Blog – Page 56 – Bourgeon

Two Poems by Breanna deSimone

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May 24, 2019

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Breathing Away the Darkness

At night, lights appear, unseen amongst

daytimes dominating sun.

Scattered bits of moon peering curiously

through window slats.

The warmth of some adjoining room

creeping in under a doorway;

a guest that stays the night and leaves

soundlessly in the morning.

The passing of headlights chasing fate down

an anonymous highway.

These, the nightlights counting time,

until the sunrise,

keeping pace with silent lungs,

Lifting and lowering,

breathing away the darkness

into some brighter being.

To Remember

Basil sweet scents on unrelenting smiles

Road trips to leave memories behind

But I

Stole some to remember

Two dappled paths

One leading home

And one leading to the unknown

And I

Will take either

So long as they don’t lead back to now

The wild of this world is fading

For every beast is tamed or gone

Decay spreads where fingers touch

So I

Will fly instead of run

Breanna DeSimone is a rising senior at Mount St. Mary’s University pursuing a degree in English. She has worked as poetry editor for her college’s literary journal Lighted Corners and her poetry has appeared in two issues of the annual publication. She was born in Springfield, Oregon but currently lives in Williamsburg, Virginia. Poetry allows her to share her perspective of the world and explore her passion for life. She also loves reading, traveling, and learning new things.

Image: CC BY-SA 1.0, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=156654

Poems and Haiku by Nancy Botta

Gregory Luce

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May 23, 2019

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The divorce.

The final chapter of our union
tells of bone deep chagrin-
the dumb utter of
‘I feel statements’
plays itself like a mantra,
useless invocations found
in the crumpled leaflets
from the therapist’s office.

The pointed questions
from our guilty mouths
forces a sober thought through;
we felt the cold walk in
but we never felt the warmth walk out.

The silent stare between us
measures the immeasurable,
a gulf of indifference grows-
it’s time to close dead eyes,
and move on from this grave.

A heart.

On a Sunday evening
she noticed mold growing
within the divots and cracks
of this old rotted thing—

plucked from her chest
by her own hand
she buried it in the trash
alongside burnt letters
and bad eggs,
muttering to herself
that it was too rancid
to keep.

Dinner with the folks.

My mother simmers oxtails
and hollers like a kettle—
high blood pressure and anxiety,
nothing is ever good enough,
she fans herself with a dish cloth
while she squawks about ingrates
and too much gristle.

Beneath brown eaves
my father smokes in silence,
he watches moss grow over a stone.

Mire.

Drifting morning fog;
rivulets gather and wash
over broken trees.

Retirement.

Tired hands fumble
with the clasp of an old bra—
elm trees groan at night.

Nancy Botta lives just outside Chicago with her husband, son, and a menagerie of tropical fish. A marketing concierge for a multinational conglomerate, Nancy has been publishing poetry in digital forums since the halcyon days of LiveJournal and AOL 4.0. Her most recent works have appeared in WINK: Writers in the Know; Soft Cartel; Three Lines Poetry; Furtive Dalliance; Haiku Journal; and other publications. Find her, and the remainder of her poetry, at https://rustedhoney.com/.

Image by Böhringer friedrich – Own work, CC BY-SA 2.5, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=2188225

Two Poems by Linda Umans

Poetry

Gregory Luce

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April 8, 2019

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Dog Pack

The dog loves the woman.

I think of Thumper (dumbass name)

named by dumbass couple, Bedford, NY.

She didn’t need no lousy name.

I don’t need a word, she might have said.

Muscles rippling down 149th Street

the color of mottled sunset.

I saw her unmuzzle her companion

a slow-witted excitable girl

who was a biter.

She seemed to know me from pack memory

greeted me with hurling body hugs

stayed close each time I visited

and there were months between those visits

chose to sleep with me in guest room bed

like Lucian Freud’s whippet and woman

maybe remembering when I ran with her.

Was I…No, she had to be the leader

trotting down and up St. Ann’s Avenue

followers sniffing the gallop at her flanks.

I run with my girl.

What is it about

no familial connectivity

(long……..story)

but I have been recognized

by birds in the parrot family

cats, dogs and, I believe, crocodilians.

Long after I wish I forgot

that dumbass couple

I run with my girl.

Ed. note: To preserve formatting, an image of the poem is being used.

Linda Umans taught for many years in the public school system of New York City where she lives, studies, writes. Recent publications include poems in Spillway, Spiral Orb, Composite {Arts Magazine}, DIALOGIST, Carbon Culture Review, The Maine Review, LIGHT – A Journal of Photography and Poetry, Gris-Gris, The Broadkill Review, 2 Bridges Review, and pieces in Mr. Beller’s Neighborhood.

Image by Franz Stuck [Public domain]

Two Poems by Elnathan Starnes

Gregory Luce

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March 27, 2019

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Trick of Rings and Things

“The Lord is my Ringmaster, I’ll always want!”

Said Gollum

A fiend

For the ring

Crack ho’

Of his time

What is the meaning of the ring?

Love is

an overrated

misunderstood thing

Precious metal

surrounding the

space

waiting for

something to

occupy its place

it has value

only by choice

imaginary portal from

Reality to Fantasy

Trinket value matching w/ heart

matching w/ feeling matching w/

WHAT IN THE HELL ARE YOU TALKIN’ ABOUT?!

Chasers of

the dream

don’t control

the game

Cuz

white folks

know about

pimpin’

permutations of

a metamorphosis

stemming from

1 source

of trickology….long ago

Oh!

Is that why the ring is so precious?

Like a

Precious metal

Surrounding the

Space

Waiting for

Something to

Occupy its place?

Otherwise

There’s nothing but a hole

&

We the main ho’s they got

Items in a Neighborhood

Flag of America

Hanging behind a sign

That says, “Thank you Jesus.”

Holy patriotism

Support the overseer w/ a gun

DON’T RUN

In spite of not having 1

Blue cross/red blood/white face

Tired fabric

Rests on ancient representation

Loyalists singing hymns

Guarded by a pentagram w/ a gun

DON’T RUN

In spite of not having one

White flash/blue light/red eyes

The God

Embraces played ideology

Dat’ Ol’ Time Religion

You be the Legion surrounded by a wall w/ a gun

DON’T RUN

In spite of not having I.

Red Objectives/White Lies/Blue Reality

Elnathan Starnes is a Wolf Trap teaching artist and local children’s entertainer using the moniker, Groovy Nate (https://www.groovynate.com/). He was born in Wichita, Kansas, and attended High School in Denver, CO. After a 5 year enlistment in the Navy, he came to Washington, DC in 1989 and attended Howard University. From high school to present, he has been writing poetry that is now compiled in a collection of works entitled, Wichita Behavior in a DC Vibe-By Way of Denver (Oahu Visions).

Image by David Peterson from Pixabay

Two Poems by Kaela Mitchell

Gregory Luce

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March 22, 2019

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Blue Line

Something about our people
Always bleeds
black & blue
Whether in the
Hearts of our projects
The pains of our songs
The spectrum of skin tones
Our nail beds
Of north faceless winters
And now throughout tunnels
Our sweat wasn’t valuable enough
To make affordable
As if
Those are automatic color tones
That fill from the backs of our cars
And how eyes leave
Paddy wagons
Or if you’re lucky
Your Masters
Summa Cum Laude
From Howard
Like
Vanilla wasn’t good enough
In its natural state
And Walmart
Is our savior
Like given the choice
Blue eyes
Would be of preference
Of those too tired
Of being beaten black
But is it really
Such a terrible experience
To be
Black
And having most colors
Compliment that fact
There’s a story behind each
Since Black
Is all encompassing anyway
I guess blue’s is so heavy
Cus that’s how I’ve felt all day.

Breaking the Cycle

Everything’s always shinin’ from the outside
But have you thought about how it’s gotten that way
Maybe via the healing properties of
Apple cider vinegar
Or a few thousand extra likes
For your psyche
But how often do we acknowledge
Generational trauma
Or the dysfunction
Of our family unit
And actually
Look to find healing
Itís important
When talking about self-esteem
And conquering
Identity crisis
Cus it’s been a long road for me
And it’s one that’s eternal
But I’m on the right path
And know who I am
I’m really more excited to meet
Who I’m becoming
So She can meet others
Who drift
Off their path and onto others
Who suffer
From a path previous traveled
And onto their own
Of divinity.

Kaela Mitchell is a multimedia artist born April 4, 1995, in the District of Columbia. She finds peace in expression through poetry, photography, dancing, and film making. Her work is dedicated to the mental health of the Africana diaspora, and has established a brand with this mission called A Black State of Mind.