Mary Bannister

Fallen needles soften passage into the forest.

Precise footsteps beckon her to him,
Like a portrait of symmetry in motion.
A kaleidoscope discloses awe-inspiring beauty,
As sunlight freckles tease fluttery fronds,
And stillborn dew splashes spongy mounded moss.
The green velvet becomes denser
With miniature outdoor terrariums,
Everywhere you look.
A grand opening welcomes a multiplicity of fauna,
Bustling about in the spectacle of day,
Urgently amassing essential ingredients,
For survival and sanctuary.

And in the distance a soothing sound-
A babbling brook,
An incessant talker,
Trekking with his daytime comrade-
The dogged sun,
Laughing with his pal-
The luminous moon,
An egotistical lover who can’t keep,
His vanity in check,
As time and time again he returns,
To glean his wondrous reflection,
In the crystal, clear, midnight waters.

And amidst this beauty,
A kiss is shared between her and him.
Not just any kiss,
For this is not just any place.
They have been transported
To a chamber of serenity
Where birds’ songs thankfully know,
No limit to jubilation and pleasure.
The kiss has been fueled by unspeakable splendor,
Christened with peace and appreciation,
Escalating and deepening the passion,
Between her and him.
A matchless kiss-

( This poem was written shortly after the death of my husband in June 2006.)

Linda Hayek

You are still big in my life, warm in my heart
not only because you loved me – completely
quirks and rough edges included
and fathered my daughters into adulthood

not only because you opened wide the doors of your heart
to share your family with me
and invited me to gaze through the windows of your faith
thus strengthening my own

not only because you embraced the adventures I concocted
sometimes called vacations – riding a bicycle for thousands of miles
across and around and beyond Nebraska -
you could smell a malt a mile away

and hiking the grand canyon for 22 miles down the north face
and up the south side
just to say we could, and we did
not only because you are still the “captain of the ski boat”

but because you are now bigger than life
for nine years I watched you live with cancer
intermittently seasoned with anger, indifference, hope, exhaustion, fear
acceptance, even gratitude and always with courage

I watched your strength wax and wane countless times during
the slow eviction of your soul, the twinkle in your eye the last
to give up the struggle and to be set free
finally released from the tired shell of your body

in the latter days you spent more and more time in a world I could not share
a land where green cookies sometimes appeared in your pocket
the tempo of our dance slowed, no longer rock and roll,
but gentle embrace assisting you from recliner to wheelchair

one last ride in the ‘ 56 Chevy,
a chocolate malt in the back seat shared from a cup with two straws
all too soon, suddenly it seemed
a tender parting, a peaceful crossing

and, now, your “being” etched in my heart
your spirit felt in campfires near our beaver lake
your presence big as I pedal the keystone trail
you are closer by far

until I, too, cross the great divide
will I know the way?
reborn to meet you again
kindred child of the resurrection

We will dance together once more
in the eternal ballroom of celebrations
no need to ask you to save one for me
the polka band will play forever

Elizabeth Baltaro

It was not as scary as we had imagined,
when we opened the metal crypt
that cradled our body, our cadaver.
The first thing I noticed were bright pink nails.
Without stories, clothing, hair, nor jewelry,
the meager remains of a lifetime
were painted on her fingers.

Nail polish, tattoos, or signs of treatments,
age and a brief cause of death -
these facts were surprisingly enough
to allow us this modern rite of passage.
So we claimed this body as our teacher,
probed its layers and examined its depths
an extraordinary and singular journey.

We were all fearful surgeon-infants,
stumbling in our movements,
not wanting to cut too deeply or tear.
Yet, our body waited day by day,
asymmetrically strewn in plastic case,
with head in a translucent bag,
as we got to know this person.

We learned more about this body
than any other we will ever know.
Deep images of this person continue
to churn in our minds.
These pictures make us wonder
about other bodies,
especially our own.

The various textures on a canvas,
heart muscles like tree branches
overlapping in a dense forest.
Fibrous white connective tissue,
spurning sponginess of lungs,
red fading into luminescent tendons,
sweeping in symphony to the bones.

We were filled with desire,
to examine new paths, to see everything,
visiting an untouched wilderness,
with curious formations, trails,
a more interesting variation
than any we had seen or imagined,
our own medical odyssey of learning and maturation.

Sometimes, I took a moment to recognize
we were a room full of humans
dissecting our own species
amidst automatic lights and dispensers,
loud conversations, laughter and electric saws,
shrouded in sharp scent -
indecipherable.

Yet, with my group and cadaver,
our work was lucid.
This master guide of differentiation,
the inside of the human body in death,
had brought me closer to our life force -
the force that once animated this person, and drives us all,
with renewing potential.

I’ve come to realize
that trauma changes all.

Nothing
from the past or present
seems the same, and the future
becomes
a dark place
full of anguish,
fear, and depression.

It becomes important
for the soul to cling to
something beautiful,
something tangible,
something in the now.

It reaches
for the closest human
whose touch recognizes
its struggle, its fear, its pain:
the empath who heals the breach.

To play a small candle
on a moonless night,
a voice of light
among the politics of black;
to be the instrument
of what wants to sing,
and not attracted to debris
and ruin; to stand up
for something falling down
the page, the significance
of the brief poetic moment-

how does this differ
from those dressed to kill
in fashionable cliches,
except to say what they can never say;
to let the heart of language
have its way, fire’s tongue
in the candle’s end,
of what you’ve loved,
and how you’ve been.

I’ll always be her little girl,
giggling in her lap,
protesting a nap . . .

holding her hand tight,
trying to make things right
perfect in her eyes
who worries and who cries.

I’ll always be her little girl,
who loves her forever,
who won’t forget her ever!

I’ve wandered roads to every land
I’ve worn a face of doubt
it weighs like sin,
it holds me in,
I search for some way out
I came upon a chest of masks
a peddler sat beside it,
“Try one please,
your pain will ease
if, Sire, you choose to hide it.”
I touched each mask
to feel its craft and puzzled,
asked him plain,
“Be this some ruse,
how does one choose
when all look quite the same?”
“Try each in turn to know their worth,
mere sight ‘twill not reveal.
Try Cherub’s glee, brash victory,
their gift is what you feel.”
I tried them all with ardent heart.
Each face dance grew quite dear,
in passing time, each felt sublime
yet none could quell my fear.
I gave sigh in chagrined disbelief
“Old man, be this my fate?”
“Fear such as yours, will stay its course,
but you need a mask of hate.”
“This last one here,
I’ve saved for you,
you’ve but to put it on.

. . . misunderstood! Well, perhaps that is as it should be. One of the more likely complaints or misconceptions surrounds works of modern poetry.

“This stuff can’t be poetry. Poems have to rhyme.” My eighth graders insist on this well-known fact to the bitter end. I would like to offer a clarification on the matter, but only, of course, with the plea that no one assume my discussion to be complete. No view of “what poetry is” can ever be complete.

One important distinction within the world of poems is narrative vs. imagery. This separation might also be seen in rough terms as traditional vs. modern poetry. Most of us, when asked to define poetry, think of rhyming and predictable patterns of rhythm. The limerick is an example of both. This is typical of the narrative form. Modern poetry, while having some rhyme and repeating rhythm, doesn’t allow either to drive it. Often, no rhyme is present, or the rhythm is difficult to discern. Let us then look closer at these two forms.

The narrative tells a story. It moves the reader through time. The narrative is an ancient form and predates the written word. Its descendants amount to everything from epic ballads, nursery rhymes, mnemonics (those cute little memory joggers) to 99.9% of song lyrics. The narrative found its place in our ancestors’ lives because those charged with keeping track of cultural records found it easier to remember information that rhymed and had a specific number of beats in its construction.

The narrative form, then, carries one across time. It is the telling of a story. Imagery, on the other hand, tries to take a slice of time, freeze it, and then “paint the picture.” The narrative is ancient, and imagery is the bent of the modern poet. Understand, the two forms are anything but mutually exclusive. Narrative forms have imagery, and vice versa. The differentiation is one of primary purpose.

Imagery can be “painted” with the use of rhyme. But just as likely, if not more so, it is not. Even less likely is the use of a predictable pattern of rhythm. This, however, in no way lets the modern poet “off the hook” in terms of rhythm. All poetry has some element of “flow” to it. This allows comfort on the reader’s part. We demand this in sports, movies, art, and so it is with poetry, too. It is just the case that rhythm might not be as readily evident in some modern works.

So, how does one “paint” imagery? One means is to “freeze” in one’s mind an event or scene. The poem is then a description of this frozen moment. All senses are available to play with, as are emotions. For example, what does anger “look” like? The poet’s task is then to engage the senses and emotions through words that create visions.

Use of imagery does not preclude telling a story. Any story can be enhanced by the use of imagery. The modern poet would probably view the story as a vehicle for the series of images created in the telling. As readers, we tend to “freeze” scenes from a story anyway. So even the narrative, in the hands of the modern poet, would tend to be a sequence of vividly frozen pictures.