Category: WrittenWordWednesday

Insect

I am an insect, carapaced, visor-faced and joyful. Smaller than other travellers, I fight the air’s viscosity and feel its every rip and eddy, its waves of coolness under trees and its warmth over sunlit fields and tarmac. You hear me before you see…

If You Had Eyes

the bumpy texture of old stump pith

If you had eyes, you would stare slowly, very slowly, upwards at the many shades of green and the single blue. Even without eyes, you sense the blue and reach towards it. You expand in the warmth and drink in air and light. These…

Two Quatrains

oak leaves swirling in black water beneath a dam

Galley The oak sails before the wind, going nowhere. Its first autumn leaf picks the lock on its manacles, escapes: One more illusion of freedom.   Lauds (2) A penitent crow puffs up and shudders, lifts his wings as the sun rises, letting light…

Prayers for Maa Ganga

flower offering placed in the River Ganges

Sunset invocations for purification rise up from worshippers at the river’s edge like incense through my unbraided Western hair to the streets, where exhaust thick as dust storms fills the undulating lungs of millions. On jammed highways and byways cars and motorcycles beep warnings…

Five-Point-Two Miles

And so, I went walking car dodging, road hopping, side walking past a greyscale alley. You went with me, held me back when foot slipped into traffic and life flashed memories. She went with me, yelling about walking exactly two-point-six miles to the sea….

autumn light flashes…

backlit red maple leaves glowing against shadowed bark

autumn light flashes my son blending sounds into words ©2018 by Jennifer Roman Jennifer Roman lives in Millstone Township, NJ with her husband, identical twin boys, and dog, Chewie. She has been published in Frogpond, Modern Haiku, The Heron’s Nest, Presence, Mothers Always Write,…

Old Apple Tree

old barn where forest shows through gaps in the boards

Old apple tree low and round, trunk so squat you guess the rest is standing underground. Sunken barn beside the road, waving boards cut short by fire, or lowered by the years. Apples tart and dry, building falling down, along the graveyard road just…

Lopping Them Off

pruned branch weeping sap

Persimmons proclaim their youth when bitterness puckers our jowls. Few mature into sweetness. The unskilled arborist prunes the branches, partially severed, kerfs collapsing, tearing bark from the trunk. Decay enters into unclean cuts. Stubs sprout suckers and obscure the tree’s interior from sunlight. At…

The Continental Woe

tea in glass mug reflecting the sky

surviving on peaches and tea what weary wanderer will walk for peaches and coffee ©2018 by Justin Haenel Justin Haenel Lives and writes in Vermont. He dabbles in it all, but gravitates towards the briefer poetry.

Excerpt from WATERSHED

painting of mountains and river by Randle Panfilio

A poem from Jean L. French’s collection — now available in Global Edition. Incanto I call the name of rain a secret name without words. A wisp of cloud grows all day it grows cloud gathers to fullness releases, whispering back to me rain’s…

Between April and May

Coyote hunts the streets like a stray dog, her claws clicking along the asphalt. Among the urban diaspora, her lean shanks and rusty coat look primordial or alien. Her teeth flash among headlights like slashes of white paint on a dark canvas and her…

The day you got tattooed…

puffy clouds in a bright blue sky

the air was thick, and the sky was locked between white and grey. When you lifted your sleeve, they stared back at me like magic marker on the kitchen wall… those markings that will forever brand my child. The ink on your arm was…