Fireflies In The Summer, by Debi Swim

Fireflies in the Summer
by Debi Swim

Stars dot the evening sky above, combust
In fiery, swirling, clouds of gas and dust,
Twinkling carelessly in heartless beauty
(And invite our fondest wishes come true)
But never yet I think made a child laugh
Like fireflies in the summer always do.

Note: Written in response to Red Wolf Poems, Prompt 135. Debi’s poem communicates with Robert Frost’s “Fireflies In The Garden”.

Debi Swim writes primarily to prompts. She is a wife, mother, grandmother and happy WV poet.

Red Shoes, by Vivienne Blake

Red Shoes
by Vivienne Blake

You’re not having red shoes
In the shop Mum was cross
Please, Mum, they’re gorgeous
Red shoes no knickers, Mum’s mantra
Look, the heels aren’t that high,
I could dance all night in those
Oh, no you won’t – you’ll be back by ten.
Does that mean you’ll buy them then ?
We’ll see. Try them on.

Comes next Friday, excited
twirling this way and that
in front of the mirror.
First bra, first nylons
sticky-out petticoat
swirly circular skirt
frilly blouse, waspie belt all the rage.
And those shoes …

Dad takes one look and hits the roof
What were you thinking?
She’s only fourteen
Out of the question to go out like that.
But Daaaad …
For once on my side, Mum sticks it out
She’s only young once
let her go.

So I did,
at the school Christmas hop
had a breathtaking time
as I danced with a prefect
the new cricket captain,
red shoes danced all the way home
on cloud nine.

Note: In response to Red Wolf Poems, Prompt 137.

Vivienne Blake makes quilts and poems and stories in her small village home in Normandy. Her slow and wobbly rambles often appear in the poetry. Finding the sublime in the mundane is her aim. Her work has been published in Curio Poetry, Mouse Tales, Red Wolf Journal, Long Story Short, The Book of Love and Loss and other anthologies.

Pressing Forward, by Grace Harriman

Pressing Forward
by Grace Harriman

If I could just
move, or even push, my way
(like a spectator edging up
to the front of the crowd,)
then perhaps the lungs could open
the eyes clear of memory,
the hands begin to build
something, anything,
that is fresh, colorful,
full of textures
beautiful to leave behind.

Grace Carley Harriman spent her life in Cambridge, Mass., teaching English and Chinese History to Middle Schoolers. She self published two anthologies of a wide variety of poems with creative writing assignments for each entry. She has traveled to China 14 times, to tour and volunteer teach in the Pangliu Village School and the Dandelion School outside Beijing. She retired to Bath, Maine where she writes poetry, gardens and walks her dogs.

Phone Etiquette, by Debi Swim

Phone Etiquette
by Debi Swim

Ring.
The sound
sharp as a saber’s tooth
I cringe in guilt, ill at ease,
but I answer
my voice flat, unemotional
no gaudy sentiment
escapes my mouth
a vessel of banalities and half-
truths I’ve lavished on you
for years.
My resolve is paper thin
by this time
but my heart
has you on a black-
list because you love
my best friend.
“I’m fine. How are you?
Yes, she’s in….”

Note: Written to a word list: flat, ring, gaudy, tooth, paper, vessel, lavish, blacklist. See Red Wolf Poems, Prompt 129.

Debi Swim writes primarily to prompts. She is a wife, mother, grandmother and happy West Virginia poet.

Urban Upcycling, by Patricia McGoldrick

Urban Upcycling
by Patricia McGoldrick

In 1870
Irish ancestors
Milked, by hand, two Jersey cows

Today
On my cedar deck
shamrock blooms
in stainless steel milking pail

Heritage lives on

 

Patricia McGoldrick is a Kitchener, ON, Canada poet writer, inspired by the everyday. Patricia is a member of The Ontario Poetry Society and the League of Canadian Poets. Poems found in anthologies & posted online. Check out words at PM27’s blog. New year, new blog forthcoming at patriciamcgoldrick.com.

Disturbing The Dead, by Christopher Hileman

Disturbing The Dead
by Christopher Hileman

You have asked of me
an utterly frank discourse
about the small ghosts
who clutter my curd.

What am I most afraid of?
you ask, punching holes
in my skin, bloodless
and swollen like insect bites.

Staring you down won’t
work. I know because
I tried that aeons before
now in burial
grounds so ancient rhyme
was not yet an invention
and men did not write.

Christopher Hileman moved to Oregon in 1973. He has retired to live on the volcanic bluff overlooking Willamette Falls in Oregon City, Oregon. He ascends the stairs from his basement digs to improvise on his Yamaha keyboard or the house Playel grand when the calico cat releases him from below. The part-Irish Wolfhound here likes him.

Urban Decay, by Debi Swim

Urban Decay
by Debi Swim

After a while the dewy finish is dull,
cracks, crevices, sagging, dark spots
mar the once youthful facade and
rather than maintaining what is there
you slather stucco and smooth it out
sometimes in garish colors and tints
but I hope you know that underneath
is the real worth and history of you.

 

The title “Urban Decay” is a play on American cosmetics brand
and the extremes women (and men) go to appear ageless.

Note: Written in response to Red Wolf Poems, Prompt 121. That is Writer’s Digest Day Day 7 prompt as part of National Poetry Month every April.

“Write a poem that uses the the word “urban” as an adjective, preferably in the title.”

Debi Swim writes primarily to prompts. She is a wife, mother, grandmother and happy WV poet.

In Mid-Voyage, by Christopher Hileman

In Mid-Voyage
by Christopher Hileman

On the far islands
under cirulean skies,
beneath the northern
stars in the later
hours of my dusty chapped heart,
I trudge square onto
the wall of ancient
stones left each on top aligned
with others grinding
beneath summer’s wind
storms and rain sheets all sideways
to the lay of souls.
This place fares much worse
in the deep of winter’s ice
and its servitude.

Note: Written in response to mention of Faroe Islands in Red Wolf Poems, Prompt 122.

Christopher Hileman moved to Oregon in 1973. He has retired to live on the volcanic bluff overlooking Willamette Falls in Oregon City, Oregon. He ascends the stairs from his basement digs to improvise on his Yamaha keyboard or the house Playel grand when the calico cat releases him from below. The part-Irish Wolfhound here likes him.

She Has A Farm In WV, by Debi Swim

 

She Has A Farm In WV
by Debi Swim

She is an earth child
lover of green growing things
her hands trowels
to furrow a row
to plant the seeds
to nurture with
love and sweat.
She is loved in return
with bounty
of vine and root.
Industrious as the ant
in spring and summer
and autumn’s scarcity,
she can fiddle by the fire
in winter’s paucity.

 

Written for my friend, Farmer, Educator, Activist, Librarian, Wendy Johnston, who also fights for the earth she loves and tills.

 

Note: Written in response to Red Wolf Poems, Prompt 120.

“Write an ekphrastic poem of this Frida Kahlo’s art piece.”

 

Rivera Remarks Ekphrastically, by Christopher Hileman

Rivera Remarks Ekphrastically
by Christopher Hileman

Oh Frida, dear, again
you have cut yourself, this time
breast high squarely on
and down your torso,
a rectangular gash we
can see through to one
of all the three breasts
emerging from sand and sea
and rock and so to
the vine and your brow
and your darkness worn like hair
as you lie staring
like a toppled rock
never would but, hey, this is
expressionism, no?

Maybe you’re naive
but as you say, you are not
ever surreal.

 

Frida Kahlo, Roots

Note: Written in response to Red Wolf Poems, Prompt 120.

Christopher Hileman moved to Oregon in 1973. He has retired to live on the volcanic bluff overlooking Willamette Falls in Oregon City, Oregon. He ascends the stairs from his basement digs to improvise on his Yamaha keyboard or the house Playel grand when the calico cat releases him from below. The part-Irish Wolfhound here likes him.