aaduna kicks off National Poetry Month: Ellis, Nightengale, Agyekum, Das

TREASURE

I treasure the few times

my father, a man who rarely judged or intervened

and chose his words carefully,

tried to guide me:

- “Did you write your grandmother?”

- “Reputation doesn’t mean much.”

- “Remember, this will be difficult for her.”

- “Don’t speak like that about our country.”

Often I wish he’d said more.

I was a confused soul then - as now.

A little more advice couldn’t have hurt!

Well, it might have hurt.

© 2017 Jim Ellis                                 

Auburn, NY    
                       

Jim Ellis  (photo provided)

* * *

Winter’s Valentine

The February window opens

my heart like a stent: a wandering

swirl of frost flakes in shapes of capillaries

cover the edges of larger arteries in shapes that                      

call me to feel, remember, know

 the warmth of my own heartbeat. 

Through the window’s bluish veins                           

I see ice crystal valentines swinging

In the tender limbs among the chill around

the weeping cherry tree.  

And then the sun.                                                                  

The sun pierces its lit arrow, and the crystal hearts               

begin to drip with rainbow drops of blood.

Winter sending a love note to stir my heart, melt my heart,

burst my heart, break my heart, mend my heart?

I watch as water now trickles predictably, playfully

giving life which is love after all

to the winter hardened earth,  and with each

melting, sugar water filled  kiss to the solid ground,

winter birds are crying and singing at the same time,

just as my heart does,

as cupid plays in the warming cold

among the tree limbs, along my window edges.

                  

               

© 2017 Heidi Nightengale                 

Auburn, NY     

Heidi Nightengale (photo provided)

* * *

                      

 

011111

Recycled

Brown and roughly smooth

The ink seeps through tenderly

Like a mother’s touch I never had

you never gave –

at least I do not remember

The note was short and to the point

Sealed with the three words I do not recall hearing

you never said it in person

but you seem to write it so freely 

I noticed it in the writing

It flowed, but a little too quickly on the middle word

But I like what was inside the napkin

It sits on the side –

the note you wrote on the napkin

ending with the three words I wish you say

Where were you when you wrote this?

Looks like the napkins from the cafeteria

Recycled – brown and roughly smooth

Where you here? I didn’t see you 

Wish I did and maybe you could have said those words to me

© 2016 Celestina D. Agyekum                      

Worcester, MA

Celestina D. Agyekum (photo provided)

 * * *

 

Sea-shore

A strange feeling of loneliness

Adrift near the blue canvas

You may stare long and listen deep

Yet not know whether sea-shore or sea-snore!

Conch shells tickling toes

Crabs playing hide-n-seek in the sand

Tea-sellers doing brisk business

While the coconut-sellers practice playing their

Baja and band!

That old man over there

Is selling trinkets made of stones

That old woman the entire world

In a map without any hole!

You may follow the footsteps

The whole day will pass

With you going around in circles

Yet not reaching anywhere at last!

The balloon seller looks happy

Selling blue, yellow, green and red

Yet no meal has made to his stomach

After yesterday’s evening- shade!

The children always enjoy with a mad frenzy

Their dogs happily biting their own tails

The mothers keep smiling and encouraging

While their fathers aloof in their own minds

Lonely lane!

The fakirs always throng the sea-shore

To find meaning in the chaos

And then they too become melancholy

Feeling nothing but their naked toes.

© 2016 Avijeet Das                           

Kathmandu, Nepal    

Avijeet Das (photo provided)

             

                         

                            

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