Super-sized Series

New Beginnings 2

 


New Year’s Day, La Honda by Joe Cottonwood

Sun
so low but
welcome, so welcome

Planter box
bulbs within, stirring
days after solstice

Yellow toy truck
among fallen leaves
Child in college

Cracked window glass
last summer’s
tennis ball

Barbecue grate
black sizzle
icy to touch

Chimney smoke
she’s my neighbor
so warm

Redwood bark
furry sinews
to the heavens

Sunbeam shafts
through branches
blessings

A spider swings 
by silver thread
pondering: up or down?

On the deer path
wild turkeys trot, heads high
with dignity

Chimney bricks jumbled, 
mossed where they’ve lain
since the earthquake,
home to lizards

Toyon shrub
bright red berries
feasting waxwings

Wooden loveseat
rotten, unsafe for sitting
exhausted by love?

Ceramic urn 
her ashes scattered
now vintage rainwater
wiggling nymphs

Coyote 
ears perk 
flash gone

Utility pole
fate of straight trees
lifting wires
pulse, nerves

Garbage can 
upside down
so I lift and— 
turtle eggs glisten!
so set it back, shelter 
until spring

……

From my book Foggy Dog


Three poems by Jim Lewis

a world beyond
          for Abha Das Sarma
 
in the beginning
(of which i have no memory)
my world consisted of
a warm bath at 98 degrees
the soft swoosh-swoosh
of my mother's heartbeat
and a room so small
i could hardly turn over
 
then the painful transition
(again, I have no memory)
but i've been told it hurt
hurt like hell for both of us
and then the light and dark
the day and night slow struggle
learning simple survival skills
walking, talking, laughing
 
and every phase of life since then
has been a repetition and a rebirth
outgrowing where and who i was,
until the confinement was too much
the only relief a passage through pain
into a new adventure
 
i've been watching my father decline
confined by pandemic, confined by age
the womb of this life squeezing him
tighter and tighter, preparing him
for that final rebirth as he moves
from this chaotic world
into a world beyond
 
 
apocalypse
 
this is the morning of the apocalypse
it started with a strident alarm that
i had set on purpose before bed last night
an alarm that was easily silenced
 
breakfast included eggs from a chicken
whose last squawk will come before noon
when the mega-farm she calls home is
obliterated by a blast. nuclear or
conventional is inconsequential
 
added to scrambled eggs, sliced bits of
a hot dog from oscar, whose last name was
immortalized in a commercial jingle
that will not be heard after today
 
plus half of an english muffin made by
oroweat, (because phonetically, someone
who can't pronounce a "wh" properly
gave the company its moniker)
enhanced with blackberry jam, generic
 
and for good measure, i pour myself
a can of dr. pepper blackberry diet soda
over three ice cubes, letting the foam
settle before that first refreshing sip
i wonder if i should have a second cup
seeing that tomorrow will not come
 
there is so much that needs to be done
flowers to water, weeds to whack, letters
or emails to be composed and sent
to family and friends too long ignored
and where to enjoy a final meal if my
favorite restaurant hasn't gone up in smoke
 
i should remember to kiss my wife, twice
and say "i love you" a few more times
hoping that the emotion will carry past
today's endings into new beginnings
angels wings and so on, blinking in the
bright light of the first day of eternity
after today's apocalypse has passed
 
 
ice and stone
 
a heart opened
is a heart broken
the only defense
to go north
become ice and stone
bury the emptiness
in a glacial grave
keep company
with a wooly mammoth
 
until the end of this ice age
when the sunlight
of a new beginning
pierces the clouds
melts defenses
erodes reluctance
to powder
washed away
in a flood of love
as the cycle begins again

Three poems by Martha Ellen

The Trouble with Red Ribbons

I.
Sometimes I can feel the slippage
of time, different worlds plied, 
past over present. 

Before, the day I went to buy 
some red ribbon, 
bombs exploded on Commercial Street
just outside Fabricland. 

“Hello. Enjoying the sunshine?” 
the clerk asked while ringing up the sale.
Unaware. 
The Beast was knocking in Bruges. 
“Offen die Tür!”  
“Yes, a little too hot for me.”

Then, in sotto voce,
“They took my four uncles into 
the woods. Never seen again.”  
“My Tante went missing, too.” 

Amid distant gunshots, 
we had heard them calling.
“Denk aan ons.” Remember us.
Rivulets of blood like red ribbons.

But not this day. All’s quiet. 
She hands me a receipt. 
We smile like strangers. 
I leave and head for home. 
There is only a light breeze 
on a warm and sunny day.

II.
Now I’m losing a myopic view 
of long gone events. 
Allowing them to fade 
into the fog of history. 
Regaining perspective 
and proportion. 
Birth announcement. 
Flattened booties. 
Bronzed baby shoe.
First drawing of the kitty. 
Photo of her holding Maxie 
when he was just a puppy. 
Macaroni necklace. 
Recital invitation. 
“1st Place” red ribbon.
The poem about a dinosaur. 
Doily Valentine. 
“To Mom. Love, Rosie.”
Brand new Karlsson resin, dark.
Tante’s rosary.
Discharge summary.
Dale’s letter. “Come to Alaska with me.” 

Threw everything with the 
funeral notice, the memoir 
transcript, even the red ribbon, 
into a box in the basement.

A Marvelous Gate

I could gather up every single
time I was in extreme danger.

Held at gun point and my surrender. 
Assaults escaped. Failed murder plot. 

Threats of rape and fast talk 
to get away. Menacing endured. 

Bargaining. Coaxing. Begging.
Lying. Running as fast as I could. 

I’d toss them into the air and let them 
land like scraps on my sewing room 

floor or like pieces of junk discarded 
along some back road. I could pick 

them up as they lay, bind them 
together for some prize-winning 

quilt wrapped around to comfort. 
Or cast them into a marvelous gate 

opening onto green pastures, 
still waters and rare fig trees.


Pop-Pop’s Death

Did he slip through the slimmest 
of apertures? A shallow breath 
taken in haste before sinking deep 
beneath a surface where all continues 
on and appears as though nothing were amiss. 

Words are strung together without missing 
inflection when there should be poor 
enunciation and the softening of final 
consonants easing through this cosmic fissure. 

But sirens keep their steady scream rushing 
toward some emergent scene. His slippers 
left next to his easy chair. Steaks in 
the freezer. Pill bottles near a glass.

A snowy weekend is predicted.