Submitted by Clayton Medeiros on March 10, 2013
Often lost in books, words, stories,
A long ago childhood, a distant time,
A place with a mixture of misty relatives,
A place where I understood the seasons,
Each with its own sunlight and clouds.
A place where I misunderstood others,
Each with their own sensibilities and lives.
A place where I return for tastes of childhood,
Each with its flavor of the sea, Portugal, Acadia.
A place I travel to and see with new eyes,
Familial ghosts and the living of New Bedford.
A place on Cape Cod, where it curls into the Atlantic,
Jostled by Humpback whales with curious eyes,
Melville wondering who and what we have become.
Submitted by joshua mertz on March 7, 2013
Every day lasts forever
A lesson learned at age seven
Those summer days
Hot, dusty, running as fast as I could
Mom, cheese sandwiches
Working with Dad in a scampering way
Because we had forever
And toys and shouting from the treetops and all our friends
Real and imagined
The long treehouse, bicycling, laying about reading day
Riding the slow arc of the sun
Into the cool night, still running, skin chill with delight
And dinner and television and bed
The gliding down into sleep, languid, lazy, forever,
The sadness is that
It is true on all scales
This day, this year, this minute, this second, this life
A long summer’s day of eternity
That is why we mourn death
It is the end of forever
Submitted by Clayton Medeiros on March 6, 2013
Just in case
You wondered
This poem is
Limited
To this page
To what comes
To my mind
In these words
This moment
Capable
Of being
Rhetoric’s
Repartee
Philosophe’s
Wonderings
Momentary
Meanders
Past’s present
Here and now
In these words
On this page
Submitted by Benjamin Gorman on March 4, 2013
It takes many paces
and lots of grunting and sweating
for this particular alchemy
a transformation
whereby the merely functional
becomes transcendent
from pleasant green carpet
to abundant fecundity
in a sweep of seasons
on this side of the magic
the audience is skeptical
the payoff should be stupendous
but the gardener knows
it's more work than magic
or, the magic comes only after work.
Submitted by Clayton Medeiros on March 3, 2013
I am not sure there is anything to be said,
Perhaps recollection loses salience on the page,
The letters, simply what they are, no mysteries
Hidden among diverse syllables and phrases.
A search for roots offers little enlightenment,
Subsequent ancient text translations are
Equally moribund, confuse the issue of
What can be said, what has been said.
Yet, words bind the moment’s emotion
In its full, ragged, rapturous sensibility,
An effort to assure a narrative
Otherwise forever lost,
Forever unsaid.
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