Submitted by Simon Wilcox
Two of them are perfect
All folds of skin, kindness and wisdom
But the third is sick, the fourth insane
And the fifth one can’t remember anything
And they’re watching me, waiting to see
Which one I’ll become.
Photo Credit: Bo Bartlett: Inheritance
Submitted by Dorinda Duclos.
Soft is the twilight that lingers so calm
Reflections of beauty, becoming my balm
I breathe in, relax, reenergize my thoughts
Into the night, I can forever be lost
For this is the time, my time, to renew
And these are the visions I bring into view
Waters that flow, without causing a wake
The sky looking down, as one with the lake
Pastel, the colors that soften the day
This is the place my soul longs to stay
Photo credit: Caspar David Friedrich – Twilight at Seaside
EDITOR’S CHOICE AWARD: bringing our favorite previously-published poems back to the front page.
Submitted by Jim Spencer
Photo credit: Winter Afternoon, Edward Willis Redfield
Submitted by Walt Page: The Tennessee Poet.
I’m like a lost prayer
That’s carried away
By the cares of the day
But I will not welcome the end
I won’t walk through that door
I may be in denial
But I still can see
What’s been happening to me
I will find my own way
Like a lost prayer
That’s been carried away
On a butterscotch breeze
Along the lost prayer highway
I’m like a lost soul
Following a lost prayer
Knowing I’ll never find it
But not caring anymore
Because I have found myself
Photo credit: Leonardo da Vinci – Portrait of a Bearded Man
Submitted by Goff James.
Today I strolled
Along the city boulevard
Beneath the shining sun
Stitched in the spotless sky
Swept clean by Summer’s
Gentle fragrant breeze where
I met the world upon their feet
Stroll at ease along
The tree lined sidewalks
Hemmed with crumbling mansions
Secret shadowed gardens
And ornate spired churches
With the passing of the hours
Exhausted by such exertions
My thoughts a roving sought
A resting place to
Ease my hunger and my thirst
An oasis of blissful calm
A cafe-bar come patisserie
Hid out of sight and sound
Old fashioned decked
Sited at the corner of
A cobbled street
Caught my vagrant eyes
In the dappled shade
Of overhanging canopy where
Chairs and tables met the street
And smart attentive waiters
Hazed in morning smiles
Darted to and fro
Smothered in the
Flesh filled whispers
Shared by secret lovers
The latest social scandals
Of flush faced gaudy ladies
Recalled over morning cocktails
Behind the monied talk
Of successful business men
Clouded behind the thick
Smog of their finest Cuban cigars
Each toxic inhalation
Drowned in Triomphe Cognac
I sat partaking of a buttered
Chocolate croissant and a
Coffee regulare laced
With one shot of Irish Malt
And watched at leisure
The world go slowly drifting by
Photo credit: Childe Hassam – At the Café
Submitted by Theresa Burns
after the painting by Meyndert Hobbema
Someone is always returning
to a village with water mill.
Clouds, as usual, portend
his arrival. High and stern and cumular,
they compose themselves
above the trees.
Years he may have been gone,
or a fortnight. But the swift-moving
river, in what seems
without exception late April,
never slows. When he reaches the low
sloped house made of stones,
the windows invariably open,
always a still handsome woman leans
on the sill in a crisp kerchief
and wonders, as he approaches,
whose child it is beside him,
and in what room the boy will sleep.
Photo credit: Meyndert Hobbema – Village with Water Mill among Trees
Submitted by Maureen Sudlow.
cold morning sky
thick cloud hides the face
of the mountain
a huddle of birds
at the feed-block
our dead
in the silence
of poppies
Photo credit: Claude Monet – Winter on the Seine, Lavacourt
