poetry

Variation on a theme by Heather Mackay Young It had not died, but it had declined, The swarming mass of silver tendrils Snaking unkempt through the slotted                                                         receptacle. It had been a Mother’

Across the ballroom,           She patiently waits for him                       To meet her soft gaze— An invitation           For him to draw near to her.                       He offers his hand, And she accepts it           And their fingers

He was wandering at dusk, aimlessly walking around Washington Park. He examined all the trees and flowers, except the roses, which stood out in the growing dark. In the middle of the circular

When I make my poems, I press the pencil hard into the paper, Hoping that one of these days I’ll Rip right through the pulpy fibers And see the Father looking at

Falling gently from the sky, Dancing in the crisp morning light, And riding a peaceful breeze, To the frozen earth they fly–– Their design, unique. Their framework, deliberate, As they soar from the

A sheet of silver lace Spreads across the glass, But in the gaze of sunlight Its loveliness will pass. The morning bed of pearls, Each sheathed in a shell of green, By high

Mind’s moving at a million miles an hour minimum Knees are knocking in a numb nervousness Deafening discussion is diffusing in her dad’s diner Fellow football players fumble while flirting with

For my life and health I have no anxiety; My God cares for me. By worrying, could I add a foot to my height? My God cares for me. Am I not loved

No one knows That my laughter holds A silent scream, And my smile hides An aching heart. No one sees Beyond the facial mask: The bright eyes, The rows of white teeth, The

I go to the woods to talk to God, Where the pillars of tree bend kindly, And the branches are whispering sweet Secrets between themselves. Somewhere There is the song of a waterfall,

Sweat soaked his skin, But still he fled through the trees. Panting, Nathan stopped to catch his breath–– He knew he wouldn’t outrun the guilt within. Defying the evening’s gentle breeze,

It still haunts me to this day, Those awful words: “Go into the forest if you dare.” The phrase lingered in the meadows And lurked among the wildflowers, A light-hearted joke delivered in

“Toasters are for bread,” I said, Yet something like a leaf was glued on mine. I was not wroth to find it was A moth my father had let in. The myth of

I went to find a sea of gold, A sea of gold, of shining gold, A sea of the purest, finest gold Beneath a sheet of glass. I traveled over seven hills That

Busted boots and broken buckles            Seasoned scars and signs of struggle            Hollow heart and helpless hustle So much harm, the world is shattering— Do not conform! What you see may break you down,

I could not climb the mountain to reach Victory. My own blood had to be shed for a clean slate— But You did it for me. Filling my cup with good deeds, I

Crushing crystallized snow toward The ice’s edge. Brother ran and Slid long solitaire, rubber boots Rasping. I hedged, then stepped Steady out to where he stood. Gray sky hovered over silver Lake.

The trees glow under the yellow lights, And acorns crack beneath my feet. The wind whips down the leaf-strewn street, Taking little leaves for little flights. Crystal dew blankets the blue grass, And

It’s windy out. The Fall has come. The trees Drop their leaves On my lawn. But I am man. I was made for this. It’s windy out. Leather gloves and rip-stop

At one Sunday lunch in early July, I built up an army of how’s and why’s. Denial was reeling; emotions, stirred up, led to cracked hearts and glass cola cups. I