August 1, 2023 — Maya Stein

This week’s “10-line Tuesday” poem was composed solely of 10 photographs. Prompted by a reply from reader Kristen Ambrosi, I invited readers to create their own 10-line poem in response. These poems, in the order that I received them, are below.

. . . . .

The light is invited through even small openings.
The door is blocked but by flowers.
Abundance,
A rush of joy,
A blush on the horizon...
Breathe, steady, palm flat to the fabric -
Unraveled,
Or bounty bound.
A future to believe in
Emerges from darkness as surely as the moon.

— Kristen Ambrosi

Readying for Relief

Unimaginable light
To our true home
The fruit of our labors
Bracing
A limitless horizon
No longer attached
Nor tethered
Nor bound
In the direction of winter
Night falls

— Valerie Tate

Out through the hull,
a house submerged in wildflowers,
a hand has stolen half the blueberries.
His limbs sailing
into the orange purple dusk,
the colors of grandmother’s woven tablecloth.
All these years, the halyard holding them together,
like a bunch of rhubarb from her garden
where she saw justice and the devil
and whispered to her dead husband after dark.

— Joan Pew

The light is there--shift yourself just a bit and you'll see
The door through the wildflowers.
Trust you can live on blueberries alone.
It's not a cliff you're walking off, it's just a slip and slide
The sun will continue to rise golden and strong
The sun will set, all peachy and warm, and the ground will stay solid beneath your hands
See? You can touch it, it's still there
So hold tight onto the rope. trust the lovage will take away all unnecessary pain
The Major Arcana points the way and the moon is lighting your path.
Go.

— Cynthia Hughen

The Supermoon shines down
on life below her.
Full of texture, flowing
with life.
Smells of yesterday,
joys of tomorrow.
Her memories of humanity
Illuminated by love.

— Katherine Hofmann

From where the light comes in, I'm able to see the beauty that blooms all around what's old.
It allows me to finally receive the bounty of what's before me.
A relieving sense of joyful play rushes over me.
New horizons are available to me like never before.
My senses are alive with a tactile tingling for all that lies ahead waiting to be explored.
The knots within that once kept me bound in place have loosened.
A fresh sense of vitality awaits ready to enhance this seemingly stale life.
This fortune was told long ago, I needed only to remember it.
To come home to the place inside, to the lighted house I've spent my life building.
Where scattered bits of relief are accumulated and I feel restored again.

— Kristin Fahy

There is light shining on me in the shape of a gibbous moon.
It illuminates the old, wild places where beautiful weeds have taken over.
Where my belly is overfull with ripe blueberries in summer.
A place where I can let go and surrender to joy.
I know this light is fleeting so I try to capture it in the moment.
Like touching something beautiful that has been crafted with devotion and skill.
Something carefully worn and wrapped over and over throughout a lifetime.
Something gathered and prepared so lovingly to give to a beloved.
There is some hidden secret that is revealed to me when I connect with this mystery.
This light that shines on me while I dream.

— Roberta Aylward

The bigga they are the harder they flair
when light comes through camera obscura.
Rural decay, fruits of a day when even
fiasco of waters won't cool feet to the fire.
May the sun set solid on the stripes
of tyrants who's braided lies strangle the
gardens of dissent. It's in the cards, all ways
light follows darkness.
Cockroaches scatter
in the scat of the RINO.

— Ellen Sander

Scattered Signs of Grace

flowerless summer lilac overlaid with wild grape,
like a bridal bouquet resting against the house
savory smoke drifting from grills
tall dark trees edging the shore
legs cooling on either side of kayak
sunlight leaking past torn edges
of storm clouds that flee the western sky
lake’s ripples counterpoint to swallows’ shadows
dim blues and greens of humid far ridges
quiet moonlight waiting in the east

— Carol Mikoda

The porthole resembles a lens trying to assess my vision
but I know I can see the barn door is closed to daisies.
The cascade was slippery, cool and fresh
as the handful of blueberries I steal from the carton
while the sun sets across the glass smooth water.
Sandra smooths the beach rug before she stows it
and the sheets are coiled round the winch
Like the twine surrounds our parcel of celery
wrapping the colours of the day
as we rock,watching the windows on the shore reflect our glow.

— Christine Barker

Reasons for Leaving

Porthole as portal,
I dreamt of this place.
Now I taste it - sweet, lush,
free like bodies moving through summer.
The photo shows the color, not the light.
I describe the texture of the weave under my palm
- you think of fiber and you think of being bound.
Now I am reaping the harvest
I once laid before you, unseen.
You saw nothing within your dark house.

— Jennifer Simpson

The light of another day starting
Beginning in the safety of shelter
The gift of berries
The gift of water
Venturing out to see the colors of the morning sky
I am touching and touched
Do I need to tether using a strong rope?
Or will a simple string be enough?
Looking forward might I find the answer
Just as the day is ending and the moon is beginning

— Jennifer Olsen

Scattered Bits of Relief

Let me show how bones heal
and hearts, lost in the dark,
find a jolly open window into
familiar tart treasures of a time
in trunks swooping carefree
into a softened, striated sky or
a handmade likeness towards warmth.
Cheerful tips of sailor blue and
remembered rhubarb’s tang comfort and
hold familial whispers of a gentle goodnight.

— Liz Levin

A Portrait of Grief

A faint light glows through a porthole,
No one to welcome the arrival
Or enjoy the sweet yields of the season.
Days no longer rush by in excitement,
Another sunset is another day away from you.
I pause, unsure if I can continue,
My throat wrapped, constricted,
A memory of dinners I will never enjoy again.
But, I believe
I can find comfort in the dark.

— Sarah West

A rhino on a scale
What is that weight
What is that scale
That measures the length of an animal's survival
In a world that seeks to destroy it
As funds are raised to save it
Navigation by eons or the short years to extinction
Allow for the weight to prove its life
Allow for the scale to show us our death
For those who do not understand the scale do not understand themselves.

— Cynthia Valero

Sun controls
Barn door opening shedding light
On the past
Adorned by present
Chlorophyll’s gifts
Flowers, Antioxidants
Suntans
Sunrise, sunset, sunshine
Colors, chords, kale, collections
Sun hiding
Sharing life with the moon.

— Christine Munroe

The Burrowers Recall Life A.G.*

Windows instead of hatchways—before that sun up and melted our glass.
We ate crunch and color, and if you didn’t want a ceiling, you didn’t have to have one.
Sometimes I caress the carpet and pretend it’s growing. Like moss. Or bark. Or the lace
crowning those stems named for a monarch who united two countries. I forget who and which.
When there were monarchs —queens and butterflies—and countries. And weathered red barns.
When weather was—not benign, exactly, but gradual. Like shorelines, remember? Before desert
severed us from the reefless sea. Enough water that we could waste it on our skins. Frolic, wetly!
Now we wander our dim warren, guide-ropes at hand, wending from and to
our hollowed-out homes Oh, and remember no justice, no peace?—that jingle we chanted
before the former higher-ups made their deals with the devil and brought his hell to earth?

*Above Ground

— Jeanne Julian

Through my portal at dusk
a garden, rife, overgrowing its own kind of fruit.
Relief scatters itself all over my nightfall
like a deftly woven textile. I find myself
gliding over its stripes, with eyes and hands. It’s a rough
hefty robe, strong as a rope that heaved many to safety.
Not too far away, the sea
reflects a stunning sunset that can be seen for miles.
Here, buoyant berries burst on my tongue,
rhubarb stews in the dark.

— K L Aspden

circumscribed portal to the sea
wild flower abandon
deep blue taste of summer
slippery slope to fun
calm breath at day's end
touching textured colour
fisherman's skill with knots and twine
market fresh
tarot mysteries portrayed
indoor lights dim in moonlight

— Janice Falls

there is a hole in everything where the light gets in
a door, once hidden, opens
revealing the bounty of the earth
the importance of play
the blessing of a new day’s glow
the warp and weft in the palm of one’s hand
threads plaited and strong
bind the harvest to our hearts
memory becomes prescient
and light illuminates from the inside out

— Diane Laboda

The Shadow side so vast we cannot see
how delusion filters light.
But truth is found in the taste of the berries
and the felt splash of cold water on bare skin;
the awe of sunset orange hues.
My aging hands find ground in natural fibres
to distinguish rope from snake.
I bundle life and hold it near
Then paste its picture out of fear
the light will fade too soon.

— Donna Paige

Sometimes it’s almost perfect
the way the light comes down, irreverent
like a door that can only be opened
in summer –sweetness falling like water
cool as sunset, smooth as a well woven shawl
I tie myself to my garden, glad of the bondage
no mystery what my future holds
the sun rises, the rain falls, the sun sets,
the relief of a cool white sheet after a day’s work
what else is there?

— Rebecca Reid

What if a porthole were a peephole for whales?
What if the overgrown garden didn’t spell neglect but live and let live?
What if I handed you a handful of fresh berries…
What if the star’s teammates let him go and discovered their own galaxies?
What if the layers of horizon painted like sedimentary rock reminded me of layers?
What if I took you up onto the dunes, and let our shins feel the gentle scratch of the machair’s sea pinks and meadow buttercups?
What if while you stayed in the ferry’s canteen writing down your imaginary world, I re-imagined my new world up on deck.
What if the ungathered summer crops reminded me of my eager expectations?
What if you had shown an early interest in House Music or tarot cards?
What if the cottage lit from within befriended the lighthouse?

— Lizzie Purkis