aaduna's Day 10: Nicole, Jack, David, and Mano captivate National Poetry Month

Why is it that?

Why is it that whenever                                                         

I think of you two

My eyes start to burn

Or a lump starts to

Form in my throat

Why is it that whenever

This time of year

Starts to come around

I can’t help but

Shed a few tears

Why is it that I

Can’t bear to walk in

You two’s old room or

Look at the mud covered

Toys we would play with

Why is it that old

Memories arise and I

Realize all of the

Things we’ll never get

To do or see

Why is it that I

Can only glance at that

Old picture that you two

Are in or that every time

I see a swimming pool

I am always cautious to get in

Why is it that whenever

I pass by a hospital

I remember all of the

Late nights staying up

Crying and praying for

You to come back to life

Why is it that one

Mistake someone made

Took you two away

From us way too soon

Why is it that every time

I think about you two

Anger and bitterness show

Towards that stupid mistake

That made you two go

But then I stop and

Think that you two are

In a better place

Laughing and playing in heaven

Like it’s just another day

Why is it that?

© 2017 Nicole Fuhrman                    

Petal, Mississippi       

Nicole Fuhrman (Photo provided)

             

* * *

"Untitled," Jack Fine/poet, Leiber/artist (from the private collection of bill berry)

Untitled

The POET collects

                                    Some pieces of sky

                                    One hawk

                                                      and

                                                            shadow

pinetrees on a hill

a pond

complete with lilypads and ferns

one frog     . . .

                             a  rock

large enough to sit and wait

for his poem to be written.

Posted posthumously

© 1976 Jack Fein                               

Westchester County, New York  

  

* * *

The Warlords

After reading Du Fu, “Advent of Spring”

The warriors have ruled

from time immemorial.

They have come and gone and come again

time after time:

nations, princes, and kings one after another

building on the pile of corpses

stacked beneath their feet.

None have served the people honestly.

Who has given them control?

Where have they come from?

Will they ever leave us alone

to raise our families

and die in our own beds

with our children by our side?

Their grip is on our neck

and they force us

to our grave

in their search for

others to plunder.

They cannot live without war;

it is their meat and drink

as ours is the hearth

and the embrace of our lovers.

They declare those who cry for

peace and complain of war

‘enemies of the state’

and seek to silence them

while we the people are victims

of their lust

and made to pay for their

desires to be satisfied.

Will they ever leave us alone

to raise our families

and die in our own beds

with our children by our side?

© 2011 David H. Roche                                

Warrenton, Oregon    

 

David H. Roche (Photo provided)

            

* * *

Mano Mannaz, artist

A Treasure Called ‘Tender”

Yesterday

The key of your gaze

Slipping past a lock in my heart

Opened the secret chamber inside.

With your glance I remembered

The treasure called ‘tender’

Forgotten under rags of loss

Veiled by a cloak called ‘alone’.

Now

Holding full to my heart

Claimed by your look of wordless

I’m reborn in this tumbling of lock and key.

Tomorrow

I’ll surrender the defences of hurt

Looking forward to meeting together

My joy expanding to greet you.

© 2011 Mano Mannaz                                   

Glastonbury, United Kingdom     

Mano Mannaz (Photo provided)

                 

 *   *   *

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