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Purple Mountain
She said it was Rooted from the death of an old woman from a young betrothed of her employer an exporter of Ligurian stems that stem steps, sloping seaward, from ashes, scattered, clusters, purple tones vined in sympathy of a grand Matriarch’s passing branching from the gnarled trunk, vivid memories flourish a quarter of a century rising scaling, sprayed by Mediterranean misted mornings. Then twenty five, fifty, married the giver of life landscaping the wall ascending his throne with crowning young shoots blooming new growth. Through the years, spectacular tropical, thorned, evergreen, woody vine, spines, climb the wall beyond the Auto Strada in San Remo, mapping the journey uphill to Coldiroti, home of his grandmother, past the Church of St. Anne, beside the hill round the curve where we stopped, let the old man carrying white lilies cross the road, across iron gates, the cemetery, her grave, etched family name, cut stone, growing black and white from the same earth as the Bougainvillea he planted.
Lorraine Conlin Fourth place winner of The Lake Poetry Contest, editor of ‘The Plover’ newsletter, director of membership for the Long Island Writers Guild |
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Greenswarder
That greatest of landscapers Nature always ready moves to fill in after we scar the earth with our practical projects softens the stark retaining wall with graceful Virginia creeper covers the spaces between paved roads with grasses, ferns and wildflowers sends vines up naked poles embracing even unseen wires camouflages blind, utilitarian buildings with gregarios green on green -- fulfilling her own capricious delight heedless of audience.
Charlene Babb Knadle college professor, publishing credits, editor, nominated for a Pushcart prize |
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Performance Poets Association® |
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G’AMPOP
Stern as his countenance seemed to be, G’ampop’s gaze was turned from me. No look of love for a wondering tot, Only a glare that left me weak.
Now, in death, he cannot see; My grandfather’s eyes are closed to me.
Imprisoned emotions never set free, G’ampop’s touch was held from me. Around my shoulders it circled not, Nor ever stroked me on the cheek.
Locked now by the bonds of eternity; My grandfather’s arms are closed to me.
With voice that uttered not one plea, G’ampop’s thoughts were shut to me. Their warmth to know was not my lot, No love for me did that voice speak.
The argument sealed with finality; Mu grandfather’s lips are closed to me.
Now I’ll never know with certainty, If my grandfather’s heart was closed to me.
David A. Egan Poet since age 8, writer of romantic melancholy genre, one book published ‘Dremer’ |
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Neighbors
“I love him,” she says to me wrapping her arms around him in an exuberant hug.
I watch his impassive face, see the dead eyes waiting for her to release him from the grip clutching the bond slipping away, a husband already gone from her life
we stand on the sidewalk speak of cinch bugs gnawing at our lawns slugs devouring our dahlias
damage done stealthily night after night in the dark, unseen until it is too late.
Lola Ferris Poetry award winner, Taproot workshop leader |
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Future Memory
What was I doing when I died? Hiding? Cowering? Praying for reprieve?
“I want to get old and gray,” I said. “Bent with age too heavy to sustain.”
“You did,” said death. And held A mirror to my face.
I did not recognize The person whose reflection shown.
Believed it not myself I saw. Relieved, said, “Yes. Take her instead of me.”
I sighed. Death laughed, and set me free.
Beverly E. Kotch Prose writer with many publishing credits, member of the Farmingdale creative writing group, many awards won |