Pushcart & Contests

  

                                       Time slips another abacus bead. ~ Maxine Kumin

 

In a creased black and white photo

four of us line up on her back,

feet dangling far above the stirrups.

Pale Sugar presides, calm as pondwater.

 

I am closest to her tail,

straddling the broad beam of her rump,

a damp boy in front of me,

two toddlers in front of him.

 

My thighs sticky with horsehair,

 

my smile gap-toothed.

A pounded path circled the ranch house.

Loose-lipped, she toured us for hours,

round and round.

 

Deep summer, cicadas rattled in the trees,

the descending whoop of roadrunners haunted the breeze.

We led the white mare into the swimming hole,

dove off her back, smelled her wet skin,

 

swam between her legs,

knew it was safe, but

knew not to tell.

* * *

 A decade later, home from college,

 

I find Sugar in the pens, near death—

down on a hard hump of caliche beneath an angry sun.

No fit way to go. I want her to die in the shade.

Nearby, I nest a bed of hay beneath a monarch oak.

Then, halter her, brace my feet,

petition a rise, one more time.

With a low groan, a ripple of effort,

 

she unfolds to stand, unsteady.

I reach down her leg, drag each foot forward.

Left fore. Right fore.

Left hind. Right hind.

 

She leans on me for balance.

Slow going, foot by foot,

but I am fierce with gratitude.

I tighten the girth on my heart.

 

She makes it, crumples into hay.

I bring water in a bucket,

she licks molasses from my hand,

stretches out in shadow,

 

her great bony head in my lap.

I bury my hands in her mane.

 

Happiest on a tractor named Mabel (a muse of 55 horsepower) Lucy Griffith lives on a ranch beside the Guadalupe River near Comfort, Texas. Her first collection of poems We Make a Tiny Herd was published by Main Street Rag as a finalist in their poetry book contest. Tiny Herd was recently awarded the Wrangler Prize for Poetry by the Western Heritage and Cowboy Hall of Fame. She won the Returning Contributor Award in Poetry for the 2019 Bread Loaf Writers’ Conference. In addition, she was nominated twice for the Pushcart Prize in 2019.

 

  Second Place

{slider Watching My Son Feed My Mother by donnarkevic}

 

Third Place 

 

I blast Brian Eno when I wake:

An Ending (Ascent) vibrates

and hums in my torso & limbs,

 

emanates up through the skylight

and back down, sun spilling

onto the opal tile floor.

 

It’s Sunday, and this is my church.

I think about the man here in Oakland

who, tired of waking to junk

 

dumped in his yard,

set out a statue of the Buddha.

Soon, no more trash.

 

People lined up to sweep

and to pray. They took care

of the Buddha, built an altar,

 

brought the man more food

than his family could eat.

And I think: he could’ve sat out there

 

all night with a shotgun, waiting—

but no.

With this one peaceful gesture

he sparked kindness

instead of hatred; humanity

over retaliation. Ascension.

 

These notes, these chords, these tones—

they rip my whole heart open,

empty it into this room. 

 

Barb Reynolds spent 22 years as an emergency response child abuse investigator. Her chapbook Boxing Without Gloves came out on Finishing Line Press in 2014 and was shortlisted for the 2015 Rubery Int'l First Book Prize. Barb founded & curates the Second Sunday Poetry Series in Berkeley, CA.

•

{/sliders}

 

Honorable Mentions* 

{slider The Doe in Winter by Marlene Dean}

 

I want to say

before I disappear,

my edges dissolving like

fallow leaves at the bottom

of a pond,

to say before I go

all the truth I know

distilled in a word

and this one word is

compassion.

 

Every flower turns to face

the same light that warms you.

Every mammal feels the depths

of all the sorrow you have known.

I want to tell you

whoever you are

that you are not alone.

The apples you gave

the starving doe in winter

were a gift unto yourself,

her graceful hoof prints,

the shape of your heart in the snow.

 -

Marlene Dean holds a M.A. in English and creative writing. Her poems, essays and columns have appeared in anthologies, literary journals and newspapers in Canada and the U.S. 

{slider On Sharing by Nancy Brewka-Clark}

 

To have a support group

some assembly’s required

using a simple measure:

the matter of common need.

 

Some assembly’s required

to find the right people,

the matter of common need

uniting disparate souls.

 

To find the right people,

look first for compassion.

Uniting disparate souls

calls for bountiful trust.

 

Look first for compassion.

The heart of the matter

calls for bountiful trust

among erstwhile strangers.

 

The heart of the matter

—to hear matters of the heart—

gives erstwhile strangers

the courage to speak up.

 

To hear matters of the heart

the listener needs patience.

The courage to speak up

comes when others care.

 

The listener needs patience

to draw out another’s need.

To heal because others care

is the sweet prize of kindness.

 

Nancy Brewka-Clark's poetry appears in many periodicals and anthologies including Medical Literary Messenger, The North American Review, Two-Countries by Red Hen Press and Visiting Frost by the University of Iowa Press. She is past winner of the Helen Schaible International Sonnet Competition, a finalist in the Thomas Merton Poetry of the Sacred competition and the 2019 winner of the Amy Lowell Poetry Prize. Her debut book of poetry, Beautiful Corpus, was published in March by Kelsay Books. 

{slider A Silent Interaction by Laura Kozy Lanik}

 

My grandpa told me about a man he met

during World War II

a man who spoke a different language,

who practiced a different religion,

who lived in a concentration camp

until it was liberated by American soldiers.

 

My grandpa told me this man changed his life,

and in these last 50 years,

not a day goes by that he doesn’t think about him

even though he never knew his name.

He never forgot him.

 

My grandpa told me he started smoking

when he enlisted in the Army Air Force,

the day after Pearl Harbor was bombed.

He put his Army issued cigarettes

in his shirt pocket and carried them everywhere.

 

My grandpa told me toward the end of the war

in April 1945, he walked through a

liberated concentration camp in Germany.

He couldn't remember which one,

where he noticed a emaciated man

lying on the cold, hard ground,

too weak to get up and

walk out of camp with the others.

 

This man reached out his hand,

and my grandfather gave him the cigarette

he was smoking.

 

My grandpa told me he helped the man

smoke the cigarette.

He held it to his mouth,

and he puffed once, then twice.

The man smiled and my grandpa smiled too.

His dull eyes lit up with a spark

before he passed from this world into the next.

 

My grandpa told me of the silent interaction

between two men at the end of the war,

and I never forgot this simple act of kindness and

how it created a ripple that has lasted for generations.

-

Laura Kozy Lanik teaches High School Social Studies in Minneapolis. Laura is the co-creator and co-editor of Upon Waking. 58 Voices Speaking Out from the Shadow of Abuse poetry anthology published in April of 2019.

{/sliders}

 

 

 Finalist Poems

 

{slider Class Photo - Francis DiClemente}

 

Seeing every person
As a 12-year-old child
Taking a school photo
Eliminates any animosity
You may have for that person.
When you imagine
The awkward kid squinting
At the camera lens—
You discover yourself
Staring back at you.

Francis DiClemente is the author of two full-length poetry collections, most recently Dreaming of Lemon Trees: Selected Poems (Finishing Line Press, 2019). He lives in Syracuse, New York, and his blog can be found at francisdiclemente.com.

 

 {slider  DEAR STRANGERS: Memphis, TN, October, 2012  - Helen M. D'Ordine}

 

I was looking for God and

He was looking out for me,

sending you my way to

prop me up, give me strength.

Dear strangers, you responded to the

911 call made by the hotel.

My husband was having seizures

in a strange city, a strange state.

One of you drove us to a hospital. In the wee

hours, in the Emergency Department, you,

dear stranger, kindly custodian, brought me a comfy

chair as I prepared to call our children.

That morning my husband was in the ICU

diagnosed with a right frontal lobe brain tumor.

I’d told you, young nurse, that we were in

Memphis celebrating his 70th birthday.

Into his sterile, barren room, you brought

a large “Happy Birthday” pirate balloon.

That you, dear stranger, spent your own money,

softened the blow of possible surgery.

 

In an elevator, I ranted to you, fellow rider,

who’d merely asked, “How are you today?”

The next day we met again, and dear stranger,

you remembered my story, bringing comfort.

Kindness matters less to the giver than

to the receiver: me. Mostly, alone,

dealing with a medical emergency,

making life-changing decisions.

You, dear strangers, came into my life.

You may not remember me, but I remember you.

Small, random acts having profound impact,

speaking louder than words.

-

Helen M. D’Ordine is a retired teacher, former RIC adjunct professor, former member of the Writers' Circle, RI Writing Project Fellow, Block Island Poetry Project participant, Ocean State Poet and Origami Poet. Her poems are published in Möbius, RI Wriers' Circle Anthology, The Providence Journal: Poetry Corner, Medicine & Health/RI, Ocean State Poets' homepage, Where Beach Meets Ocean: Block Island Poetry Anthology, They Worked-We Write, The Best of KIndness, First Edition, Thursdays at 2, WAA: Poetry/Art 2013-2016, 2018, 2019.

 

{slider Dollar Store - C.T. Holte}

 

 

It's a great place

for certain things you need

from time to time (Sudoku books,

trail mix, lightbulbs) and other things

you didn't know you needed but might

have a use for and only cost a dollar.

So why not?

I have enough “Why not?” dollars,

but my reality is not the only one.

Some who shop at the Dollar Store

because things only cost a dollar

may have trouble finding the dollar,

as did the lady behind me as I stood in line

to buy the red socks with piano keys–

perfect for choir Sundays–

and we discussed how the checks

always seem to come late and leave too soon.

She had only a small container of Advil.

And only 75 cents,

or so she told the cashier sotto voce.

The quarter I slipped the cashier quietly,

chump-change in my world,

may have helped make

the lady's day less headachy,

but added an ache to mine

as I realized that the difference

between her place in line and mine

was only a flip of the coin.

She said, “Bless you”

as I headed for the door.

No dollar could buy that.

- 

C.T. Holte was born in Minnesota before color TV; grew up playing under bridges, along creeks, in cornfields; went to lots of school, then gigs as teacher, writer, editor, and less wordy things. Recently migrated to New Mexico and learning about fiery Southwestern chiles and sunsets: color and warmth together–like good poetry. His poetry has appeared in places like Words, Touch, California Quarterly, Survival (Poets Speak, vol. 5), and The Raven’s Perch, and has been hung from trees to celebrate the Rio Grande Bosque.

 

{slider Friends - Nancy Sack}

 

You accompanied me

On the rollercoaster of care

In the decline of my parents’ lives

 

You comforted me

When my fractured emotions

Broke into shapeless pieces

 

You supported me

When I needed to be lifted

Out of the chasm of despair

 

You celebrated my career highs

And my children’s journeys

Your kindness sparkled my world

 

Oh friends

Precious friends

 - 

Nancy Sack writes poetry and prose that contain a rich array of figurative language, imagery, and narrative expressing universal concerns about contemporary life issues. Many of her poems and prose have been published in national anthologies, literary journals, the NCTE Writer’s Gallery and magazines throughout her years of teaching high school English and ESL in the metropolitan Chicago area. In addition to her adult book, Musing Along the Ike, she has a children's book, Puppies and Poems, which is also available on Amazon. Nancy Sack is an educator, literacy volunteer, writer, story teller, and photographer.

 

{slider Junkyard Dog - Lynda La Rocca}

 

The old dog crouches by the car.

He has a scar

across his nose

put there by those

who hit and hurt him. Somehow he

has broken free,

and now he needs

a home, he pleads,

paw raised, tail wagging, one soft sigh.

Tonight he’ll lie

beside my feet,

new friend, sad, sweet.

 -

 

Lynda La Rocca has worked as a journalist, freelance writer, copy editor, and community-college teaching assistant. Her poetry collections include The Stillness Between (2009, Pudding House Publications, Ohio) and Spiral (2012, Liquid Light Press, CO); her poems have appeared in numerous state and national poetry-society anthologies, plus such publications as The Wall Street Journal, The New York Quarterly, Frogpond (Haiku Society of America), and Children’s Playmate. She performs her poetry solo and with the River City Nomads, a performance-poetry troupe based in Salida, CO, where she lives with her writer-photographer husband Steve Voynick.

 

{Let's make the World a better place by giving to the needy - Emmanuel Ojeikhodion}

 

On the roadside here in Lagos,

a gallery of mendicants perches on one side.

Some bending, sitting, standing and crawling

with their enamel plate.

Their mouth breaks into a prayer for passers-by

and commuters.

Somedays when I pass here, I give them all

I have on me.

In return, I carry the stench of their prayers

home like a cologne.

A friend asks me: What reward do you receive

when you give?

I told him when we give, we do so by opening little

doors in our life where kindness shelters kindness,

and the little things we pray for reaches God's heart

in seconds

 -

Emmanuel Ojeikhodion is a young emerging writer from Nigeria who majors in Poetry and sometimes Essays. His writings explores separation, loss, grief, depression, anxiety, rape & identity. He's currently running a bachelor's degree in English and literature. He loves listening to old music and to read new poems. His poems have been published / forthcoming in Capsule Stories, Rigorous, Chachalaca Review, Pangolin Review African Writer, Museum of Poetry, Déraciné Mag & elsewhere.

 

 {slider Lift - Ella Mae E. Janairo}

 

I always thought,

Arguments could be the answer,

A healthy conversation,

That would lead to understanding,

But lately, it’s just not the same,

That if chaos comes,

Smile is best thing,

I could offer.

 -

Ella Mae E. Janairo is a word play enthusiast from the Philippines who just can't help but dream big.

 

{slider Made A Friend - Joy Moore}

 

Got to school, still had time,

saw a kid, full of grime.

Asked him why, said he fell,

he was hurting, I could tell.

Asked for water, with a please,

helped him wash, his sore knees.

Shared a smile, helped him mend,

Split a cookie, made a friend.

-

 

Joy Moore is an active member of SCBWI, 12 x 12, a graduate of The Institute of Children’s Literature, Making Picture Magic, A Picture Book Master Class, The Lyrical Language Lab, The Art of the Arc and Kids Book Revisions. Her writing credits include: Wiggle-Wiggle, Scratch-Scratch, Itch-Itch-Itch with Houghton Mifflin Harcourt. Pink Riding Hood and the Warty Stick Monster with Bumples magazine. Song of the Whippoorwill with Balloon’s Literary Journal. Moments with Kids Imagination Train. Daydreaming with Kids Imagination Train.   Visit: Word-Painting.webs.com

 

{slider Mother's Day Roses - Annette Libeskind Berkovits}

 

We sat in utter despair, waiting.

Two women who loved him,

a mother and wife broken

by his brain hemorrhage.

 

Echoes bounced off the polished

hallway; gurneys passed;

he wasn’t on them.

He was a moth in the ICU

hovering too close to flame.

 

Each of us grieved in our own way;

she a monsoon in India;

I, a windswept, parched Atacama.

A surreal vision appeared,

his neurosurgeon, the God of neuro ICU

handed each of us a bouquet of roses.

-

 

Annette Libeskind Berkovits was born in Kyrgyzstan and grew up in postwar Poland and the fledgling state of Israel before coming to America at age sixteen. Her stories and poems have appeared in Silk Road Review: a Literary Crossroads; Persimmon Tree; American Gothic: a New Chamber Opera; Blood & Thunder: Musings on the Art of Medicine; and in The Healing Muse. She has published two memoirs and is completing a historical novel. See: annetteberkovits.com

 {slider My Proudest Day - Michelle Reeves}

 

The weather was the polar opposite of the feelings of us present at the funeral.

The sun was asserting its celestial dominance as it bathed

us in its warm light as we stood by his graveside and it rained from our eyes.

 

His family lived right next to us and he had been the same age with my son.

Leukemia had been six year old Tommy’s killer and as I

looked down at my son, Kess, clutching my hand, I could

barely imagine the intensity of their pain.

Little Nina was crying her soul out, her delicate frame

trembling as her puffy blue eyes stared at her big brother’s grave.

 

Everyone had called them Hansel and Gretel and they had been

as close as thunder and lightning.

She looked like her little heart was breaking and I felt

mine shatter as I watched her shoulders quaking.

Her mummy looked mummified and her father a zombie, their

family to be made whole never again.

 

Kess looks up to me and in his brown eyes there is sadness

I can see and I brace myself for questions that toddlers ask.

“Mama, Nina must be so sad cause she can’t play with Tommy

anymore because he is in heaven, right?”

I nod to my baby as tears blur my sight, then he lets go of

my hand, toddles to Nina and holds her hand.

“Nina please don’t be so sad, I know I’m not Tommy but I

promise to give you hugs like he did. I know I’m not Tommy

but I promise to always play with you like he did. I’m your

brother too. I know Tommy loves you and I do too, so don’t

be so sad Nina because you have me too. Hugsies?”

 

Then my little Kess uses his sleeve to wipe her tears and

He puts his arms around and pats her head and smiles.

I choke on my tears as they gush down and I proudly stare at

Kess who knows that to be truly human, you have to be kind.

-

Michelle Obasohan is a spoken word artist and writer who was born and raised in Benin City, Nigeria and is popularly known by her stage name; Michelle Reeves. She has written novels, short stories, poems, articles and plays; which have been performed on stage. She is currently a final year Law student in the University of Benin.

 

{slider Nebbish - Christopher Stephen Soden}

 

He was hitchhiking when I stopped

on the expressway, head wrapped

in bandages, wisdom teeth extracted.

He’d run out of money for bus fare,

his mother too busy to take him

to the dentist. Despite salt throb

and disorientation he offered to pay

for my gas, once his paycheck came.

 

We worked together at Taylor’s Books

and just like me, he took his turn

at the cash registers, shelving, helped

customers on the phone and floor.

30 minutes for lunch. He had

a mop of hair the color of molasses, brush

 

mustache and googly, Mad Scientist glasses.

He might have been a bit slow to catch on,

and sometimes fray your nerves.

But vigilant as a Franciscan monk,

and not a drop of harm in him.

Veronica was our manager: proud and slender

as a cornstalk, amber honeycomb hair.

Moonbeam skin clustered with freckles.

Cunning as a hawk. Do I need to explain

he irritated Veronica, or that she fired him,

with no prospects ahead? She could have

cracked the planet like an egg

and gobbled it raw, but instead chose

 

to devour a chipper, innocuous soul, because

she wanted to. Because she could.

I thank our Father, watching across the black,

bone-chilling cosmos, for putting him there.

Blood jamming his gauze-packed jaw, as he sat

next to me in the car, oblivious to the cruelty

done to him. I can’t. I can't even remember

his name.

 -

 

Christopher Stephen Soden received his MFA in Creative Writing (Poetry) in January 2005 from Vermont College of Fine Arts. He has written film and theatre critique for The Fort Worth Ally, EdgeDallas, John Garcia’s The Column, Examiner.com and sharpcritic.com. His poetry has appeared in numerous venues including: The Cortland Review, Rattle, G & L Review, The Texas Observer, Borderlands, Assaracus, and Ganymede Poets. Short plays of his (including: Water, Radio Flyer, Every Day is Christmas. In Heaven. and Queer Anarchy have been staged at Bishop Arts Theatre Center, The MAC and Nouveau 47. Christopher also teaches and lectures on craft, theory, genre and explication.

 

{slider On the Subway, June 2015 - J.Lois Diamond}

 

On the subway, the Nanny

large and dark sits her

two charges down

while she stands

She hands the boy

a demi bottle of water

As he opens his mouth

out comes a wad full

of gum

He presents it to her

like it is the most

wondrous of gifts

She accepts it gently

bared hands without

reproach, no words that

it’s dirty, has germs or

carries disease

She discreetly reaches for

the empty skittles wrapper

in his sisters’ hands and

wraps it inside the crackling foil

I long to be these children,

the Nanny

or even the used piece of Wrigley’s

they so lovingly share

 -

 

Lois Diamond is a poet and playwright. Her poem “Done With That” will be published in the anthology “Aunt Flo” 2020-2021. She was a featured poet at The Cornelia St Café. Her poems “The Bodies”, Where is Bess?”, “On Thursday Afternoon” were published Syndic Literary Journal, issue 21, 7/19. Her poem “The Parting” published, The Visual In Verse, Grounds for Sculpture, 2016. Her poem HURRICANE SANDY, finale NY LADIES, The Hudson Guild Theatre, 2013. She studied poetry with Harris Schiff , Alice Notley, St. Marks in the Bowery. Her play Growl, inspired by life of Iranian poet, produced Downtown Urban Arts Festival, 2019 , Theatre Odyssey, 2019. Accepted into Last Frontier Theatre Conference, Valdez, 2020, rescheduled for 2021. See: jloisdiamond.com

 

{slider One Day of Mourning - Joshua Davies}

 

Can there be a day of mourning for

the kindness that’s been lost?

A day of rest and refuge, where

we treat with tenderness all in this life

that is abandoned and attacked?

Can we have one day of silence,

where we listen without judgment?

Create a hallowed space to bind the wounds

by being present, with the care

of loving consciousness?

 

Can there be a day of emptiness,

of a great unmaking? Where pettiness,

cruelty and injustice dissolve and are

forsworn? Can we bring this loving presence

to our own lives, lay down our burdens?

Can we weep, and feel the gratitude

of all that grounds us, that connects us

to each other? That we are born

for praise and beauty; that this sacredness

and wonder lives inside us?

 

Can there be a day of witness?

Where we are attentive, see each other

as we are, for all we are? Where we recognize

our kinship, erase our gaps and differences

as insubstantial, a frail illusion?

That we are not tribes and factions

hungry for survival, lost in combat over

our separate truths - but reverent

of that singular truth: that all who live

have pain and suffer. So life is precious.

And we are here together; so never

are we isolated and alone.

 

Can we have one day of mourning?

One day of listening; one day of gratitude?

One day of respite and renewal,

that builds a common faith?

 

Let it be today.

And let it begin with me.

-

Joshua Davies has written poetry diligently and critically for over 30 years, beginning to publish now his kids have graduated college. He works within the produce and organic/sustainable food and restaurant industry, also serving on the board of TC Food Justice – a nonprofit targeting reducing food waste and supplying fresh and sustainable produce to those in need. He’s also on the Board of Gris Literatura, a Minneapolis-based nonprofit promoting poetry access through seminars, poetry readings and classes. Joshua has what he supposes is called an "eclectic" background in professional theatre, dance, martial arts, Chinese medicine and alternative healing. He lives in Minnesota’s Saint Croix River Valley with his wife Melissa and their veritable menagerie of animals.

{slider Remember Your Kindness - Tendai Shaba}

 

I may forget your name,

But I will remember your kindness.

I may forget your birthday,

But I will remember your kindness.

I may forget your interests, values, and opinions,

But I will remember your kindness.

I may forget your hopes and dreams,

But I will remember your kindness.

 -

 

Tendai Shaba is a Malawian-born poet, writer and narrator. His work is mostly based on human psychology and personal development. The 31 year old started writing at age 14.

 

{slider rising as the phoenix - Linda M. Crate}

 

in my moments

of utter darkness

when the world

feels as if it were upside

down,

i choose a random act

of kindness

to bestow on someone

i love;

because i want to be the light

if i cannot find any—

sometimes we have to reignite

our own candles

in order to shine once more,

sometimes we must shed scared and pale

incantations of who we once were

rising on the mighty wings

of the immortal phoenix;

every time i rise the flames are

more beautiful than before—

kindness always helps me shine with

a more beautiful light than the one i previously was

so i will keep burning even on the darkest days.

-

Linda M. Crate's works have been published in numerous magazines and anthologies both online and in print. She is the author of six poetry chapbooks, the latest of which is: More Than Bone Music (Clare Songbirds Publishing House, March 2019). She's also the author of the novel Phoenix Tears (Czykmate Books, June 2018). Recently she has published two full-length poetry collections Vampire Daughter (Dark Gatekeeper Gaming, February 2020) and The Sweetest Blood (Cyberwit, February 2020).

 

{slider Silent Witness -  Bill Carpenter}

 

From the back of the school bus

I watch a large boy take a seat 

next to a one I hadn’t noticed before.

He throws himself against the sitting boy

as if the bench were solely his

slamming him against the bus interior.

 

He begins to taunt the boy

who stares out the window

as if it held a means of escape.

From his pocket the bigger boy

pulls out a clothespin, he pinches open

and places on the cheek of his victim.

The boy sits there as his cheek turns

red and then white where the clothespin hangs.

 

Soon another, then another clothespin

puckers his face, no spot too tender,

too intimate for this adornment,

transforming his subject

into a human fetish.

I can see tears running down his face, making their way

around the barbs of wooden pinchers.

The boy dares not object on threat of a worse fate.

The older boy has a talent for humiliation,

and not wanting his attention

I say nothing.

Hoping some adult will intervene,

but the bus driver’s eyes are averted

to the road,

 

as are the eyes of the young man

with the faceful of clothespins,

and my own eyes

scanning the roadside

for my stop.

-

 

Bill Carpenter’s poetry has appeared in such journals as The Newport Review, Runes, Blueline, Chest, Balancing the Tides, July Literary Press, The Cancer Poetry Project, Surrounded: Living with Islands, Balancing the Tides and the Origami Poems Project. An eleven-year veteran of Ocean State Poets, he has been a member of the ACI team giving voice to inmates in Medium Security. He has four adult children and one grandchild. A life-long Rhode Islander, he lives in Chepachet RI with his partner Emily.

 

{/slider the cat - Kate LaDew}

 

you don't flinch

used to pain,

sure the raised hand is for hurting

I bring it down, slow,

smoothing the fur

between your shoulders

your body waits,

I count one two three

before it recognizes the sensation

magically,

your insides begin to rumble,

jagged, unused,

the sound startles you, too,

as we look each other in the eyes

your purring does not stop

for a long perfect moment

as I pick you up, gently, gently

and we go inside

where I suppose

you were always meant to be

 -

Kate LaDew is a graduate from the University of North Carolina at Greensboro with a BA in Studio Art. She resides in Graham, NC with her cats Charlie Chaplin and Janis Joplin.

 

{The Kindest Deed - Sandip Saha}

 

The more life is unveiling itself

to my ever-inquisitive eyes

the more I find it as a fruit

so marvelous in appearance

but extremely bitter to taste.

 

All living beings are constantly grappling

and rarely getting air of joy to survive.

The ignorant passersby run for water

in the hot desert path of their livelihood.

The cruel nature laughs at them

and gives them only mirage of hope.

 

In this deceptive world, I find

the best and most valuable act is

to lend a helping hand to fellow-humans

who are struggling for a breath

in the sinking quicksand.

 

Helping by food, makes one survive a day

saving a life gives one another chance

to make his life fruitful,

secular education engenders pecuniary soundness,

but the most precious gift is spiritual help

which brings the eternal freedom.

 

Sandip Saha, a chemical engineer and doctorate (PhD) in metallurgical engineering from India, has received three awards for his scientific work and 33 publications on his scientific research work including three patents. He is a winner of Poetry Matters Project Lit Prize-2018 and has published one collection of poems, "Quest for freedom" available in amazon.com. He is published in poetry journals including North Dakota Quarterly, Peregrine, Door is a Jar, Better Than Starbucks Poetry Magazine, Pif Magazine, The Cape Rock: Poetry, Las Positas Anthology-Havik, Pasadena City College Inscape Magazine, Shot Glass Journal, The Wayne Literary Review, Tiny Seed Literary Journal, The Ghazal Page all USA, The Criterion, Poets Choice, India and in The Pangolin Review, Mauritius.

 

{slider The Road, 1932 - Brooks Carver}

 

Dirty face with dark, hollow eyes,

Looked no more than about twelve.

The breeze brought his sour smell

Drifting through the screen door.

 

Baggy shredded pants, knees out,

In desperate need of mending.

He wanted work, but food mostly.

Janey made him wash at the well

Then fed him cornbread and cold milk.

 

The boy finished off the afternoon

Helping Sam cut fence posts.

From the porch she could see

That the strokes of his ax were

Weak, ineffective, feeble.

 

He spoke not a word during supper

Then fell asleep in his empty pie plate.

Sam carried him to the porch

Wrapped in an old blanket. 

A raggedy pair of overalls for a pillow.

 

Next morning, the porch was empty.

Boy, blanket and overalls

Gone west in the dawn light. 

 

Janey stared down the road.

Somewhere a mamma is

Grieving for her boy, she said.

I hope nobody steals the dollar

I put in his pocket.

 -

Brooks Carver is a farmer, historical fiction writer, poet and photographer. His Reconstruction era novel set in eastern Tennessee, The Angels’ Share, received the Bronze Medal for historical fiction in the annual ForeWord Magazine Book of the Year Award in 2004. Brooks just finished the sequel called Give My Love to Ivey Rose. At present, he has another manuscript in the works about Confederate Cavalry General John Hunt Morgan entitled, Kentucky Rain. He has published an anthology of his short stories, poetry, and essays called Pilgrim Heart. His poems and short stories have appeared in numerous magazines.

 

{slider When Your Granny Panties Saved Me - Katie Manning}

 

One time when I wet my pants at your house, I knew my

mom would be mad. I was too old for this. You washed me

up and put me in a pair of your underwear. The white

briefs were baggy on my little body and made us both laugh

when I ran through the house while we waited for my

clothes to go through your yellowed washer and dryer.

Then you got me dressed before my mom returned from

work. You never said a word. I never forgot. I stood up at

your funeral and told this story.

 

-

Katie Manning is the founding editor-in-chief of Whale Road Review and a professor of writing at Point Loma Nazarene University in San Diego. Her book Tasty Other won the 2016 Main Street Rag Poetry Book Award, and her fifth chapbook, 28,065 Nights, is forthcoming from River Glass Books.

 

{slider Window Seat - Fiona Ritchie Walker}

 

Such joy at getting the window seat,
his camera ready for take off.

 

I watched the boy unwrap the headphones,
kick off shoes.

The steward guided a couple
down the aisle, to split seats.

Over the tannoy, a warning.
Midnight turbulence on our eight hour flight.

The woman stood,
searching the sea of faces.

Six rows back, her husband,
sitting beside the boy, waved her down.

I saw the camera go back in the bag,
two feet find their matching shoes.

The boy spoke in his neighbour’s ear,
made his way to the central block of seats,

signalled for the wife to grab her purse,
squeeze past her seated neighbours.

Such joy in her face as she dipped her head,
pressing both hands together in thanks,

then walked towards her husband,
where the window seat was waiting.

 

* tannoy – loud speaker

-

Fiona Ritchie Walker is a Scot who lives in NE England. A former journalist, she worked for a fair trade organisation for many years, travelling the world to help producers and artisans tell their stories. She encountered many kind people along the way. Her poetry and short fiction are widely published.

 

{/sliders}

 Anthology Contributors

"Three things in human life are important: the first is to be kind; the second is to be kind;

The Origami Poems Project is so very grateful to our Judge and Artist/Illustrator!

Our Finalist Judge Julia Meylor	Our Cover & Interior Artist Lauri Burke
Published poet, essayist & freelance editor	Published poet, artist, illustrator

 

 

 

 

 

♦ The Origami Poems Project is a 501(c)3 Non-Profit ♦
We exist solely through your generosity

 

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