
Cavorting in gentle waves
Squeals of joy echo
Across soft sand to my ears
Grandmere sprouts fins to join them
by Pamela Shea
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