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THEME POETRY

SUMMER 2024 = LABYRINTH

IF I WAS IN A GREEK MYTH

Linda M. Crate

Meadville, PA, USA

 

if i was

from greek mythology,

i would avoid labyrinths

like the plague;


wouldn't want to be killed

by a minotaur or any

other monster


they thought to hide in the

confusing structure

built and designed with seemingly

the sole purpose of killing

people—


i have a strong instinct to want to

live,


would've lived a boring life

because i would've known better

than to vex or mess with

goddesses and gods;


just lived my quiet life in the forest

or by the sea—


embracing always my own

magic and my own wilds,

probably be seen as some sort

of conquest and shoot down

every man who fought for my hand;


but marry the first woman who

made my heart swoon.

__________

CORN FLAKES

Michael Ball

Boston, MA, USA

https://michaelball.com/


I’m an old man, but often not the oldest

to hunt food at the Super Stop & Shop.

I recall a fellow geezer who pulled on

my shirt sleeve while pleading, “Can you

help me find the Kellogg Corn Flakes?” 


What courage it takes to tell a stranger

that you cannot buy groceries on your own,

a lightweight Kyrie eleison. seeking mercy.


While we were already at the cereal forest,

I understood his frustration. He and I had

grown up and old with far fewer options —

not 100 running feet of boxes seven feet high.

How complex our food choices are now.


I have shopped that supermarket for years,

plus I know adult cereals are head height,

and shelved by manufacturer names.

I strode to the Ks, (not so fast as to leave

him behind) as he told me that all he ate

for breakfast was Kellogg’s Corn Flakes.


I led him to the several sizes, had him

choose his box, and shared the shelving

secrets. His shoulders relaxed and lowered

Then, after firmly planting his cereal

in his cart, he thanked me several times,


He knew then and told me he knew

where to find Kellogg’s Corn Flakes.

__________

DON’T LOOK NOW

Bob McAfee

Boston, MA, USA

http://www.bobmcafee.com/

        

Don’t look in the crowded cities of the coastal bore 

for love is apprehensive, avoids easy entanglements, prefers 

to remain in each of the seven villages of solitude,

appears for only the briefest moment, occasionally, 

but not necessarily, obvious.


Don’t look in the high country beyond the central spine 

for love is never foolish, sometimes insanely bizarre, 

often flattens against the bracken of a purple moor,

telegraphs nothing.


Don’t look in the unpainted desert of the western quarter 

for love carries no water, needs to cool his longings 

with hopeless wonder, sidesteps quicker than a moonbeam’s

shadow at high noon, decoding pure delight for amused

observers.


Don’t look across the widest prairies of the fertile 

midsection for love abhors un-distinguishment, oblivious 

to flagrant rosins floating in stifling conditions,

heedless of hankering needs, incongruous.


Don’t look along the shores of the serpentine river 

snaking from north to south on a speculative whimsy,

harnessing no excuses, flowing indefatigably toward

the lost sea, for love has his private salt, cures desire 

into jerky strips, proffers himself to a lucky few, inevitable.


Don’t look in the redwood forests of the rockiest regions 

where snow-covered aspirations stand tall among 

unfulfilled longings, for love has already anticipated 

your blind groping, now lies in ambush with a quiver 

of extreme countermeasures, laughs quietly.


Don’t look now but your trail-wrecked body, after years 

of false wanderings, is now in love’s arrow sight, 

cross haired and helpless; ironically, love has been 

assiduously hunting you.


Don’t look back.

__________

Lost World

Duane Anderson

La Vista, NE, USA


My mind is in limbo,

with one death in the family days ago,

and another one very near,

waiting on the edge.

I sit outside on the deck,

unable to read from my book,


staring at the house and trees,

listening to the cars passing by

on a street blocks away.

My life, on hold,

as I attempt to take care

of all the death around me.

__________

THERE ARE NO WORDS FOR

Antoni Ooto

New York, USA

https://www.ooto.org/

the sound of coffee pouring into a cup

a napkin wiping a lip

Sound tries its own speech.


A stirring from another room, hear it?

a page turning

an envelope hitting the floor

We understand… but can’t speak it.


So much is sensed.

Without words I try

to learn this unspoken language…

a hand waving good-bye

a dog shaking off


And how would I translate it, anyway.

__________

THE LABYRINTH OF MY MARRIED LIFE.

Sonia Pal

Wolverhampton


The labyrinth of my married life

 

Had its colours dark and bright

 

by separating me from

 

My parents,

 

Siblings, and

 

Friends

 

by replacing them with

 

British (retired) neighbours

 

Poems, and

 

Two children

 

What a blissful experience in my newfound

 

Love

 

Emotions, and

 

Strength

 

plus, all the other lovely associated emotion that counts

 

more than enough for me to stay on life’s track when it mounts!

__________

LABYRINTH

David Hughes

Isle of Wight


My father planted seeds

My mother watered them

Devoid of any recognizable

Plan at first they grew together

A thick tangle of soft white roots

Reaching out to find new ground

Interwoven in intricate patterns

And where they touched

Nodules formed

Round kisses of commonality

Pivot points determining

Where my thoughts would go

And they were left to grow


As I aged the tangled mass

Became a labyrinth

Trimmed by time and circumstance

By life’s experiences good and bad

Formed by thick stems

Of experience and memory

Branches laden with recollection

My mind became a labyrinth

And everyone I met ventured in

Most returned after moments

Too scared to take a chance

They did not want to get lost in me

But you my love you were brave

You ventured in where no one else dared

And I believe you have reached the centre

And though it is selfish to say this 

I hope you don’t find your way back out

__________

UNRELIABLE SORCERESS

Jean Janicke

USA


How could I know the glass veins

would be severed just before the interview?

I tucked talismans under the table:

an inky octopus on sail cloth,

a yellow-washed Bee

posed at a picnic,

her gold chain clasped

around my neck.

  I drew the willow card,

saw three stars in my teacup,

like Orion’s belt piercing the skylight

last night.

I assumed the blue cornflower receiving

line up the lane marked the right path,

a barking deer foretold something found.

  I must have lost

focus when I searched for that spotted

sock,  ignored the tower of empty boxes

when I took out the trash, forgot

to count creaks of my cookie-sheet roof.

  I circled the labyrinth,

but lost the bend of bricks

under an inch of snow. Each turn

of the teacup alters the

liquid, leaves a loose leaf

stranded like seaweed

on the white porcelain shore

of my next incarnation.

__________

I REMEMBER
Gene Goldfarb

New York City, USA

 
I remember being so young
I thought death an illusion
that the feeble yielded to.
Now I see it an inevitability,
perhaps a long-lost friend
who’s ready to take me home
because the party’s no longer fun.
 
I remember seeing my mother 
and father folded in grief on our couch
both of them in tears and it hurt
even more when he begged me
to go outside and leave them be.
Now they’re long gone
and I’m empty of grief
but I’m mostly sorry
I didn’t ask them the important things:
  Did he love his first wife—the cute

  honey on the handle bar

  of his bicycle on the cobblestones

  of Warsaw before the War?

  How did my mother feel about him

  when she first married him?
 
Somehow I never got the genealogy straight:

  How was Uncle Philip my dad’s uncle?

  And Uncle Frank and Aunt Sylvia,

  who were these poor birds anyway?

  Cousins to whom and how?

  It leaves me too exhausted to get

  into the pedigree of Uncle Mendie

  and Aunt Ida, another deserted wretch

  who looked like Mary Pickford in her day.
 
My mother’s family was pretty big
and no mystery, even Uncle Freddie
who they usually called “Chicago,”
because he had made it 
and lived in suburban Skokie.

And Polish I wasn’t taught because
they hated the Poles, and Hungarian never
because it was a tribal tongue imported
by wild Magyars from central Asia
solely to confuse the civilized among us.
 
To remember is my punishment
to forget, my crime.
Or is it the reverse?

_________

LEMON SPARKS

Daya J.

Oregon, USA

 

Lemon sparks

fly by

fleeing the

strawberry flames

as they flutter

Here I

frolic

through the labyrinthine of

destiny

Fearing no escape

I forget the way

heart races

hands gripped

frozen

I remember

Lemon sparks

Sparks

spark me on

till I reach the eternal flame

to frolic through the labyrinthine

again and again

_________

JOURNEY

Chris Wilson

Liverpool, UK


The journey begins through 

An open door. I can go in any direction,

Though that first step can be difficult to take.

But, soon one metre becomes many more and

‘Iamb’ traversing steadily by foot,

Cantering confidently on Consonance Close,

Or smoothly sauntering along Sibilance Street,

Taking time on Rhyme Road 

To greet all I meet

As they leave their abodes.

Sometimes, I take a detour down memory lane

Retracing steps, recalling people and places

Or things I’d rather forget


Yet, a puddle or pot hole can alter the rhythm.

A road closure can take me off course

Until I am lost. A

Slip up I cannot re ‘dactyl’ I

Carefully check the map 

Reconsider my options.


Suddenly, I 

Venture down Volta Avenue, 

Taking an unexpected route,

To alien territory,

Or an area you wouldn’t wish to visit after dark.

Though finding more familiar landmarks,

I slip through Simile Strand,

Which I know like the back of my hand,

And if I’m in a rush,

I catch a lift on the metaphor motorway,

A more efficient way to convey

where I’m heading.


Finally, arriving back home via the ring road,

I close the door.

The journey complete.

__________

A CRUEL SPRING

Sarah Das Gupta

Cambridge, United Kingdom


Water rushes, angrily, cruelly,

crashing jagged boulders

against the soft, green banks.

Red clay colours the waters.

Now a stream of blood

dashes onward.


In forest glades

beneath the dark, tangled roots

of oak and beech,

Death Cap, Funeral Bell,

vicious fungi, pose as

fairy toadstools

to lure the unwary.


The elusive shapeshifter, hare

runs through the bramble thickets

where sharp thorns hide

under new, green livery. 

Beneath the sparkling

woodland pond

thick, black sludge

lies in ambush.

__________

MAZE

William Aarnes

USA

 

the maze in amaze

as we’re sure


to get lost

in wonder


by taking wrong turn

after wrong tun

__________

THE ROAD TO WELLSVILLE
Mark Hudson


The War of the Worlds, by H.G. Wells,

was performed on radio by Orson Welles.

On all Hollow’s Eve, 1938,

a labyrinth opened through radio waves.


It caused a great sensation,

people thought of an alien invasion.

They said an object fell on a farm,

with no intention of causing harm.


Aliens come out of the U.F.O,

and deal the people a death blow.

Giant alien war machines,

smash everything to smithereens.


Orson Welles is the narrator,

talking about what happens later.

The performance brought public outrage,

they had the radio as a stage.


But is this a comment on the internet?

Will our worst fears be realized yet?

A labyrinth of terror at our fingertips,

feel our sanity lose it’s grip.


The social media of this modern day,

makes you isolate in a paranoid way.

__________

WHEN ALL SEEMS LOST

Carolyn Chilton Casas

California, USA

https://www.instagram.com/mindfulpoet_


we can search for the compass

buried deep within,

that navigational system

handed down from a loved one

who has always cared.


You are not alone.


Recall how the squirrel, the rabbit

and the blue jay communed

side by side on a small patch of grass.


Light and wind can hold you.

The trees will envelop you

in the canopy of their branches.


Remember that warm, fall evening

when blinking stars shone

through the dome of leaves,

lighting up a map

to the constellation you came from

and where one day you’ll return.

_________

ALONE

Katherine Simmons

USA


I enter

the wilds

afraid guarded

body armor

the scratch

of an unseen

animal nibbles

the air around

my ear I see

nothing noise

crashes through

the ravine a jay

yawps

its sharp rasp

alarms me

a woodpecker

cackles around

me the world

wobbles

winter lurks

beneath

the roots

ready

to deaden

the world

a roost

of robins

weaves 

a net of sky and

drapes it 

over me

__________

FUN HOUSE 

Kathleen Chamberlin

Albany, New York, USA

 

Diving deeply into the memories entombed by time

Excavating with extreme care to preserve the fragile images

Dusty and dormant these many decades,

The earliest slowly emerges, fluid or faded around the edges,

Struggling against the weight of time.

Straining up, up, upward

Revealing more and more detail.

Finally, it appears, facade cracking but fully formed.

My father, tall and stern, towers above me in a crowded, noisy place. 

I am 3 or 4

And he is all of 25.

As the memory gains strength, colors brighten and sounds fill the air.

I smell the ocean and kettle corn.

We are at an amusement park drifting through music and laughter,

Jostling bodies pushing past on every side.

It might be at the Jersey Shore...1952 or 53...

We stand in line, I holding my father's hand.

Excitedly, I climb into the green car, a clam shell, tilted upright.

My father takes his place beside me and I feel special.

I have him all to myself.

My older brother stands with our grandfather, eating salted peanuts from a red and white striped paper bag.

I smell the grease of the track as we jolt forward once the attendant pushes the lever.

All I see is his cracked and weathered hands and a bit of his shirt.

I wave at my mother who waves back.

We creep along the greased track in the creaky cart

Towards the looming closed doors, battered and brown and forbidding.

I hold my breath as with a tired "whoosh,"

The doors spring open, swallow us.

My smile and excitement fade.

It is dark and I am frightened.

I shrink into myself: small, so small, and vulnerable.

Why it is dark? I didn't know it would be dark.

Light flashes and something lurches toward me, menacing,

Large and looming.

I shrink away and I scream as if the power of my tiny voice

Could banish this unwanted intruder.

The space grows dark again, a darkness deeper than before.

The cart struggles forward, slow and awkward.

 

Another figure bolts from the shadows. 

My terror grows as I scream and cry,

Wailing with increasing volume as more and more horrible things

Spring from the darkness into view. 

"Make it stop, make it stop, Daddy, make it STOP!!"

My ear-shattering screams do nothing. 

We lurch through the darkness, my hands now covering my eyes.

 He orders me: "Stop crying. Right now."

I whimper and suck in my breath, jaw clenched, pressing my tiny lips together. 

Finally, we push through doors into sunlight. 

It is over.

I have survived the horror. 

I bolt from my seat and run towards my mother

My tears and sobs spilling out in rolling waves. 

People have turned to view my drama playing out against the calliope of the Merry-go-round.

My father is angry and storms off, 

My 23-year-old mother, bewildered, following, calling his name.

I watch her overtake him. I cannot hear what they say. 

I watch their pantomime through the horses gliding up and down along their gilded poles.

And I know they are arguing 

About me.

My brother, two years older, looks from them to me as he holds my grandfather's hand. 

He knows I have spoiled the day.  

He glares at me, the sister he never wished for,

With the unfiltered rage of a 5- or 6-year-old.

Tears course down my cheeks. 

My mind screams "it was supposed to be a fun house!"

But I do not speak.  If I stay quiet, he may forget. 

My grandmother keeps me close

I try to understand all I have seen. 

The taste of fear is even stronger now 

But I do not scream. 

Some daytime creatures are more terrible

Than those found behind fun house doors. 

__________

WHEN THE DUST DIES

Lynn White

North Wales, UK

https://www.facebook.com/profile.php?id=100063706441633

https://lynnwhitepoetry.blogspot.com/

 


One day I’ll see through the mist

when the bombs cease

and the dust settles.

That day I’ll be back

to find you again

and uncover what slipped away

when we became lost in the fog

and the rubble,

the labyrinth

that was once back streets

and tall buildings.

One day I’ll stop searching

and watch the mist fade away

as the dust settles

and the sun breaks out

and the lost and broken begin to heal

and start to return

and reclaim

and rebuild

what they lost.

One day I’ll greet you again

as the mist clears

and the dust settles,

one day at a time.

__________

A BIRD STOLE MY SANDWICH

Erin Stone

Wales, United Kingdom

https://www.instagram.com/erin_writes_stuff

 

A bird stole my sandwich

and it reminded me that 

nothing is yours to keep.

Perhaps just for a moment,

A fragment of time,

our hearts are its cave, its

       humble abode.

But not forever,     not for always.

We are temporary beings

in a singular existence,

floating in a gale of animation.

Every second we love

is the biggest risk   our soul can take,

for any moment, it may quit,

vacate from our lives like 

specters in the night.

A bird stole my sandwich

and it reminded me that 

everything will fly away,

                               eventually.

__________

IT’S SON DAY

David Earl Williams


All jealousies aside

It’s true

It’s not even as hard as it looks


It’s just that

First Nail going in

That’s the hard part


By the time your soul leaves your body

It’s all a Street called Easy, a Street of Gold—

      That’s what the scriptures say!---


Then

You get to be vampires—


VAMPIRES— !!!!

      DAMN IT ! … and some of us in pretty dresses…


____________________________

 

 

“David Earl Williams” has been his alias since birth and he’s not changing it. To be sure, you’d have to ask his mother and grandmothers to know the truth. But you can’t ask them— they’re sleeping now with the Hopewell and the Adena who want their land back from the Cherokee and the Shawnee once they’ve head-tripped it back from the, mostly, but not exclusively, European rejects who are sitting on it now. All that can be said about the alias for for sure is that it’s a little like Mike Fink King of the River Pirates— it’s fluid— half water snake, half beaver, half bear, half alligator, half Blevins, half Fyffe, maybe, half Williams, maybe a little bit McCoy, (yes, those McCoys… and Bad John Phillips), if you can believe the 2nd cousins thrice removed— and probably, you can’t… ) Anyway, his I. D. is just like everybody else’s— it’s being made up daily, cut like a suit to fit  the dummy wearing it— or at least it is until somebody cries, bullshit— that doesn’t belong to you—  you narcissist!--- and makes it stick.--- But until then, “David Earl Williams'', he’s just like you, Dear Reader— one of a kind, and a representative of millions,  the vessel of all their grievances and glories, la di da, like he came this way, quality stamped and assured,  straight from a furious little factory somewhere down around his mothers pelvis,  billowing a camouflaging chimera of self-protective smoke  into the always immanent abyss.

___________

LOVE'S LABYRINTH

Loti Uwatabaye

Rwanda


Wandering through winding paths,

But spent countless years upholding trust 

With relentless pursuit of a dream.


Love was my sole motivation,

Naively believing in a straightforward path,

Unprepared for destiny's twists and turns

Blindly trusting despite betrayals so brazen.


Love now reigns at the center,

An endless circle surrounding me,

Wishing traversing it all

To commence anew beyond this world

Where beauty resides solely in you

And every refuge I seek stations close to you.


Amidst this labyrinth of love

I tread with a shattered heart,

Each step leaving a trail of pain;

An atlas to guide my past journeys,

As I choose paths I have never taken

To avoid losing myself in love's labyrinth again.

__________

BELONGING

Suzanna de Baca

Iowa, USA

https://suzannadebaca.substack.com/

 

I am walking along the sidewalk

at six a.m., dog by my side,

looking at a sliver of moon,

wondering how is it that I am here

in this particular place.

 

Do I belong in the soil,

the trees, the wind? I plant bulbs,

as if trying to convince myself

my roots are here. The soil

feels familiar, but I am temporary

like the peonies, and vulnerable

like the asters I’d planted,

only to be devoured by rabbits.

 

I walk

through my hometown

still adrift, reaching for a current,

a sign, looking at the yellow moon

to tell me which way now,

which way next.

 

I turn the corner to the path

behind the old railroad bridge

on the south side of town.

It’s paved now and smooth.

The acorns have begun to fall,

crunching beneath me as I walk.

They say, You belong here today.

__________

WHAT IS MY FAULT?

Shampa Saha

I forgot the way to come out,

I lost the path to escape,

I emerged in the depth of your eyes,

I am ready to be an example of history,

The petals of your heart,

The lub dub of your beats,

Intricate the desire,

Triggered to be insane!

 

What is my fault,

If your eyes are so deep?

What is my fault if your lips are so lustrous?

What is my fault if your call is like death,

Unavoidable?

What is my fault, if I lost my past, present and future in the labyrinth of your love!

__________

AMAZING LIMERICKS

Ken Gosse


I’m stuck in a limerick daze,

many long nights and days in its haze.

It was easy to start

but I can’t find the part

where the path leads me out of this maze.

___________

FOG MAN (V2)

Michael Lee Johnson

Chicago, United States

https://www.illinoispoets.org/

 

There is a stranger in the fog

screaming into this harbor tonight.

A lonely son-of-a-bitch without

a mother or a lover.

He screams obscenities

with bad breath.

There is a way the moon

investigates a sailor in fog

at night, sheltering no one.

Hungover in the lead piping

suffering from myopia

but downing in pride,

hyperopia magnified.

These memories are distant.

A lady now of a dream

still walker on sliding sand

near that beach, leaving

sounds of her own

where winds tell the

fog man where to cry.

Life a saint in blue mist

a roller coaster, thrill

master-slave driver

of its own.

__________

ENDINGS AND BEGINNINGS

Jonathan Chibuike Ukah

United Kingdom


There is an end to everything,

or the ghost of the end we fear;

yet we say it is the beginning;

but if there is a casting down,

it’s the obscurity of our blessings,

the hiccup of arrival, its slow start;

then there must be a lifting to the sky.

There is a tendency among men,

to release a sad tune when played,

while we are all violets and violins,

pianos, guitars, drums and cymbals; 

or when the gloss of victory paints their brows,

they contort their faces like a dark sky,

as though they were a bunch of Oedipuses,

running from their shadows rather than staying?

We count not among the children of Algea,

whose eyes are pain, and whose hands are sorrow,

but we are the chasers of the glowing Laetitia,

with smiles larger than the Heaven door

though we slump when we run, 

and our heads hang in the clouds,

our hearts stagger into our mouths.

Sometimes, we die to live tomorrow

after we have lived for yesterday.

We will not be dismayed at our body;

we can brew a mess of our lives,

and with filth in our hearts, we purify our blood.

If we are captains of our life,

we must stiffen our sinews and bring up the blood,

or pursued by locusts, we bend our spirits

while hardening our bones like the Iroko tree.

There is no worthier art than painting great pictures,

except we dab some colour bit by bit.

If we leave the city with its lights at night,

we find ourselves in a labyrinth without stars.

To survive the gloating of the dark,

we must carry our lights always within us.

__________

THE PARK NOT FAR FROM HERE

Robert Nersesian

Washington, DC, USA


The park not far from here, just the other side of a hemisphere,

swirls in teetering, tottering flames all whimsy and mirth.


Magenta slags, razor sharp. Greasy slopes. Demure cairns.  

Spires to the sky stippled with pot-bellied climbers and resigned sherpas

doomed and denied satori, falling into the folds of purgatory—those creases of longing. 

Lost. An occasional whimper. A cry.


The fire lives forever, neither quenched nor cajoled. 

Its demesne fills the range of vision.

It consumes the park.


She is the fire.


A plan: blinded by ash, whitened by smoke, grapple for a hold—

follow fixed ropes into the blaze, skip the fate of the ravaged,

tease out a line to her heart, hide in her soul,

wait for the rains.


But nothing quenches. Relief has a wait as long as a lien on unpaid sorrow.

Flaps in the night beckon with a mighty groan and seal in final judgement.


Pray for a fadeout, a quiet exit, an Irish goodbye.

Look no more. 

__________

THE UNFORGOTTEN

Dianalee Velie

Newberry, NH, USA

 

Locked in the labyrinth of my heart

the unforgotten pound and pump their fists

begging release from my memories art.

Poet, dreamer, yearning to be an alchemist,

 

I remember as comfortable and safe

places of pain and grief. Devil and angel

blend into one incoherent, unsafe

delusion of spirit. Purify this temple:

 

restore joys to their proper placements

devoid of their constant companion, sorrow.

Flames glow brightly in the darkest moments.

Memories that should shine into tomorrow

 

are cloaked in inexplicable darkness;

the labyrinth locked, the inmates helpless.

__________

ANOTHER FINE MESS

Adrienne Stevenson

Ottawa, ON, Canada

https://www.facebook.com/adriennestevensonwriter/

https://adriennestevenson.ca/


we are gathered here today

to protest the current status

perplexed by how it happened

this was not supposed to be


we who still had faith engaged

participated, marched, voted

but still the juggernaut overcame

majority’s clearly expressed wish


no Alexander ready now

to smite the Gordian knot

trails too convoluted to reveal

a path out of this maze


this is no mere brouhaha

we are more than distracted: chaos

has us in its toils – no deus

will help us exit this machina

___________

FOOTPATHS

Tina Hudak

United States


The sky is wide and blue

The path narrows but laid

out clearly, if only one step

at a time. The center, while

elusive, exists. This is true

even if other knowledge is

unknown. At this point.


Between curved walls of

metal, now burnished by

rain and wind, their warmth

in ochre and crimson belie

the chill felt from fear. Yet,

turning back is not an option.

At this point.


On and on. Despite

disorientation; regardless

of Venetian déjà vu. Always

look up. See how the clouds

skitter across this slightly

tilted sight line. On and on.


Soft footpaths meandering

among dense forests.

Moments offer joy.

__________

POURING THE LABYRINTH

Catherine McGuire

Sweet Home, Oregon, USA

https://cathymcguire.com/


I.

Imbolc, Candlemas – the ground waits.

Cold rain pattering on shed.


Felled tree: logs like a sliced carrot

across the ground; spine and spurs of dismembered


limbs, lying as they were sheared – a giant

filleted fish back crossing the yard.


II.

Half-buried stakes form a circle.

Wet twine is awkward in my numbed grasp;


distances marked in ink along its length;

tied to the center pole, unfurled. The pacing starts.


Pouring cornmeal from a measuring cup:

at first the circle flows, then dampness


clogs the grains, they clump and fight

like waves hitting a beach. I stoop,


back and legs sore, watching as I draw

the circled meal yellow on grass,


watching it fall on bits of moss and mud.

Chickadees squeal, their voices closer


as they scent the grain.

Chick a dee, dee, dee…


pattering like rain in the yard.

POURING THE LABYRINTH

Catherine McGuire

Sweet Home, Oregon, USA

https://cathymcguire.com/


I.

Imbolc, Candlemas – the ground waits.

Cold rain pattering on shed.


Felled tree: logs like a sliced carrot

across the ground; spine and spurs of dismembered


limbs, lying as they were sheared – a giant

filleted fish back crossing the yard.


II.

Half-buried stakes form a circle.

Wet twine is awkward in my numbed grasp;


distances marked in ink along its length;

tied to the center pole, unfurled. The pacing starts.


Pouring cornmeal from a measuring cup:

at first the circle flows, then dampness


clogs the grains, they clump and fight

like waves hitting a beach. I stoop,


back and legs sore, watching as I draw

the circled meal yellow on grass,


watching it fall on bits of moss and mud.

Chickadees squeal, their voices closer


as they scent the grain.

Chick a dee, dee, dee…


pattering like rain in the yard.

____________

LOVE AND TOMATOES

Jennifer B. Kahnweiler

Atlanta, USA


Dad once planted

beefsteaks in our Long Island

backyard.

my Father-in-law,

another Depression-era kid,

groomed his cherry tomatoes

in the humid summer of a

Chicago suburb.


both fueled by hope

in their green patches

of 60’s suburbia.

but after a few unnoteworthy

yields they each placed

backyard farming on the

back burner.


last summer I planted

tomato seedlings,

constructed a climbing fence,

hung mosquito nets,

and threw in fresh compost

(for good measure)

to increase my odds.


like the men before me

my crop didn’t fare well.

the Cherokee buds bloomed

sort of.

the Philly Brandywines,

barely budged in

the unfamiliar southern soil.

On a hopeful visit to

my plants one morning

I heard their voices, 

those two old guys. 


DON’T OVERWATER

PLANT THOSE BABIES DEEP

TRIM THE LEAVES

FORGET THE COMPOST


Stop mansplaining!

I said back.


I imagined them chuckling together 

like two schoolboys 


Stop WHAT?


It means explaining things to a woman\

 

in condescending terms.

 

OH SORRY, JENN

WE WERE JUST TRYING

TO HELP


as their voices grew dim 

in the hot Georgia sun

ALL I wanted 


was more unwanted advice.

__________

WANDERING THE VAST UNKNOWN

Julie A. Dickson

Exeter, NH, USA


Wandering the vast unknown

Traverse highland, craggy hill

Battered, barefoot, she shall roam

Barn owl breaks the late night still


Traverse highland, craggy hill

Gathered threadbare cloak surrounds

Barn owl breaks the late night still

Footsteps placed without a sound


Gathered threadbare cloak surrounds

Twigs entwined in tangled hair

Footsteps placed without a sound

Escaping ceaseless nightmare


Twigs entwined in tangled hair

Bruises shadow arms and face

Escaping ceaseless nightmare

Left servitude without trace


Bruises shadow arms and face

Battered, barefoot, she shall roam

Left servitude without trace

Wandering the vast unknown

__________

LIFE'S LABYRINTHINE WAY

Kathy Jo Bryant

United States


Twisting and turning,

This way and that,

Is the labyrinthine way of life.


With no concrete predictions,

As to what will occur,

Whether peace, or the weather of strife.


There are so many givens,

We often get lost,

Not knowing which way to go.


We rejoice, at the bright,

But are down, with the dark,

The future, we just don't know.


But life's labyrinthine way,

We should just take in stride,

And embrace whate’er may come.


Put a smile on our faces,

With a spring in each step,

Sing a song, where’er we're from!

__________

DREAM AT WITS’ END

D.R. James

Saugatuck, MI, USA

https://www.amazon.com/stores/D.-R.-James/author/B00IW6KT3W

https://www.amazon.com/This-Aint-High-School-Anymore/dp/B099C14N6G

Under branches defying gravity the path

meandered toward the forest.

From an uncertain height all eyes seemed upon us.

The silence of blossoms made it at first feel right.

Leaf-fall, bleeding from selected trees,

the greenhouse at its designated distance,

argued for the set-up as an outgrowth of nature,

the temperature not as a kind of poison.

In fact, the caretakers were in league

with economies of fear.

They would take mallets to our knees.

These thorns were gods

and we travelers, worshippers,

torsos caught eternally in coarse and caustic

brambles. What use to mouth inane prayers

or stride like animals? What use to side-step

the torn stubble like creatures of the night?

We’d need streamers of fire

to excavate a trench toward home.

We’d need to swivel our shoulders,

plunge through the forest without helmets,

pause before the altar whose namesake was

our mother, whose stanchions were of heartwood,

whose scene allowed no repeating.

Our best intentions undercut before daylight,

our balance challenged by the frequency of foxholes,

our voices reduced to the capacity of swine,

our vision limited like a gas-lit lamp,

we ping-ponged till pleading Uncle.

 

—first published in Typishly

__________

LIFE’S LABYRINTH

Heidi Gilles

 

To live in

your heart center,

 

You must go through,

the lessons, 

endless decisions

and surely the trials

of a well lived life –

 

You must experience,

the layers

of emotions 

the difficult ones

and dear sorrows too –

 

You must define,

the next step

forward, full of mystery,

without,

knowing the

final outcome

-

For if you hope

for a harmonious 

peaceful life and, 

find your way home - 

 

You must 

breath deeply, 

think creatively, 

believe 

in the possible - 

 

As to, live within 

our heart-center, 

we must weather 

the current 

and flow, in and out as, the heart trusts those who have 

walked 

the path 

around, and 

before us

___________

MINDLESS WORLD

Karuna Mistry

United Kingdom

https://karunacreations.wordpress.com/ 

https://www.instagram.com/karunamistrypoetry/

Dizzying daze, I’m in a mindless haze

  A pointless gaze, I find useless ways

    Lost in this maze over manifold days

    Labyrinth tricks within a myriad matrix

  All routes inbound, no escape to be found

Dancing dame, lost in a mindless world

__________

GO WITH THE FLOW

Julia Griffin

United Kingdom

www.thestrangerwithin.co.uk


Why do humans seem to make life so complicated? 

Do you need to say all the words to express something?

You don’t need to impress, you simply need to be.

How to be?

Simple, uncomplicated, uncluttered – at peace with the clarity from your mind.

How to reach that clarity?

Go within, quietly, peacefully and comfortably. Have a question? Rise up from this

peaceful state and you may have an answer.

Go with the flow – try, and try again; maybe change direction to find the smooth open

door. A test? But always worthwhile: whatever the outcome, you learn.

Your decision – maybe; or maybe not. For you are living your Tapestry – not a labyrinth

but a logic, a design where all is in order and nothing is by chance; all is for good reason.

This is your life, the threads are there for your purpose.

For good reason keep things simple; take time, pace, think, question, doubt. Truth is all.

Find, and be happy.

Everything you need is within. Carry it well.

And feel the peace that is more wonderful than words can say.

Go with the flow…

__________

LABYRINTH

Chartres

David Olsen

United Kingdom

https://www.davidolsenpoetry.net/


You tread narrow channels of anger and grief

reflected from deceitful switchbacks, dead


ends, reversals of fortune. You’re inside

and outside, deflected by these annular rings,


concentric partitions, separations, boundaries.

You have nowhere to turn, yet your course


is nothing but turns. You crave relief,

refuge, sanctuary at the sacred centre,


but are wary of confinement in unity.

Projecting a brutal past, you remain afraid,


unaware that an altered future awaits.

From these holy circles you can accept


the blessed peace of infinite possibility.

You are not, and never need be, alone.



Reprinted from Sailing to Atlantis,

Finishing Line Press, © David Olsen 2013

___________

ON YOUR DYING

Sister Lou Ella Hickman, OVISS


tears  beauty  like

sapling sun birches catching the wind

o bend…

tears are the unseen bending

now memory is

dark sheets

silent with pain

knowing is anguish then light—

from rainfall to flowers

that bend with terrible beauty

and you will

as i watch  you now

too much with why…

become like saplings  

that bend

until the day of the lion comes

___________

Mandy Ramsey

Haines, Alaska, USA

@mandyramseysoulhappyart

mandyramsey.com

 

1.
Vines of ivy crawling up the stone wall

flickering torches lining the path,

the barrier brims with wild roses

framing the possibility of escape.

Tending to the garden as these visions appear

I am released from the grind of winters deep freeze.


2.
I have left the grind of winters deep freeze-

  stepped forward on a new path, brimming with possibility.

I carry a bright torch before me

to clear my vision and sidestep the barriers and obstacles, while

Admiring the vines that weave and wind a labyrinth of beauty.


3.
Labyrinth walk

Reflects the life path

the twists and turns

dead ends and redirections

spiraling towards-then away from the center


Just when you think you have arrived

 at the place you have been journeying towards-


The answer you have been longing for

The solution you have been asking for

The peace you have been longing for

The sacred circles path leads you

further away, despite being a step away

from the center


You keep walking on

moving forward

one sacred step at a time

over crumbled earth.


Paths made of carefully placed stones lead you forward

Your breath synchronizes with each step

you notice the bright pink primulas on the edges of the path,

 lighting the way

You hear the swoosh of Raven’s wings over your shoulders,

You can hear the breath of the humpback whale surfacing in the deep waters nearby.

Suddenly it feels like an invitation to remember to exhale this weight of unknowing.

Suddenly you find yourself surprised at the center of the spiral, smiling.

_________

THE BRAIN IS A LABYRINTH

Alan Bedworth

Knottingley, West Yorkshire, England


Hey, where are you going?

you can't go there.

I take another path,

but that doesn't lead anywhere.


I retrace my steps

back to my starting point.

My emotions and temperament

have dissolved into mush.


The choices in front of me

are too numerous to comprehend.

The paths that were there to take,

are replaced by numerous doorways.

 

The question I have is 

which one should I take?

I've got to regain my emotions

so I can select the right door.


The brain is a labyrinth,

and a complex organ.

that controls your ability to think.

It's processes still aren't understood.

 

All this story was played in my mind.

Never underestimate how powerful

the brain is in determining

your journey through life.

__________

WAITING ROOM

Bob Whelan

Rockport, MA, USA


a carpet of colorless gray

plexiglass barriers at the end

of the queues where you bow

down to the Formica counter

In order to hear the instructions

through the slot at the panel’s base

then to obediently sit in

chairs covered in neutral

blue Naugahyde, easily cleaned

sprayed and wiped with disinfectant


couples host fragments

of conversations where one

translates the obvious to their partners

or share everyday reports

mail picked up   bills paid


so much white hair

all about to be ghosts here


now they hobble, then sit down slowly

or just release their weight

to be caught by a chair


cell phones holding their frozen gazes 

blank faces searching

some unknown distance


do the numbers of years

they collectively have left

total even one lifetime


i am one of them

awaiting the call of my name

to be led down a labyrinth

of hallways with anonymous offices

where you can secretly

plead at the doorway

for the elusive magic of

more time

__________

LABYRINTH

Morrow Dowdle

Hillsborough, NC, USA

In myth, its walls would have been taller, no egress 

unless we’d left behind a trail of crumbs 

or brought a ball of twine, unraveled 

while a beautiful girl held the threads tight.


Instead, we go missing inside the labyrinth 

behind an Episcopalian church 

when it’s nothing but an ankle-high hedge.

If we wanted, we could step over the edge 

and vacate the maze altogether, 


yet we stay, dumbly, between the lines, 

following their curves to the center and back.

Our future depends on this slow stroll, 

waits for us to pass on concurrent paths, 

recognize how little stands between us.  


But eventually the sun grows impatient and drops 

behind the steeple.  And we, driven back to the car

by the chill that follows, fall into the oubliette,

the dark orifice that offers no such promise.

__________

Susanne Leaf-Brock

Ames, Iowa, USA

 

Prairie Woods labyrinth

missing stones here and there

the center : : still

__________

CALIFORNIA HERE I COME

Gary Beck

New York City, USA

https://garycbeck.com/

https://www.facebook.com/AuthorGaryBeck

 

A local college

in the spirit of doing good

reserved 15 parking places

in the student parking lot

for the homeless students

who can sleep in their cars.


I’m heading for California

where I’ll live in a car,

if I can get a car.

Maybe I can eat

in the cafeteria,

talk to other students,

maybe a professor

and it’ll be like

getting an education,

not like New York City

where I sleep on cardboard

and scrounge for food.

__________

MY HEART’S SONG

Lakshman Bulusu

New Jersey, USA

https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/127227.Bulusu_Lakshman


Ring, ring, ring—my words sing

Rhyme, chime, melody—they do bring

Their music the air does rent and I, for long

Dance to the tune of their song


The tunes lend many a string

Thereby enliven the fairest thing

My deeds helpful and willing

Do service to a faintest being


My life joyful and content has a lot to mean

Immaterial of what I have ever been

Sing the glory, sing the blues

Play well my part, pay well my dues


Sing, sing, sing—the words ring in

Unfold a whole new world within

Where each candid thought

Is dear than gold ever bought


Where feelings of love, sweet and tender

Are more than just read, recite, and render

These strings in all their art

Complete the song of my heart

__________

THE LIFETIME CHANNEL IN AN OLD MOTEL ROOM
Peter Magliocco

Las Vegas, NV, USA

Your ex-husband calls to remind you

of a lingering, legal unpleasantness

that never ends. Your nightclub voice

is an odd one: mannish, scary &

smoke-scarred like the walls

of old European nightclubs

where the voices vie to be heard.

Against the onslaught of phonetics

we share something out-of-kilter

in our rage against falsehoods

as time spins the memory bottle

for the lipless crones to kiss ass

with alliterative literary abuse.

Your poetry alone overwhelms

contextual meanings of theory,

& content remains secondary.

The ghost of Picasso mutates

in your distorted hip soul,

the one you’ve tampered with

yet strive to break free from

like the bonds of doctors burdening

hologram visions in your mind

with all the floating memory games

reborn to suffering, vicarious victims

of a dark terrorist rapist’s seed

you claim I don’t see the holocaust

or the old neon motel sign I am

advertising -- a “No Vacancy”

sign for just another nobody inside

uninhabited rooms like yourself,

waiting to be turned on or off.

__________

IF I WERE

Najma Naseer

Sindh, Pakistan


If I were sky
You were my moon,
And makes me happy with your talk,
If I were bird
You were my wings,
And makes me high fly,
If I were firefly
You were my light,
And makes me bright like a moon,
If I were kite
You were my twine,
And makes me to stay  stable,
If I were ocean
You were my shore,
And makes me safe to spoil,
If I were flower
You were my fragrance,
And makes me bloom like flowers,
If I were passenger
You were my destiny,
And finally we will meet at any turn of life.

__________

COLOR WHEEL

Tracy L Duffy

United States


Green Skies

Yellow Heaven

Purple Grass

The Waters Blue

How Odd – How Crass


we must seem,

to the looking glass

The Hollow Moon

Glaring Down

Cooling Sun

Flickering Out


I see by Night

Sleep by Day

How Odd the Frey

The Water’s Blue

My Smile’s a Frown

Your Upside Down


His Ears they See

Her Eyes they Hear

How Far, yet Near

The Water’s Clear

Red Rain, Black Snow

An End – Don’t Know

___________

A CRUEL SPRING

Sarah Das Gupta

Cambridge, United Kingdom


Water rushes, angrily, cruelly,

crashing jagged boulders

against the soft, green banks.

Red clay colours the waters.

Now a stream of blood

dashes onward.


In forest glades

beneath the dark, tangled roots

of oak and beech,

Death Cap, Funeral Bell,

vicious fungi, pose as

fairy toadstools

to lure the unwary.


The elusive shapeshifter, hare

runs through the bramble thickets

where sharp thorns hide

under new, green livery. 

Beneath the sparkling

woodland pond

thick, black sludge

lies in ambush.

___________

THE BEST TWO THINGS 

Barbara Anna Gaiardoni

Verona, Italy

http://barbaragaiardoni.altervista.org/blog/haikuco-2/?doing_wp_cron=1722191366.1400210857391357421875

https://www.facebook.com/barbara.gaiardoni/

https://twitter.com/BGaiardoni


It is difficult to explain why, but now wondering what my right way to create was I built my own mental maze - intangible and sterile - and lost my self in it. I have forgot how to simply act. Madonna, my feet are so cold!


a few pair of swans

pass occasionally

to greet you

__________

DICHOTOMY OF RESILIENCE

Samm Cohen

New York, New York, USA

https://sammcohen.com/

 

Behind a trail of leaded breadcrumbs 

Janus stands in the gateway

inviting us to look at both past and future 

And in duplexity shows our dimensions 

building cities on forestland and wanting rustic viewed skyscrapers

making youth gray-aged in worry as elderly plead for patient pampering 

adding talons to doves and mothering to hawks 

civilizing barbarism or maybe brutalizing decency

cutting the cord whose ties seem boundless

The dyads in this human experiment endless sometimes 

cause such rips in harmony’s blanket 

leave us shivery and skeptical 

to whether those old Roman deities, or any other, are interested at all 


Holding this invisible tether

we sojourn slowly climbing in just one direction

to the next number in this sequenced cycle of symmetry 

and attempt to find a middle ground in the transition

vacillating in two-minded consistency

The duality of the door stands open today and

I wonder if I peer into our ambivalent tomorrows

Is there enough despair and doubt

to finally bring back hope?

__________

LOST PATHWAYS OF MY MIND
Ian Martin


Which way should I go?

Straight ahead, right or left

No, it’s easier to turn left

But which way do I go next?


It’s that road on the left?

No, it’s over there on the right

No , so straight on I have to go

Looking searching for my home


I live on a very long street

But there all very long streets!

By some shops, like those over there 

No, not them either, am I lost?


I sit and cry by the road side

I go to the shops everyday

But today I can’t remember how

I am meant to get back home


My minds gone blank, why?

Directions,  there lost somewhere?

Like which number do I live at?

What street do I live on and your name?


Lost in the chasms of my mind

All the things I’ve learnt in my life

I can’t seem to remember anything

Yes, lost in the pathways of my mind

__________

SHE SAID, “ALZHEIMER’S

Judy DeCroce

New York, USA

https://www.linkedin.com/in/judydecroce/



An empty shape wears my shoulder,

yet, if I wait, there comes a moment

a focus,


pieces of possibility, a right answer—

something.


Everyone asks for something.


Shifting words wheel;

  answers circle, spin.


And the worst is when there’s nothing,

not even the wheel.


I wish you could come in.

Out is impossible.


Do you see me?

 

  I’m over there.

 


Poem by Judy DeCroce 

first appeared in

Four Three Three Magazine

Spring / 2021

__________

HOUSE WITHOUT ROAD

Faruk Buzhala

 

Beautiful house

with shadows cast

and overturned bread.

Pathless labyrinth

The road to it.

__________

I FALL ASLEEP WITHIN AN ECHO

Lisa Sultani

United States


The sun was small compared to the flags

symmetrically draped with a hero’s salute

Other flags we walked across

reciting generational curses


The sun grew even smaller


I speak with my grandparents atop a mountain

Their eyes widen when I reveal what I found

in the basement of a library


Although the mountain is dense

I now understand it was created by sandstorm

My grandparents have always understood 


Our veins were created by prayer-- platelets 

carry words to unwrite generational curses 


When I get out (WHEN I GET OUT)

I can be an editor or a doctor

I can be an archivist or a writer


Trials have fastened additional sensors to my skin

through these I understand:

Under a sun of any size, our blood will inexorably thicken


And so my family name remains on the mountain.

___________

Association for the Study of Women & Mythology

Kelley Jean White

Philadelphia, PA USA

 

It’s late. Don’t use the elevator.

You’ll have to climb stairs to

the Thirteenth Floor. You might need

oxygen to get past the twelfth. Or you might

be blinded and skid right past to

the twenty-eighth. There’s an observatory

of days, and a radiographic memory

of months. Here, see, Isis dismembers

Osiris. Oh, sorry, that was his brother,

Seth doing the dismemberment, see Isis

stitches him back but his, well his

‘generative staff’ is lost. So how does

Horus arrive. Ah, virgin birth, how often

we remark it. Look, here a nine-year-old conceives,

and names her father as the father. Now that can’t

be true, can it? Ask Mary’s father. Oh Goddess,

I do believe. I’ve made a great mistaken

Sin. Mary, I beg you, forgiveness. I love

You truly, your blue scarved bowed head.

How often I have prayed and you

heard. I bless you. I bless Ester, Kali,

Anahita, Brahmani, Ceres, Danu, Gaia,

Guanyin (I’ve prayed to you also, and

it is a prayer to all.) and Heavenly Mother,

I’m just getting started. In my darkest

night, when I’ve been pushed

a dozen stairs into the basement

and that man with the hammer and sickle

waits outside a flimsy door, I pray again,

Minerva, Kumari, Lakshmi, I call on all

Virgins, Mary, Mary, I have not forgotten,

I am belted with decades of your rosary,

I count beads even when he enters

that dark door. And you are with me,

Nane, and Nuit, oh sweet Night, and you

many sainted virgins, Odile, Agatha,

Catherine, oh and unvirgin Magdalene, dearest

Sister of the ever-lonely walking

Night. Come Parvati, Rhea, Shakti, come Terra,

Venus, Woman. Yes, Woman, your name is

Legion, study you? We see you, Womb.

__________

LABYRINTH'S CONFINED

Pratibha Savani

https://www.instagram.com/pratibhapoetryart

https://www.facebook.com/pratibhapoetryart

Lost in a maze

No way to get out

My heart is lost

I have no doubt


Besotted by you

Your charming nature

Alluring dark eyes

I venture deeper


Deeper into the maze

Stumbling inside

Falling for you

In labyrinth's confined


Lost in love

Entangled in a gaze

Tantalizing touch

Puzzling a dreamy daze


Meandering through

Walls of solid green

Path becomes clearer

Don't you see it too?

___________

LABYRINTH LOST

Diane Funston

Marysville, California


Walking the labyrinth,

in France,

on Maui,

in Mojave sand,

in Bakersfield,

for Christ’s sake.


Setting intention,

tracing the spiral,

moving inward,

towards center,

completion of journey,

end of watch.


Ancient cycle,

deliberate steps,

the old ways

of many footsteps

beginning and end

call and response.


The answer came

in heated city council meetings,

of the small-minded rural town,

they voted NO on a city park labyrinth,

“It’s part of the occult”, they screamed.

The stone saints above cathedral labyrinths world-over,

shook marble heads in disbelief.

_________

READING BILLY COLLINS AT 3 A.M.

Maryella Desak Sirmon

United States


I should not be awake but time’s on standby,

sleep and dreams out on a date

cruising around the nighttime sky,

commenting on nearby stars as they speed

past the moon’s dark globe showing

me a nail-clipping sliver of silver light.


I could hope they hurry back,

but if they do, I might not finish

feeling The Rain in Portugal

as it dampens my hair, seeps into my chest

during this second nocturnal reading.

So, I listen to an owl’s ethereal ‘Who-whos’


leaking  from the old live oak shadowing

my window.  This roosting picket warns

of traffic on the glide-path of a breeze,

signaling return of galaxy-trekking mates,

who shred a few clouds on their hasty descent.

Bluebird has not spoken, but morning


has broken the somber stillness of my warm

word-cocoon.  I rest my book and tuck the tired

wanderers beneath a pillow, where they will wait

for earth to rotate me into darkness again,

before they crawl out and settle in my bed,

perhaps staying a while tonight.

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