Page 42 - Wallingford Magazine Issue 23, Summer 2019
P. 42

w Our Poetic Town w
Summer is in full swing, and the Saturday Morn- poems featured here came from the following ings with Poetry Group is bigger than ever! We’ve prompt: Write a poem using some or all of the fol- been hard at work, inspired by longer days and lowing words: coast, autumn, childhood, dove,
 the outdoors. Much of our inspiration comes from the At-Home-Exercises that are assigned at each meeting. The poems from the At-Home-Exercise are then shared at the following meeting. The
mist, bowl, trails, messenger, whitecaps, invisible, butterfly, wire, seals, hands, lost, dusk. As you can see, each poet’s muse inspires in unique, wonder- ful ways. Read on and enjoy! Lynne Grobsky
Invisible trails left
by butterfly wings
lost in mist along the coast disappear as a north wind disperses summer
whipping up whitecaps
which punctuate
the deep bowl of dusk
reorients the Monarchs
who once again head south
as seals leap
one by one, like
childhood toys attached to wires you move with your hand
each leap a white dove messenger announcing the imminent approach of autumn.
Lois Read, 2019
It is a couple of hours before dusk. I am in the tenth year of my childhood one brisk autumn day. The trail through the field across from my house beckons me onward as if I were a messenger pigeon delivering breaking news. As I walk, the long grasses on either side of the trail caress my hands. As a butterfly flits by, I sense the invisible embrace of something greater than myself. Lost in thought, I see a dove fly right over my head, bringing a message that I possess the gifts of prophecy and clear vision. I am on my way.
Lynne Grobsky, June 20, 2019
My childhood at the coast
Into the whitecaps I dove
Walked lost trails in an autumn mist To watch seals splash in the cove
As a messenger returning to the past
I take his hands and ask his trust
Come with me through the bowl of time And share with me my dusk
And like butterfly we ride an invisible wire That connects the journey of our soul.
Bill Natale, June 2019
Her childhood by the coast with salt misted air, seagulls, and the smell of fish, centered around her father, a fisherman.
He was wiry but a strong man with calloused hands that stroked her hair for good luck before he left home for the sea.
His image leaving, satchel slung across his Macintosh, bucket hat covering unruly curls, lingers in her mind like his whistling that trailed behind him.
With face against the parlor window, she waited for his return at dusk.
It was a time when he told her stories about seals who ate fish
from porcelain bowls, waves that tipped their whitecaps to fishing boat captains, butterflies lost over the water
who’d hitch a ride on his trawler
back to land then fly away until invisible in the sky. But her favorite, the one she had him tell over and over, was about the dove who flew
to his fishing boat a hundred miles out at sea one autumn day,
a feathered messenger heralding her birth. As he spoke, his green
as seaweed eyes grew large, tears caught in the corners of his lids. His voice became soft as silk
as he repeated his story,
his joy at this announcement about being a father. He told her that was the best catch he ever hauled into his nets.
Karen J. Ciosek, June 2019
A messenger dove surveys the coast Whitecaps surround the seals
Follow invisible trails at dusk for butterflies lost in mist
Search in wonder with childhood hands Invisible Trails - at Dusk
Wini Keane, June 2019
Wallingford Magazine – Summer, 2019

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