what is a hope
if not the most desperately fervent
wish of a man— a dream so deeply
staining the edges of reality
a hope lies dormant in my belly
sleeping like a dragon curled
on the hoard of my desire
breath like smoke wafting
past my eyes and up my spine
tinting my retinas; seeping into my brain
it fires my neutrons and my body says,
why not try again
the days spent in despair— the people
who jeer— the coffee stains and
splashed puddles and fumbled papers—
i hope to hate them a little less tomorrow
in this suffocating swirling world
my hope-stained eyes see
a new dawn a new day
a light at the end of my tunnel
even cold wind warms my face;
around me bustles with life,
sun seeping through the cracks
waking up my slumbering hope
today will be different. today will be good
today, a day i’m living for the first time
i have a hope, wide awake in my core
it tells me, it will all be okay
I dreamed my way here
I’ve had my cringe moments
I feel pressure, I lose perspective
I’ve wholeheartedly failed
I misspeak, underthink, overreact
I try to do the right thing
the right thing isn’t always clear
I’ve tried to hold on
I’ve let go with grace
I’ve charged ahead
I’ve stepped aside
I self-sabotage, then try to do better
I’ve self-consciously retreated
I’ve stood up for others
I’ve backed down and apologized
I’ve rinsed and repeated
I’m a chameleon, but I’ve never been perfect
I’ve under-reacted to challenges
I’ve overreacted to the ordinary
I devalue likeability
I indulge the language of play
I share my human experience
I don’t know what else to say.
Woman’s Desire
What’s all this rigmarole and claptrap
About the man being the only one thinking of sex?
Well, truth be known,
A woman, skin deeply eager, thinks much of it too…
Once leaving the job, after
The shopping; the vaccuuming; the cooking; the pots,
Pans, and dishes; after the childrens’
Homework, meals, baths, and good-night kisses;
Once the cat and dog have gone out and in
Twice, been fed, and cooed over while petted;
After inquires about her spouse’s work, complaints,
And wishes; after the phone calls to people of concern;
After checking the bank account, new emails, and
Cleaning out her handbag; counting out lunch monies;
Preparing the morrow’s snacks and clothing; writing
The lists of to-do’s and schedules; and, preparing medications…
Afrter all that, following ten minutes of rest
In a cushioned chair,
Among the first wishes of her long-patient body,
Is for some time to linger, living
Pleasure’s words whispered by her passion’s tongue.
A woman desires to lay felt and feeling sensuously
With her beloved, warm and spent,
Close to sleep at her side.
——————————————————————————————————
(c) sally young eslinger 9/16/2023
Sniffs of cotton candy glide
Glistening like hairy sugar bombs
Through barns of dozy prized cows
Stinky squeaky piggies squeal off-key
While whirligig Ferris Wheels grind and spin
In the hum of the Tilt-A-Whirl and giddy voices
May 14, 2023
Bitesize Contest No. 64 Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Line Gauthier
Among the golden tipped, rippling, emerald waves of grass, one can see,
An old, twisted, gnarled and hollowed, solitary tree.
Splintered and broken, it grows no more,
limbs and bark remain on the surrounding floor.
Thin, gyrating, and pleading branches reach out,
towards the sapphire sky, as whipped cream clouds drift about.
Gray and black, the wood, dry, crumbling, and rough to the touch,
It’s been that way for quite some time now, as no one goes there much.
It’s striking appearance implies a message of lost strength being sent out.
If it remains, is unknown to me, but it is remembered with out a doubt.
Not sure why this tree has made an imprint on my memory,
yet, I can still feel the wind as I gazed upon it, in that vast emerald sea.
Long human silhouettes at eventide.
Dry lips, coruscating eyes, hungry souls, a lakefront view.
Water shimmering in the diffracted coral beam; upcoming moonlight.
Pair of warm and cold hands.
Cool evening breeze against golden and olive skin.
Fleeting instants after 6 p.m.;
Perfect moments don't last long,
Seconds of solace,
Concealed is the day by azure-colored ripples.
Will they lose themselves too?
Like the lost shadows after sunset.
Immersing in their soul and the night.
The irony of being moonstruck at dusk.
Peace or grief?
A nostalgic dilemma;
Is this what it means to be human?
Being haunted by your sweetest day memory at night.
And Then The Corvids Came.
Sky filled with black swirling clouds filled with rain a falling,
thunder rolled and lightning flashed filling the heart with dread,
across the lifeless bodies rolled .
washing away the blood pittering on discarded drum,
filling sodden pipes drowning tunes and songs,
turning into a death lament.
The groans of wounded and dying men,
filled the evening air,
sunset over the horizon fell and suddenly over the hills,
came a squaking and a cawing of raucous sound,
turning sky to black as they swooped and danced,
and she stood upon the hill raising arms aloft,
she sang a strange and ancient song gown blowing in the wind,
pointed with her gnarled staff of ancient yew,
Twas then the Corvids came.
(c) Aindriu Provan Mac-an T-soar.
it is
what it is
without narrative
isolated
moments
of figuration
sunlight
on a wall
frozen
in time
conversations
of unheard voices
stillness +
paradox
commune within
the
interplay of
imagination
in
studies
of loneliness
emblematic
silences
soundless symbolism
saturated
with suggestion
soft realism
of the inner life
gestates
cries
on canvas
forever before
our eyes
juxtaposed
drip
by
drip
into
melancholy
an empty chair
a sad stare
it is
what it is
Flame yellow with a tint of gold,
flutters with bite of autumn cold,
on aspens and their birch cousins
are first seen when the fall begins.
Then scarlet fire will appear,
a blaze that won’t inspire fear,
and deep crimsons of apple-hue,
add such richness to a view.
Next sugar maples, orange bright,
like morning color of sunlight,
the harvest-bringer’s vibrant shade
soon dominates the forest glade.
And then the tourists come again,
I guess I can’t really blame them,
the beauty of this display marks
a last hurrah before the dark.
I myself like autumn as well,
but to be honest, this I’ll tell:
I much prefer when the fall leaves,
because I can get out my skis…
male pampas grass blooms
spikey, creamy, shoots against green....
bumble bee's hums roar
pines
and cedar
liveoak
and locust
chestnut
hickory
cottonwood
& tuliptree:
boughs that
crackle
in the wind
sweet
&free
flight
and song
of past&
present:
in
fluid
movement
of lips
that kiss
and
speak
aloud
in
creative
cadenced
harmony
someone asked her what she was looking at
as she stood in front of the large picture window in the kitchen
in the abode where she presently resided---
the question came aloud from another room,
as if the questioner was busy themselves & only in passing
did they see the girl standing
with eyes focused,
arms at her sides,
as if in a private state of wonder
(& why a private state of wonder seems to be ample food for the
popular & public, pedantically preposterous, who prey upon the
rest of us---we’ll never know) &
so without hesitation they rambled out their comment,
not sticking around a moment for an answer &
as if that itself was not an answer to such a question,
the girl standing in front of the window
neglected to say anything, instead,
taking an extra moment to enjoy what it was that she
had been privately concerned with,
whatever images appeared out there
that her own sense of sensory perception
was devouring, free of the babble
swirling all around,
incessantly---
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