Poetry

Memory Care. Mom and Dad together.
Taking Mom to urgent care for a cough.
“Where’s my purse?”
“Here it is.”
“That’s not my purse!”
“But it’s the only one you have.”
“There’s nothing in it.”
“You mean your ID?”
“Yes. I have to prove who I am.”
“Well, we’ll have to look for it later. Now we have to go.”
“Why can’t Jack go?”
“Because of the virus. Only the patient and the driver which is me can go. It’s the rules.”
“I don’t want to go.”
We went when Dad said he’d wait here.
A long day. Every three minutes, “What time is it?” “Why am I here?” “I don’t HAVE a cough!”
In the exam room. Nurse asks, “What’s your name?”
A long silence. Mom had no answer.
“I’m worried about Jack. He should be here. He’s going to be unhappy.”
“I’ll send his nurse a text to let him know we’re still waiting.”
The nurse texts back, “He’s fine.”
Tidying up their room while they were at dinner,
I found a note Dad had written while we were gone.
“I’m looking for you.”
I tore the page off the pad,
Put it in my pocket
Along with the pain in my heart.

Julie Bonderov is a voracious reader who enjoys children, animals, music and color. She is an RN who has worked in local hospitals in pediatrics and as a school nurse. She enjoys encountering other cultures, languages and cuisine. Julie collects how to say, “Don’t cry.” in other languages

Baby Bud
Small, green,
Inconspicuous. 
Hard, tight,
Pattern interlocked.
Pregnant with…?
Growth and change
Expanding openness
Feathery fragility
Layers of ripples and folds
Attention-catching color
Scent of spicy sweetness

Julie Bonderov is a voracious reader who enjoys children, animals, music and color. She is an RN who has worked in local hospitals in pediatrics and as a school nurse. She enjoys encountering other cultures, languages and cuisine. Julie collects how to say, “Don’t cry.” in other languages.

Forgotten

Parched flowers melt into
A puddle of soft velvet
Lapping broken earth

Remembered

Drops soak into loam
Engorging stems, leaves, petals
Rise to taste the sun

Jennette Green writes sweet romance with a touch of spice. She fell in love with writing as a child and filled notebooks with stories. Her books have received “Reader’s Favorite Hero,” “Reviewer’s Choice Award” and more. She writes contemporary, historical, sci-fi and fantasy romance

I’ve ended up closer to Death Valley than to
The cornucopia fields of San Joaquin
Even though I’ve said I’m halfway between them
I’m sliding down the sandy slopes eastward,
After two plus years in isolation, I’m in the desert
Where word-devils spin my poems up
Into the blinding sunlight which hurts my
Pale blue eyes that linger away from the blank page.
So much to write about – relief fund fraud, rents doubling
Legal loopholes that spiral out to lasso the edge-walkers
The opportunists, and survivors of poverty, laziness, bad luck, razors
Because if you understand the system there is more bounty
If you can’t climb up to the high road you don’t take it
I’m fortunate to be a spectator of this bottom feeding
And write about it, and whine about how the tiny tornadoes
Steal my words, up and away, even as they sparkle in the dust.

Dianne M. Buxton’s poetry can be seen in Poemicglobal, Caveat Lector, The Griffin, Sanskrit, and The Pathway To The Heart anthology . A graduate of the National Ballet School of Canada and an alumni of the Martha Graham School of Contemporary Dance in NYC, she retired from performance and teaching in the dance world and now writes.

Being walkers with the dawn and morning
Walkers with the sun and morning, 
We are not afraid of night, 
Nor days of gloom,
Nor darkness, 
Being walkers with the sun and morning. 

Langston Hughes was a poet, novelist, fiction writer, and playwright. He is known for his insightful, colorful portrayals of black life in America from the twenties through the sixties and was important in shaping the artistic contributions of the Harlem Renaissance.