An Eight-Year-Old with a Ten-Word Title

~Donna Peacock

She wants to write a story:
“Magical Sunset on the Side
Of a Normal Front Porch.”

What is a magical sunset?

“It comes at surprise times,
like in the middle of the
night or early in the morning
in colors no one would expect:

sometimes emerald green or
chocolate brown with streaks
of raspberry and peach.  And
it isn’t ever scary.

It’s beautiful and shines on
the side of the porch.  You know,
a normal porch, like regular.
That’s what makes it all

so very special.  Something
magical in a regular place.
And it sings—yes, it sings
without words but you can

hear what it’s singing.  Like
magic sounds that make
you want to sit on the porch
and listen and tell wonderful stories.”

Yes, that’s what she wants
to write about.  Yes, when
she completes her conjuring,
her casting of spells.

Come to me curious

~Anne Bower

Bring a true question
I’ll put down timbers, start a house.
Ask for help, I’ll hand you nails,
we’ll raise shelter.

Listen, listen fully
we’ll hang curtains
carry a table into
our blue painted room  
share a new loaf and sage butter.

Sonata

~Anne Bower

Two women, each long-haired—
one hugs cello, one caresses piano,
they pull notes from ground and passing currents,
ring somnolent tones, strike each chord, 
melody flows sinuous, 
each string, tendon, 
key, muscle in harmony.

She at the piano a centaur,
part piano, part woman, 
galloping over, through
the field of us,
our docile gray heads
winter weeds in frozen field,
but we thaw, bob, tap, breath a new rhythm.

She of the cello embracing
the curved wood, sounding herself 
through finger and bone, tremolo and tap,
bow dancing across the strings,
eyes closing, chest lifting,
we lift with her, close our eyes,
both here and elsewhere.

Two women after years of drills,
lessons, rehearsals, doubts,
bring joy to each
other and us,
gifting their skill 
over, around, through our bodies.

Rebirth

~Anne Bower

After seasons of
sluggish gestation,
seeds gather, pierce, surge 
within the dark, warm, satin bedroom of self.
My clockwork womb pulls in, tight fist,
growing strong, ready.

Mid-walk, mid-book
inner kicks and weight shifts
startle, pull attention inward—
yes, a new me growing.

Yes, I move within me,
blind, incomplete, stretching, sucking, absorbing, 
dividing, reshaping. Eyes darken, limbs lengthen,
pushing, ready for air.

This labor years long, this birth the fiercest yet.

The Optimist

~Mary Paulson

Standing at the water’s
edge, it occurs
to me that maybe
all I need is one
short shove, a little momentum
to force myself open, pry

my one little eye, like
a door, ajar—
and then that’s
music I’m feeling! A gulping
plunge into melancholy
strings so sweet

the pleasure of it
throbs painfully in my
throat and my tears register
as waves of vibration
glittering down my
cheeks and chin,
an effervescent blur of pastels

deepens into jewel
tones. The way a viola bow
pulls melancholy from
its wood ribs, I feel
my own self holding fast
to a sense like—

constancy, I’m rising alongside
leaps made by multiple
violins before
cascading in sonorous
harmonies into
the depths of my darling

inner ear, all at
once, erasing every brutal
strangling lie, the binding ropes
untied. At the end
of the day, a sigh of orange
in a purple sky just in time for summer
when all the very best colors
of honey will flow.

At the Happy Egg (at Age 84)

~Carole Mertz

We came for breakfast at a café we frequent after having our blood drawn at a local medical facility. I like it at The Happy Egg because it looks out on a graveyard across the street. Though the sun is not shining today, the cemetery gleams with its own appeal. Artificial red plants dot the tombstones here and there giving off a cheerful patina. On the grounds of Shady Maple Cemetery, only pine trees mingle with the graves, not a single maple. But the name “Shady Maple” draws recollections from me. We used to visit a restaurant by that name in Pennsylvania, at a Pa Dutch establishment that offered you a free meal on your birthday. It was a central meeting place, back in the day, for about nine of my kin. Today I don’t dwell on family memories; instead, I think of how firmly planted I am. “I’m here, seated with my husband. And though his hair has grayed, he’s still kinda cute. We’re still ambulatory and we can still make sense of each other’s comments.”

“We’re here, but we may die sometime soon,” I think further. Not a morbid thought, merely factual, and with a second cup of coffee I think I might begin to handle the concept. (So often I find myself repeating a favorite expression of our son’s, “It is what it is.”) Today this expression seems to aid me. Again, looking out on the cemetery, I see a hearse, a truck, and a caravan of cars pull in. I watch while the waiter arrives to refill our coffee cups. We launch into our “happy” eggs. Outside, the day appears to brighten.

A Seaside Fable

~M. C. Aster

There’s something about the shore
for which mere words are lacking—is it even 
possible to explain
the silk-and-slide of bare feet on the sand
the strangely soothing seaweed scent
the calls of seagulls slicing the sky
and the salty air you breathe

The sea’s perennial motion pulls you in, and
the thrum of the tide echoes deep in the flesh
like a summons from Earth’s primordial past 

The rhythm and flow begins to drum inside
your body’s sea of blood, commingles with
its cellular intricacies and lets mortality pretend
it is eternity’s twin sister.

When night descends, high tide takes the lead
merging fantasy with madness, as miles and miles
of bioluminescent waves engage in a sparkling
conversation with the rising moon 

Heart Ajar

~Ann Howells

I walk sun-warmed brick, heart ajar,  
fix on a small orange butterfly 
folding wings in a sail as he alights 
on my sleeve. How many names 
for this delicate creature – fritillary, 
longwing, brush-foot?  My strawberry jar 
overflows with rosettes of hen and chicks, 
called houseleeks, sedum, desert bloom. 
How many names for a single succulent?
I walk kitchen tiles with heart ajar,
oatmeal boils over in the microwave, 
concentric rings like concrete sculpture,
as I ponder jars of pasta on my counter. 
Same dough, different shapes – rotini, 
farfalle, fusilli. How many names? 

I walk the world with heart ajar, 
but just now, I layer noodles, marinara, 
ricotta in a casserole, slip it into the oven. 
I will share dinner with my son, 
estranged for twelve years but now home. 
I consider my many names, 
rising from a web of relationships: Annie, 
Aunt Ann, Sis, Aunt Sis, Mrs. H.  Tonight, 
the only name that matters is Mom.

Sunday in Sorrento

~David Radavich

                After Torquato Tasso
 

                We no longer want to
                speak about us.
 
                The poet stands nearby
                in granite in the piazza,
                leaves falling in sun
 
                and we read to each other
                like birds who know 
                stormy seas well
                but right now groom 
                their colorful clothing.
 
                Better we should live outside
                ourselves in this air, in this city
                where the great man still
                lives and suffers and sings
                before the church
                with beautiful towers,
                where everything reaches up.

Mantra Waterfall

~Nupur Maskara

“Mantra Waterfall” is shown in PDF format to accommodate the complex language and formatting. On a phone, you will need to click the link to view the poem. Please use the PDF scroll down function to finish reading the poem.

Read work previously published on fws: solace here.

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