Issue No. 11

AVOCET The Weekly

Issue No. 11 | February 27 - 2013

Weekly Avocet - www.avocetreview.com

December Fifteenth Ten years ago today, my father died in the back of an ambulance.

At the funeral, I sat in the front row between my stepmother and sister, holding their hands as they wept into damp tissues.

Today my mother is dying, her body leaving her in stages of disrepair, her flesh being hoisted by a pulley onto the toilet. Hands brush away imaginary spiders. In the night, she cries out Mama, where’s Mama?

Today four thousand grebes dove into a Walmart parking lot thinking it was a pond. What were their last thoughts as they slammed head first into asphalt? year’s end delicate splinters in my porcelain teacup Margaret Chula daruma@aracnet.com “Poetry furthers the sacred.” - Karla Linn Merrifield

Blue Moon January’s full moon brilliant white light shiny bright spark as frost reflects moonlight breathing cold air in swigs frozen blades of frosted grass temperature only three degrees moon shadows of branches splayed across white snow on an icy pond tracks leading to little dens where lie sleeping field mice snow drifted along the pond bank in shadowed waves as I walk in the glow of winter’s blue moon.

Glenn Thomas Fell glennfell13@gmail.com “Above all, the listener should be able to understand the poem or the song, not be forced to unravel a complicated, self-indulgent puzzle. Offer your art up to the whole world, not just an elite few.”

- Lucinda Williams -2-

No. 11

Weekly Avocet - www.avocetreview.com

Dormant Beauty

On this bitter winter day, yellow dog and I pass rose bushes wrapped in burlap, capped in snow.

All season, the fragrant blooms ravished us, their scents, a heady potion, drawing me in, making him sniff.

Now in the freeze, I remember their petal swirls, hidden, complex folds, rich colors of blood— yellow moon, rosy evening pale.

Will they push out again through spring mud and halt us in our tracks once more to touch a silken mystery?

Like our dead, they gather a dormant beauty, and all the secrets of this life, waiting.

Cynthia Chadwick Linkas linkas9@gmail.com

“What troubles me is a sense that so many things lovely and precious in our world seem to be dying out. Perhaps poetry will be the canary in the mine-shaft warning us of what’s to come.”

- Galway Kinnell

No. 11

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Weekly Avocet - www.avocetreview.com

BONE COLD

She huddles in a straight chair in the frigid, bare cabin shivering under a gray threadbare blanket Gasps of breath ride the air in white misty streams The snowcapped mountains rear up outside her small cabin window shrinking the room to a prison She rises, draping the blanket hood like around her while her cracked leather boots hammer the floor with staccato pacings Her numb, scarlet face frames the window. She smiles as a tall, bearded man lumbers up the snowy path dodging alabaster patches of ice The door creaks open The sturdy man arranges kindling in the fireplace Strikes a blue match and the gnawing cold slowly flees from their marrow and bones

Juanita Torrence-Thompson poetrytownjtt@gmail.com

“If your question is too small for nature’s answer, you must enlarge the QUESTION.” - Zataomm -4-

No. 11

Weekly Avocet - www.avocetreview.com

Starlings

At dawn, they punctuate the snow with their message of betrayal, these coarse-looking birds, abandoned by Fall.

Not one wind weaves them a shawl of comfort. The sun brings no reprieve.

At noon, they sit in pairs, too heavy with cold for flight.

They plummet like discarded angels to snatch the tossed bread with their quick and icy beaks Sometimes, if hungry enough, they will tear at each other’s blood over a disputed shred, rolling round and over each other like drunken cowboys.

And yet they endure, these dark scars on the landscape, contemptuous of the prudish redbird, the raucous jay, as they huddle for warmth on a factory chimney, as bristled and stubborn as old shop brooms.

At night, they turn the gaunt elm to a score of music that enchants the silence, a sweetness that comes from nowhere in their lives, as the moon’s blistered eye lengthens their shadows into darkness.

Sean Lause lause.s@rhodesstate.edu “Poetry is my love, my postmark, my hands, my kitchen, my face.” - Anne Sexton

No. 11

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Weekly Avocet - www.avocetreview.com

Fiery Red on a Wintry Day Barren forsythia bushes cannot hide the Northern Cardinal so red, I blush In quiet shoes, I stalk this royal bird of tufted crown and dark black mask who perches for a picture in my mind then flies from branch to branch Not watching or wanting my attention he’s on his way beyond my view winging to a female of lighter hue whose call he answers with a suitor’s song.

Ann M. DeVenezia pocono80n@aol.com “Poetry is everywhere, in everyone...”

Snow Fall How silent the snowflakes drift by my window Crystal fairies come out of the sky Earth has been blest by ethereal guests A beneficence from on high.

Trees all around in obeisance bow down Lithe branches ladened with snow Crystalline crowns, white gossamer gowns Winter fairies have come to bestow.

A surprise burst of snow dust cascades from a tree A gay sparrow alights for a song.

He sings of warm days, sunlight ablaze And wonders why winter’s so long.

Rocks and rills, snow templed hills All of nature is newly adorned And a cast of blue shadow on a crest of white snow When sunshine comes after the storm.

Don Melcher donmelcher1@gmail.com

“Poetry can keep life itself alive. You can endure almost anything as long as you can sing about it.”

- James Wright -6-

No. 11

Weekly Avocet - www.avocetreview.com

Ice SUPPORT The lake is frozen I am walking on ice Careful steps

NATURE’S

No retraction

POETS! The air is cold Wind blowing Icicles hanging Daintily from trees

VISIT US ONLINE Please visit our website www.avocetreview.com

Nature feels empty Frigid and cold Feeling stagnant All on hold Will spring come soon

STAY INFORMED To know it, that you are a poet, you must write, read other poets, subscribe, buy poetry collections, and bring poetry into the lives of those who don’t know of its beauty.

With its flowers in bloom Or will winter stay To my dismay?

Renate Mousseux renatem@cox.net

“Climb the mountains and get their good tidings. Nature’s peace will flow into you as sunshine flows into trees. The winds will blow their own freshness into you and the storms their energy, while cares will drop off like autumn leaves.”

- John Muir No. 11

SUBSCRIBE Please think about sending a subscription check for just $24 for four issues, (60 pages of pure poetry) (shipping in the USA) made out to: Avocet, a Journal of Nature Poetry Charles Portolano, Editor P.O. Box 19186 Fountain Hills, AZ 85269 Sample copy - $6 With your subscription, The Weekly Avocet, every Wednesday, is sent by e-mail to all the friends of the Avocet to read and enjoy nature

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ONE of our ONE own From

of our own

Please read my review of Joan Colby’s new collection of poetry.

The first poem, the title poem, “Dead Horses” begins:

Dead Horses

Now that they are dead or gone, the dream Is always of a field where running horses Flash past,

poems by Joan Colby Published by FutureCycle Press 26 poems, 48 pages. $13.95 for the paperback and $3.95 for the ebook

I

n Joan Colby’s new collection of poetry, “Dead Horses,” it is obvious that she is a consummate poet, with superb storytelling skills, but be aware that this is not a book for the fainthearted or the lighthearted reader. The dark, stark realism of her writing is overwhelming. That said, I am a far better poet for having read this new collection.

I love when a poet takes me somewhere I’ve never been before.

Having grown up on Long Island, just outside of New York City, in the heart of suburbia, I’ve never been on or near a horse, never known what it takes to be a farmer.

I was unprepared for these harsh, reality-based poems about the toughness it takes to devote one’s life to tilling, toiling, with the good earth.

This is a poem for all the horseloving people in the world, who love these majestic animals so much that they become one with them. emptying dreams Into a landscape now bereft of horses.

Even though I fear horses, I now know of the magical bond of a fine horse and a horse-lover. This is a powerful piece of writing. There are quite a few poems that reverberate this horse- theme throughout the collection.

The other prevailing theme is about farming, “one of the most dangerous occupations” the author is quoted as believing. After reading this book I now know I could never have been a farmer.

In the poem “March 24,” the farmer of this poem has decided he wants out of farming, he has had enough of this tough life, so he packs up his shotgun and…

How you come into the world, naked And would leave like that.

Ms. Colby writes about the darkness of droughts, the dangers of hayhooks, having to repair a roof by oneself, the ease with which a barn fire can start, and other tales of farm life.

Those that love, know, horses: those that know of the struggle of a farm life will identify with this book. Those of us who don’t know will quickly learn.

I am glad I read this powerful, dark book. I have grown from having read it.

And, then there’s her poetic voice that sings from every page to learn from. There is no respite from the darkness, but an inner light is turned on in the reader, so one can better understand the world around us, and what more could one ask of a book of poetry.

To get a copy of this book, please go to Amazon.com or the FutureCycle website www.futurecycle.org.

Reviewed by Charles Portolano, Editor of the Avocet

And, “Thank you for reading, dear reader!”

Again, if you haven’t, yet, sent in one nature winter-themed poem (please, only one) please do!

Please remember it is one poem, per poet, per season for The Weekly Avocet’s submissions.

Guidelines for SUBMISSION

The Weekly Avocet every Wednesday, an e-mail of Nature Poetry • Please send only one poem, per poet, per season. Let’s do winter-themed poetry for now.

• Please no more than 38 lines per poem.

• Please use single spaced lines.

• Please use the Times New Roman - 12pt. font.

• Please send your submission to angeldec24@hotmail.com • Please remember, previously published poems are fine to send.

• Please always put your name and email address under your work, thank you.

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About the Author Joan Colby has published widely in journals such as Poetry, Atlanta Review, South Dakota Review, The Spoon River Poetry Review, New York Quarterly, the new renaissance, Grand Street, Epoch, and Prairie Schooner. Awards include two Illinois Arts Council Literary Awards, Rhino Poetry Award, the new renaissance Award for Poetry, and an Illinois Arts Council Fellowship in Literature. She was a finalist in the GSU Poetry Contest (2007) and Nimrod International Pablo Neruda Prize (2009, 2012) and received honorable mentions in the North American Review’s James Hearst Poetry Contest (2008, 2010). She is the editor of Illinois Racing News and lives on a small horse farm in Northern Illinois. Her published books include The Lonely Hearts Killers and The Atrocity Book. Dead Horses is her tenth collection of poetry.

Be well, see you next Wednesday Charles Portolano Editor of the Avocet, a Journal of Nature Poetry

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I love getting poems sent to my computer. What a great way to start any day. A wonderful website is Garrison Keillor’s Writer’s Almanac, every day one poem and lots of Art history.

Please check it out: http://writersalmanac.publicradio.org/ I start everyday reading it, great fun!

Thank you for reading.

Charles Portolano Editor of the Avocet