2020: 4 poems by mary mcginnis.

 

Stick Of Lightning


Sleep, like a stick of lightning

pierces and then lets go-

 

the touch of sleep last night

I noticed brought sweating rather than burning. So, it

 

couldn't have been a stick of lightning that

kicked me into memory.

 

Stick of lightning would be a good way for me to exit

without a fuss, like a star burning up in a hurry.

 

Slightly over a year ago, you took your own life-

the star of your own show.

 

You had been planning it for a long time,

deliberately choreographing.

 

I was angry then, but now I get it.

You had the unbearable need for perfection to be restored.

 

For us on the outside, your life looked good:

Buddhism, recognition, menudo with Bob,

 

two bedroom assisted living apartment

with wood and tile floors,

 

dining room across the street where we wrote once.

It's a cliché, what did we know?

 

You left like a stick of lightning with concentrated power,

first no food, then no water. Friends around and by phone.

 

Is that what comes of never complaining

and always laughing?

 

The last time I saw you, you were stung by a bee.

We packed up our picnic and one of us took you to the e. r.

 

Bob, Barbara, and I took a sad little walk.

I lived through this but not that.

 

 *

 

Looser


Let go of the jailhouse of

ordinary time. Because of this virus,

on our honor, we wash our hands,

sanitize our apples,

excite the old-fashioned woman in us who suddenly

remembers she has an oven and might

like to cook.

If you're a man who never has, get

over it!

Sing at the sink while you wash the inevitable

evening dishes.

Remember, time is a slow thread now.

 

Lie in bed a little longer, and enjoy an

old habit long overdue.

Outside at least one window,

some birds keep their song,

even the

ravens hover and watch safely.

 

 
*

 

Part of My Shadow


You're part of my shadow, though gone;

you were the one who picked up little pieces of paper when they fell.

You were the one who made art where dust was.

You were the one who watched birds on afternoons at home and everywhere.

 

I was the one who always talked,

and after you listened, I talked less.

And you did things I didn't want you to do like

gambling in a harmless way and not taking down phone messages.

 

Neither of us care about that now.

You are an anchor in my shadow,

the friend I can still speak to,

the part in me that breathes a little deeper,

the part that holds stones until they are warm.

 

*

 

Death, Don't Break Me Open

Death, don't break me open-

Not yet.

It can't hurt to ask for a big brawny techy

man or woman to show me if my turntable still works.

 

It can't hurt to go to Big Lots again

for the purchase of some weird, in between

food or drink such as Diet Partner Tea.

 

I want a reservation on a not-cruise

so I start to remember my dreams again.

 

Death, don't break me open;

come in fragile politeness as if in a dream.

Bring me a banana dress - I've never had one.

 

Death, you look a little scary,

like white margarine.

Let's see if we can make a deal.
 

 

 

Mary McGinnis, blind since birth, has been writing and living in New Mexico since 1972 where she has connected with emptiness, desert, and mountains. Published in over 80 magazines and anthologies, she has been nominated for a Pushcart Prize, and has three full length collections: Listening for Cactus (1996), October Again (2008), See with Your Whole Body (2016), and a chapbook, Breath of Willow, published by Lummox for winning the poetry contest in 2017. Mary frequently offers poetry readings and writing workshops in Santa Fe and Albuquerque, New Mexico.

2020: comedy by jennifer hetrick—oops in the introvert-life.

 

some comedy to mix in here, as we know frank would want that—

here is an october-specific story from jennifer hetrick, as a co-manager of this annual memorial open mic for frank wolfe.

yesterday while on a walk, i saw somebody sitting on a porch and did not wanna have to to say hi, so i did not cross the street to finish my walk. i waited to cross the street later.

(this is the tired person and introvert in me, not just my pandemic awareness.)

as i kept walking, on the other side of the street, i realized that the person i thought i noticed was in fact a puffy-faced scarecrow in a porch chair.

haahahaaaaha!

man, i got played like a goddamn crow.

later, i went back to photograph this fellow; a note sitting on the pillow on his lap appears to indicate that his name is fredrick. everybody, say hello to fredrick.

 *

days later—

hahahaaa, oh my gosh. it happened again. i was looking down at my phone after crossing the street on a walk and thought i suddenly saw a person pretty close by who i'd have to say hi to on a porch, but it was fredrick. ha. iyiyiyiy.

2020: a poem by brenda bunting.

 

A Love Letter to the Suicidal

 
The Walkers whisper, “Come to us”. Death wishes like dandelions on green grass appear. In the anguished mindscape is a place called Desolation.

But I care about you. I love you. You are the only life I have truly known. “Come to me.” I am familiar to you.  Remember the days of synchronized steps when we were the dancing contented.
We have our own secrets that no one but you and I know about. Come look at me.  What do you like the most? You have a favorite feature, a certain turn of the head, a deliberate look. We belong together divinely joined by universal law. Our journey hasn’t been easy and sometimes it may feel like I am turning against you, but it is only because of our history together.
I remember everything.

The negative encounters create a soundtrack of sabotage.  A loud insistent quiet asphyxia that must be clearly excised otherwise the repelling, combating, and protecting, will not be sufficient to counter the din.
‘Worthless’, the repeating refrains, ‘Inadequate’, the repeating in our brain.
The haunting memories appear and reappear. Imprints chained to our mind. The showers of disappointment, fear, and hopelessness. Experiences dull to throbbing and we look through breaking mirrors of tormented reflections.

But I can bring you back from your edges, from the cliff face, from your dangling precarious. I find the beautiful in you and cultivate your crown in a safe place. You don’t share the vulnerable with anyone else except yourself. The passage of pain can develop the mettle of integrity and the soul scars heal with a moral fortitude that will be tough yet infused with laughter.

An abyss is waiting to drown us, but we will step over the agony into the power of our peace. It is small and no one may notice but you belong here and now.
I respect life. Your life is my life and we are one.
The steps we have fashioned are the heartbeat of passion.
Don’t destroy the rest of the journey because you don’t understand part of the path.
Come back to love. Love yourself enough to walk on and see the hope waiting just up the road. Live in light my sweet soul.

 

 

Brenda Bunting has a unique voice that is a witness to the realities and challenges of her generation. A Poet that takes her audience on her journey between the intersections of being a woman, an African American, and an advocate that is environmentally and socially conscious. Brenda is the author of, Poems of Love and Violence in Between Life and Death - 1st and 2nd Editions. A competent and insightful Facilitator, Brenda designs workshops that utilize the therapeutic use of writing poetry for mental and emotional wellness and healing from traumatic events. Brenda is a survivor of domestic violence and sexual abuse, a life member of the Kentucky State Poetry Society (KSPS), a volunteer speaker for RAINN, has her B.A. in English and is a Certified Life Coach.

2020: music paired with literary art, brainstormed by emily fields.

 

elementary school music teacher emily fields of pittsburgh pairs the reading of the book listen to the rain by bill martin, jr. and john archambault, illustrated by james endicott with music as "raindrop prelude" by frederic chopin.

 

2020: a poem by alex burns.

 

From Alex Burns—This poem was written a few months ago when a family member was devastated by the loss of another, more distant to me, family member, who committed suicide due to the isolation caused by the COVID-19 pandemic.

 

Candlelight

A light burns brightly
Casting warmth into darkness
Enlivening others
Bringing joy

Till all at once
It is captured
Cut off from others
The oxygen that feeds the flame

The light struggles
It flickers,
Losing strength
And will

Till, at last,
All too soon
No longer is there
Enough to sustain it

Lacking contact
With those others
That precious life force
It flickers out

And yet those others
Many, not few
Are left without light
No flame to guide them

They do not understand
Why the flame is extinguished
How to see through the darkness
What they have lost, or why
 
But have faith,
It will sustain you
When all seems lost
And light your way

 

 

Alex Burns grew up near Leeds, England. During his time there he combined a love of hiking, and folk music, while pursuing a career in IT. IT provided the opportunity to exchange the grey skies of industrial northern England for the US Midwest.

Moving first to Chicago, then Boston, Chicago, Albuquerque, South Carolina and the DC Metro, gave him a broad perspective on US culture and regional differences. Finally, a second move to Albuquerque gave him both the inspiration, and opportunity, to focus on the arts, after retiring from his IT career.

He started writing poems in his teens, and wrote a few poems for his wife, Mary for birthdays or anniversaries. Since retiring to Albuquerque, he has devoted his love of language to describing the beautiful environment he has come to live in. He has also come to find much that he dislikes about what his adopted country is becoming, and our role in threatening the earth upon which we live. He recently self-published his first book of poems, English Impatient, and is working on a second.

2020: songs by ryan rettew, including one inspired by a poem by frank wolfe.

 

here, ryan rettew plays a song partily inspired by jennifer hetrick's three-year poetry project on the manufacturing history of berks county, the labors of our fingertips: poems from manufacturing history in berks county, involving interviewing more than 70 seniors about their memories of working in factories in mills. this song is  reaches so far in its lyrics and into hearts and is well-worth replaying again and again as you cook in your kitchen, rest in your backyard in the sunshine, or sit close with somebody you love and appreciate in your world.

 

 

in 1970, the grateful dead released the song, ''ripple,'' which is another great one to repeat around the house, taking in ryan's rendition. this song carries a lot of hope and beauty in its sound in our far from easy world, so it's a welcome tune to many of us.

 

 

and we are incredibly happy to bring this song to you from ryan because it is inspired by the final few lyrics of a poem by frank, which is shared below. ryan took inspiration from the poem's third-to-last line and the ones surrounding it in writing this song.

 

 

Poem For My Facebook Friends
By Frank Kelso Wolfe, 7.19.2014

Who ponders pencils peaches and peers

and what we wish to share

a man slipping on ice, a woman skating on it

the questions we comment on

which shade of green we would be

who is now in love

which child is ill, or earned their blue belt

why double rainbows and dancing dogs become important

our moments of waking toss us from year to year

computers connect us in modern solitary ways

while we yearn for the warm blanket of

hand heart holds

that brought us comfort when reality was too real

I caringly, needily, desperately, lovingly type to you

my friends, please be well

prepare yourself to hold someone bodily

when the power goes out

when we discover what lies beneath the tenuous technology

when we the breathing are all we have.

 

 

Ryan Rettew is a singer-songwriter based in Denver, Pennsylvania. She lives there with her husband Jim and is a stay-at-home mom to their three young children.

2020: poems by hiram larew.

 

Spoons or Rakes

What we need now
           is glow –
The sort of night that embers make
The sound in nests
           or apples’ shapes
A glow that gives more than it takes
The kind of spoons or rakes
           that neighbors love
Those hailing lights from distant shores
           that warm the boats
We need the wool of passing years
           or more
What holding close does
           when so little is near

An earlier version of this poem appeared in North of Oxford’s Pandemic Poetry Online Anthology.

 

*

 

When More

What should you do
When bad gathers around to squawk
When fog snakes in
          or ledges creak and crack

What can you do to ward off
Or hold tight
          or wait out

What’s there to do when all the world votes no
          or cuts off escapes
          or growls at your heels

What’s left to do
When more just isn’t enough
When apples bite back
          or shadows
          turn out the lights

The poem first appeared in Better than Starbucks.

 

Hiram Larew's poems have appeared widely and been nominated for four Pushcarts. His Poetry X Hunger initiative is bringing poets from around the world to the anti-hunger cause (www.PoetryXHunger.com). Find him on Facebook at Hiram Larew, Poet.