Guest Blog: Sabra Bowers: Full Moon Circle

On the banks of a creek

under a canopy of trees

the mother-tree stood

wrapped in a labyrinth.

Ancient land -

still home to the Spirit

of the people of

the great Cherokee Nation.

We circled a crackling fire,

sang songs, drummed,

told our stories,

read our poems,

and shared our sacred objects.

Women…chosen sisters

bonding again

under the light of a full moon.

Sabra is a wonderful poet, she keeps a blog, Later, Miss Slater, go read! Follow her on Twitter and Facebook.

Guest Blog: Julie Peterson: twenty two

i was twenty two when last i saw you

taillights shrinking as you drove home to your wife

and family,

supper cooling on the table.

maybe no one waited

at the window hoping

you’d be home soon.

 

five thirty every night

the big green truck

ground to a stop and

father swung his lunchbox out,

his polka dotted hat

and dirt lined face

a welcome sight.

 

later, i wished for men

with worker’s hands to pat

my hair and fix my roof

accountants and historians

proved less than satisfactory

bedfellows.

 

poets and glaziers are skilled

with angles and sharp edges

neither one forgives mistakes since

glass drops out when caulking shrinks

and clever words can’t mask the cracks.

 

it’s not equal

she said,

though i don’t remember why she even said that.

most likely, it had to do with the red taillights

a declarative,

class is dismissed.

 

Guest Blog: Julie Peterson: Edwin’s Hat (revised from 2008)

Ah, Death
Flesh stripped from bones
Left bare to shine in the moonlight
Knocking together like
Mah jong tiles on the table,
Old wise women
Suck tea through their teeth
And laugh at the sound.

It’s a shame old men are the only ones
Who wear fedoras and
Cover their heads, like I should,
To hide from my own judgment.
The skeletons in my closet
rustle behind the coats and umbrellas
my father left behind
when he died.

I couldn’t find my feet beneath me to
Walk to the graveyard to say goodbye.
Instead, when I left him on his deathbed
I said, “See you later”
My suitcase bumping into my heels like a drawbridge
Snapping up behind me.

Now, years later
I dream of a blanket of hats.
I am comforted by tweed and herringbone,
Corduroy and felt,
Parisisal and scally,
The fine lace cap on a baby
Asleep in the castle
Of her own making.