My poem:

sum total

Two slices of store-brand multigrain bread. Three squares of butter. 
Seventeen syllables in Lauren’s haiku about a small whale. Thirty 
lengths of the Y pool after ninety minutes of mahjong. The four-mile
drive home. The light at 2:45 in the afternoon, this far north. An hour 
in the dryer for a heavy load. Instructions for tonight’s dinner: 375 degrees 
for 22 minutes. A 30-second commercial break. Grape gum, flavorless
after a dozen mastications. Ten pens in the variety pack. Twelve-hundred
inches of tape in the jumbo roll, equal to thirty-three-and-one-third yards.
My mother’s recent voicemail: two minutes and fifty-one seconds. 
The gravel still in my knee after forty-two years. 

The responses:

O rock! Last remembrance of naked
hillside before cardboard house incursion,
rock, covered in vine, marrow of her heart
statue of Christ savior, God as
shepherd, mold of her hands,
complex and wondrous as starscape,
luminous cape of Milky Way, her breasts
a pillow of bees, neck-swarm
silent mouth, Puccini,
breath, resin, honey, sap
from the lone dwarf redwood, outside
her bedroom window.
O baci dolci! O languid carezze!
Bob’s deaf vision: 
her liquid voice
cascades of
silver tunnels

- David Rosenheim

Leaves
Motionless between the
Branch and the ground,
Simply spread
across the tree roots
A blanket of life,
colours of Fall,
Memories of summer,
Hope of spring,
Silent

- Cooper Walls

A warm palm on the heart,
a sigh for the day ahead,
long, dark and rainy.
The counterbalance to it?
Warm tea with honey
in a child’s clay cup
and a new white candle
ready for the light.

- Patrícia Diaz

Across the sky, the green comet with ten million years of detritus
the detritus star dust or maybe just dirt for the ground
the ground a home for worms and daffodils’ silence through winter
the silence possibly a scream, possibly a dream
between 4am and the alarm the timeslot for monsters and nightmares

This morning the moon and the sun together
the sky dark anyways, my gaze a daze of memory and loss
memory of loss
loss breathlessness under a green sea, open mouthed
the silence possibly a scream, possibly a dream
between 4am and the alarm the timeslot for monsters and nightmares

Outside the pathway of brick between slashes of lawn
slashes of would-be lawn, winter brown and wet
like a green sea full of detritus and star dust or maybe just dirt
and the silent open-mouthed scream of loss.

- Tammy Vitale

Dead. Bun-buns. Squirrels. The neighbour’s cat. All flat, abstract designs.
.2 kilometres from my gate a broken racoon, or is it a William Morris flower?

- Melody Tomkow

No cancelation after two day migraine.
Roof repair underway.
Fog, light rain, large atmospheric clouds.
Large French fries, medium French fries.
Water and coffee.
Soft chew gum from gas station for tomorrow's meeting.
One hour nap in rhythmic car.
Tea time with sick relatives.
Hand me downs, a black pile for one, color for the other.
Waterdrop blackberry, two different flavors, in lobby.
Christmas tree and lit up deer.
Two queen size beds.
Fish n chips for him, beef brisket sandwich with salad for me.
Garrison Irish Red, dragon fruit refresher.
Not in Cape Breton anymore.

- Tanya Levy

the first one hundred days 

i. 
a poem without any verbs? 
really? what a strange command! 
particularly in these dire times? 
why insistence on such stasis? 
mobilization into action  
our necessary way hence. 
fierce resistance to tyranny 
more urgent now than ever. 
wild imagination into action 
the only path to freedom. 
every day – the first one hundred 
and every day after that – 
nothing but loud objection, 
not preemptive compliance. 
rejection of destruction. 
metamorphosis of fear. 
only truth in the face 
of corruption and lies. 
protection of our neighbors. 
sanctuary for strangers. 
gratitude for every day. 
life victorious over death. 
love's prevalence over hate. 
verbs! oh, engine of our lives. 
more than ever now, you: 
the antidote of despair. 
the fuel of our survival. 
the sacrifice on the altar 
to our promise of a future 

ii.
this then, and each in need of breath and hands and feet: 
commitment • courage • fierceness • protest • truth • 
strength • endurance • dissent • objection • resistance • 
struggle • defiance • non-compliance • disobedience • 
rebellion • insurgency • pushback • opposition • assistance 
• solidarity • protection • defense • critical thinking • 
alertness • prudence • healing • immunity • dissent • self-
reliance • righteousness • capacity-building • the stars • 
ease • obstruction • resilience • movement-building • spine 
• de-escalation • possibility • trees • hope • determination •
action • air • hardiness • tenacity • laughter •  dissidence •
outrage • rejection • gratitude • indignation • mercy • 
subversion • challenge • attention • exposure • wisdom • 
ground • friendship • joy • communication • justice • 
persistence • uprising • abolition • outrage • peace • 
insistence • conviction • rocks • advocacy • demonstration 
• care • the moon • civility • kindness • respect • connection 
• comfort • attention • rest • heart • faith • goodness • 
devotion • soil • trust • distrust • sabotage • revelation • 
poetry • prayer • alertness • birdsong • love • you & me 
• the sun • the earth • insistence on life from here to eternity   

iii.
my mother’s 
entry into this life 
at the start of one war. 
this repetitive dream now: 
her departure from it 
possibly amidst 
another.

- Suzanne Moser

The Kitchen

One lone mandarin in the pottery bowl. A half-full cup of green tea on the warmer.  Fourteen tabs open on the laptop. Forty-four minutes of walking in the morning fog. Four thousand four hundred steps so far this day. A tall crystal candlestick, a sturdy candle, and a pool of wax at the bottom. The salt and pepper grinders from Goodwill. Four old but serviceable placemats. Two slices of last night’s cornbread on the counter. Seven knives, a pair of scissors, and a ceramic sharpener in the block. A long-forgotten decorative bottle of olive oil. The gleaming teakettle on the back burner. A crock full of wooden kitchen implements. Jars of soaked and sprouted nuts. Only slightly soiled dish towels. My peaceful morning still life.

- Daria Howell

Golden fields,
The hint of green,
A path of dust,
In the morning mist,
A river’s song,
Through the trees.

Distant hills,
Violet shadows,
Sunlight on stone walls
Wildflowers which hesitate (is this a verb in this context?)
On a grassy bank,
In the quiet breeze. 

- Anna Guerrier

Never is too soon -- the American experiment is not over.
The ends of the earth, minus MAGA.
Time for our RISE UP conviction. 

- Rick Hamrick

November Gaze

Storm clouds gray weight 
on the southern horizon,  
a vapor mountain of collected rain. 
Stillness in tree leaves. 
Purple black grackles, 
an Alfred Hitchcock scene, 
a cacophony from throats and wings 
within the oak trees’ branches.
Dinner, empty plates, dirty silver.
A cell phone’s words … one sided.
Rain, heavy, fog-like gray, 
a haze between the trees.

- Michelle Vanstrom

On the Clock

Pink puffy coat. Pink and black boots. 
Black tights, black sweatshirt. Black 
cat-ear headband. Six years. Pink 
and lemon clouds, blue mountain. 
Can-Can costume. Red and black
ruffles. Sixteen candles. A wooden 
nutcracker. The sugar plum fairy. 
Purple snow. A letter. Yesterday's 
news. Black and pink leg warmers. 
Miss Lori! Thirty something years. 
The Baltic Sea. The Pacific Ocean. 
A hospital bed. That last bowl 
of vanilla ice cream. Fifty-five years.

- Amy G. Smith

Unfiltered cloudy sake
Sweetness in a pink bottle
Hummingbird in the potted rose bush on the new deck in Florida
Pink and blue sunset sky, one more gift from the new deck, end of a glorious weather day in this state of states

- Rosanne Cassidy

Igneous, Sedimentary, Metamorphic

So many, so very many shapes, sizes, colors, textures.
Heat, pressure, movement, settling, solid. 
Leaf, insect, trilobite, lasting impression.
Rock, time, change, rock, transformation, new state, rock.
Fierce waters, gentle waters, rough edge, smooth edge, tumbled rock.
Fallen, broken, still rock.
Each distinctive, each unique.
Two rocks next to each other, time, contact, friction, mated.
Rock with cracks or chips, still rock to the core.
Without rocks, a scary world, no firm place, no foundation.
With rocks, a solid place.
Rock cold in winter storm.
Rock warm near your heart.
Rocks to sand, but not in one lifetime.
Sand to rock again.
Shapes, sizes, colors, textures.
Igneous.
Sedimentary.
Metamorphic.

- Barb Chamberlain

Florida

Eighty-five year-old hunched back of my father,
red swollen stiches in my mother’s right arm, 
grandchildren legs and white frothy waves.
Striped blue and orange beach chairs. Mothers in multi-colored moo-moos.
Chopped shells. Roofless houses next to uprooted trees; 
the havoc of tornadoes. Too many Trumpers. So many sprinklers.
Mahjong and Mexican Dominoes, fluorescent pickleballs, black coffee
and muscle relaxants. Period cramps, bored husbands. Teens in bottomless bikinis.
My sister and her bottles of red wine. 
Sand-filled Velcro boogey board straps. Hot dogs with German mustard.
Straw chlorine hair and itchy ocean skin. The smell of sunscreen.
Watercolors on the porch in the afternoon. 
My daughter’s ice creamed face. My son’s crooked, unbrushed teeth.
Sand between our sheets.  The things we’ll speak about,
and the things we’ll leave behind.

- Joan Pew

Lake Temescal On the Day Before Thanksgiving

Five thousand steps around the muddy edge after the rain.
Brown lake water at 9 am. Eight migrating white pelicans 
on a two week stay. A family of five American Black Ducks
from here, always together.  One bald eagle in a redwood tree.
Night herons, a blue egret, a bird watcher with binoculars.
and a good camera.  On the dock five fishing lines,
three booted men, four resting cormorants. On the path,
a toddler with a fishing pole, and his fisherman father,
a five-year-old in a ballerina dress, with her mother
and her mother’s mother’s friend, ready for Fairyland.
In 48 hours two thousand two hundred miles to New Orleans,
from Oakland, four hours ten minutes by plane.
There, my first grandson, ten thousand seconds old.
Me, going on three thousand six hundred fifty weeks.

- Karen Marker

On Wednesday afternoons
no school.
Little Belgian at rest
or evenmore, in search
for any possible activity.
Watchful parents
ready, to
shuttles and transports.
Games sometimes: appreciable luck
Discussions,: pretty chats even.
Spaghetti bolognese, the four of us around the table.
Sun or not
-Today, grey weather- and music.
Songs on my little one's lips.
In a very good mood: a delight.
Already a lot of chocolate in our stomachs, sharings in all directions.
Simple past tense conjugation exercises .
(Not my favourite, but funny enough) old fashioned.
A  cheerful rhythm out of the transistor, feast in the air.
Outside, fast  leaves in the wind. Still green or yellow .
Appreciable distance from cold air, behind me a very warm radiator.
But ...
time now for a little nap.
Fifty minutes later, another life's slice

- Florence De Corte

Same ceramic mug, stained rim, half a decade old.
Steam and evening sky gray
chimneys, rooftops, trees.
Creek near frozen, glass and stone.
Shadow of birds, window, deck boards.
The still room.
Page thirteen, thirty-two, one hundred and forty-three.
Ink, black, and worn. 
Words no sound.
The clock quiet.
Scent of Starbucks Sumatra  strong blend and the weight of this thought. 
Another book shelved,
corners worn. 

- JJ Celli

windsor park, ottawa

angels in snow
children’s laughter
puffs of frosty breath
and rosy cheeks,
morning dew on grass
swans on spring waves
ducks and ducklings
me and children at river’s edge

- Carol Barrett

Manhattan

The roar perpetual
but first, so dense so high
these buildings of New York
so far from Old York
and the sound of the sea

Steam from the subway
sidewalks full to the brim
constant motion the honking
so far from Old York
and the sound of the sea

Lights on, the glitter of Broadway
the unhoused poverty deep
asleep under jeweled windows
so far from Old York
and the sound of the sea

Art old art new on view
museums galleries treasures vast
acres of parks full of trees
still far from Old York
and the sound of the sea

Thankful for the journey to
this place of the best and the worst
and so grateful for the return
to Old York and our reward
the sound of the sea. 

- Katharine Davis