After Corey Mesler
Last night I was a child again
in Jutland, Denmark, nineteen forty-two.
My mother’s milk surged as I suckled
and kneaded her distended breast.
A growing roar shook windowpanes,
her dripping nipple swung away.
She shuddered, looked outside and up
as dark things in a wedge crept by.
She wept and trembled, crushed
my face into her breast as engine noises dimmed.
I sucked in eerie silence, blissful, unaware
that German mothers and their children
soon would suffer, starve and die.
Author’s Comments: Corey Mesler’s poem, “Last Night I Was a Child Again in Raleigh,” was published in his book, Among the Mensans by Iris Press, 2017.
According to family legend, British bombers flew over the hospital when I was born on March 7, 1942 in Nørresundby on the north shore of Limfjorden in northern Jylland (Jutland). They would probably have been headed for the German naval bases and industry around Hamburg, Germany, where many civilians would be killed.
We were relatively safe in Denmark under German occupation.
Image credit: British fighters, bomber escorts, superimposed on Pablo Picasso’s painting, ‘Maternity’
I am the wren psalming the rising sun
I am the foam of the sea rushing the shore
I am the deer that leaps through woods,
I am the purple thistle, velvet and sting,
I am the otter romping the river,
I am the raindrop that sweetens the spring,
I am the red fox, tail brushing the field,
I am the moss that furs the bark of the oak,
I am the dolphin whistling in the waves
I am the hawthorn, berry and blossom, blush in the hedgerow,
I am the quicksilver moonbeam,
I am the center of the eye, pursuing the horizon,
I am the breath of God – stardust and song.
Editor’s note: The poem is in the style of the “Song of Amergin” (See https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Amergin_Gl%C3%BAingel and http://celticmythpodshow.com/Resources/Amergin.php)
Image credit: A willow wren with a wide distribution in Ireland [Photograph by marliesplatvoet (Pixabay)]
We come to the coast – broken,
bruised – we reach the edge
of our world. Waves stretch, winds
shift – freedom in the West.
Waked, we want a different,
new beginning. Instead, death clings
like barnacles on our ships.
Anchored in murky holds, this damp womb
through narrow stalls. We knot
in cages, pens – stench and sickness
dock at the harbor.
into cities, towns, we’re strangers
among strangers. Kerchiefs swapped
for aprons, brogues swallowed in shame,
even God is different here.
What do we keep, what to abandon?
Tied to our past, memory beckons.
Nightmares from the Old Country blur
into dream. Ancient enemies –
hunger, poverty – they’re here, too.
Orphans from that old world, our families
become rooted, grow in this one.
How many tides have turned since our fathers,
our mothers crossed the sea,
leaving behind an ocean of graves?
Editor’s Note: See http://www1.assumption.edu/ahc/irish/overview.html about the Irish immigration and https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Cholera_outbreaks_and_pandemics about the cholera outbreaks.
Image credit: Irish emigrants on shipboard in the River Mersey in Liverpool, England, about to embark for America, c. 1846 (Assumption College, ‘The E Pluribus Unum Project’.)
Who are these aliens, but if
there be, are we as much as they?
Have they been watching us?
Continue reading Rearranging the Universe – by Mike C. Bodine
Long summer evenings
The blue of the sky unmarred by a single cloud
Blooming pear trees
The second snowfall of the year, when you’d collect bowlfuls to make snow cream
Making mashed potatoes
Robin Williams and Harrison Ford movies
Captain James T. Kirk guiding the Enterprise through space
Etta James and Sam Cook
Patsy Cline’s “Crazy”
Singing Christmas carols for shut-ins
Reading Taps for Private Tussie and Watch for a Tall White Sail
Taking nature photographs
Hand-stitched quilt squares
White wedding gowns
My brother’s humor
My mother’s skin
A baby’s giggles
Walks with my dog Roxie
Sharing poems with wonderful friends
Image credit: Photography of a coneflower with a bee is by Patricia Hope.
After The Night Cafe, by Vincent Van Gogh
Night is our only refuge, when bigotry,
racism and intolerance are asleep.
Hate has been stalking us who aren’t
like most people – by birth or by choice.
We find sanctuary in a place where there’s
no need to speak out.
The doctor would stand next
to the billiard table, one hand in his
lab coat’s pocket, reminding us to be
unhesitant in returning for refills.
First time I see the couple
near the doorway – lady with brown
shawl looking stunned by the spoon
she’s bending without touch,
gentleman with a hat and Anton
LaVey’s eyes. The schizoid is
here, nuns disguised as men staring
at the doll on their table. I’m both
in my room and here to dry up
and cry, invisible.
Image credit: Vincent van Gogh painted ‘The Night Café’ (original French title: Le Café de nuit) in Arles in September 1888), courtesy of https://www.vincentvangogh.org/
We relish lounging by the lake,
watching emerald waves lap
the shallow, grass-lined shore,
summer breeze caressing our faces,
nestled under canopy of oak leaves.
Hearing the cluttered world stutter
and slow its mind-numbing whirl
on a tilted, groaning axis.
Continue reading Praise Song for Lake and Love – Wesley Sims
James Baldwin, the 20th century black intellectual, renaissance author and cultural critic, once observed: “History is the present. We carry our history with us. To think otherwise is criminal.”
In addition to recognizing African American trailblazers of centuries past during Black History Month, it’s also instructive to consider more recent history. That’s why a compelling new book by historian Elwood David Watson, Ph.D. is recommended reading:
Keepin’ It Real: Essays on Race in Contemporary America (University of Chicago Press).
Continue reading Black History Month: Keepin’ It Real on Race – by David B. Grinberg
There are many different beliefs regarding “Valentine’s Day,” and the most popular one is the celebration of love. When it became commercial; buying boxes of heart shaped chocolates and red roses, is irrelevant. I want to share with my readers why this day is so important to me.
When I was young, every year my father would come home with a box of chocolate for my mother and a beautiful card that she’d tear over. (A bit dramatic for my taste, even as a child, but I wasn’t the one reading the card and at the young age of seven, I didn’t care to.) My father would also buy me a little gift. One year he bought a little heart nick knack and I loved it. I kept it on my dresser and the red clashed with my pink bedroom walls. When my brother got older, he’d buy my mother and me a card and gift. The year he gave us both a porcelain nick knack of a little girl wearing a white dress with long braided blond hair holding a red heart against her chest, I hugged him and had been so thankful. I still have that porcelain girl today. Even at that age, those gifts had more feeling than chocolate or flowers and that’s when the day became special, until it became more so when I met my husband…
Continue reading Special Valentine’s Day – by Lisa M. Scuderi-Burkimsher
When we have waltzed to cherry blossoms,
tangoed to tulips and daffodils,
jived to peonies and irises
and Spring has scattered her vestments to the wind,
it is time.
We meet beneath the Callery pear
and you shake her branches
while I pirouette in petal rain,
twirling and giggling
until I fall into your arms.
Image Credit: The “Lovers-Dancing-Silhouette” (designed by Vexels) has been colorized and superimposed on “Cherry Blossom Tree For Your Garden” (toplandscapedesign.com)