Horary of the Seasons

On the appointed day dawn rises

clear and golden, so warm as to deny

that winter could ever come:

like an horary of the seasons

or of my lives, the ritual begins.

I start to fold the clothes

washed to cotton stiffness,

the shirts and skirts I’ve worn for years,

like those blue eyes behind me

so faded now after all this time

and the wear of memory,

I shake them out, expose them to fresh air

for a moment, dust flies until I’m choking

on old scenes, those stains that can’t

be washed out cover long years of growth

and waiting, the result of packing them away

at the bottom of the pile,

not digging them out until today.

He returned with hardly a ripple,

threw himself onto my summer shorts

full of sweat and familiar patterns

with no other purpose than to make me

fold the entire pile again before I open

the old steel trunk, dented on one side

and lift out the sweaters so I can carefully

lay the dresses and images inside

without accidental folds or complicated

thoughts, one on top of the other with him

buried in the middle.

Like an horary of the seasons or of my lives

I fold my memories away into thick piles

each fall and spring, counting off the years

as I outgrow that blouse or discard

that style, gradually leaving behind

those blue eyes and old dreams,

that confusion of thought on this sunny morning

when the air is so clear I can see the layers

of summers and winters and men

before I close the trunk again and bury the key

in the top drawer among my lingerie

until next year or the next,

or someone calls out of the past

and I have to re-fold the pile once again.

By Emily Strauss

Rustle of Spring

 

From the placenta of waiting and sleep

Ruminating in the shards of memories

Of seasons past –

The autumnal partings that sever the leaves

from what once home.

Of fire and wind and frost that churn the past

into compost –

To sleep

To nourish

To procreate

A tomorrow – not of a snow-adorned sun

But one that traverses a hundred suns

till those first rumbles…

 

There –

 

Can you hear?

 

Riding the crescendos of harps

On the wings of the winds

Comes the peacocks of birth;

The color infused buds of rebirth

And new life to kiss those in slumber –

 

To awaken them…

To prepare –

for what is to come

(The season’s milieu)

In joyful songs and dance, awaiting

The first beautiful rustles of spring.

 

B- Feby Joseph

 

 

electric lightbulbs, cold cuts

& college debt

 

listening to beethoven’s

third piano concerto

and reading bukowski

like some neophyte poet

just cracked out of his action figure package

his head in the sand

i watch the open windows

and wait on the next nor’easter storm

that will soak me

on the way to working the late shift

so that i can keep myself in

electric lightbulbs, cold cuts

and college debt

thinking this winter has lasted forever

as all of the seasons

are their own miserable eternities

forever fooling us into thinking

that life is imbued with some kind of change

and as the beethoven ends

and the first fat flakes begin to fall

a huffing dog

farts outside the window

while the sky booms and wind rattles the blinds

its owner catching my eye and exclaiming

good doggy!

good doggy!

just as well as if the goddamned mutt

had brought down the thunder

or had won

the bloody westminster dog show.

 

By John Grochalski

 

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