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NEW POETS OF
POETRY CONNECTION!


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COMMONS PHOTO

This month, I asked the Poets to write something personal about themselves.  A prompt I offered was ‘My Hands.’  Two new poets are here to share their work, please welcome Jane Eamon and Lynn Oatman.  

 

 

My Hands

 

I remember most your fascination with my hands.

They were the first thing you noticed when I was born.

You remembered my fingers were longer than my older sister’s

and piano playing was slated for my future.

I remember your hands with the sparkling diamond ring

you would twist and play with as you sat quietly.

I remember how the perfect nails had bright bits of color

and your watch graced your delicate wrist.

I remember my hands as I swabbed your dry mouth

and moved the wisps of hair from your eyes.

I remember the squeeze of your hand as I told you I loved you

as we held hands for the very last time.

          Linda Whaley

 

 

Unaided

 

At three

I pulled my hand

From my mother’s

I was a big girl now

I told her

And I could walk by myself

 

My father

Never tried to hold

My hand but

His eyes

minded me 

And I could walk by myself

 

My mother left 

Her hand relaxing

As I sat by her bed

Curled out of mine

She died

And I could walk by myself

 

My father 

Departed two years

After my mother

Worried about me

For no reason

And I could walk by myself

 

Alone now

I wish for

My mother’s hand

My father’s eyes

Unattended I stand

 And I must walk by myself

          Lynn Oatman

 

 

“…and the babies…”

 

Nineteen ninety-one,

I passed her daily, a ritual

In the sterile hospital halls,

Tiny bird-bright eyes

A stolen mind behind

She’d reach out mumbling,

“…and the babies…”

“…and the babies…”

“…and the babies…”

Urgently, like a warning

Slow siren of a storm,

I could feel my heart respond,

Though my business was beyond

Her wheeled nest in the hall.

 

Twenty-nineteen now,

Twenty-eight years later

Concentration camps on the border,

Cages for people who are brown,

Children ripped from family arms,

Like cattle crowded into pens

How did we get here again?  

“…and the babies…”

“…and the babies…”

“…and the babies…”

I see her in my mind's eye,

Her repeated, mumbled cry?

It’s all my heart can hear now,

It’s all my heart can hear.

          Lorraine Hart

 

 

Inspired by Mary Oliver


Slowing down feels 
A little like giving up
Drawing into my shell
Shutting out the light 
And the world

Don’t get me wrong
I’m still engaged
I still get out and
Walk among the rest
Of the world

But more often than not
I’m reading by 8 pm
And sleeping by 9 
I accept invitations
Only to no show often

I like myself
I like my own time
I like books
I only feel the pangs
Of missing out
Once in a while

          Jane Eamon

 

 

POPPIES

All summer long

Poppies grew

Along the path

They nodded 

In the gentle breeze

And bowed beneath 

the weight of rain.

Big and gaudy, 

Bred for show

Pink, red, white, 

Plum and scarlet.



A punctuation pod, 

I plucked the swollen nodes

And let them dry. 

Intricate crowns

Rest on bulbous orbs.

Flattened rays splay out

Above a pierced  and chevroned ring.

Each pod, a miniature maraca

Whispers of the latent life force.

That lies within

A thousand tiny seeds

Waiting to be free.

To be scattered

By a passing breeze

To find a place 

To brighten another 

Summer path

With memories.

c. wiley       

(Photo of poppies by c. wiley)

 

 

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COMMONS USE

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