She brings all her talents to life’s path
mindful, shares with other souls she meets.
Like a lily who needs no adornment
the beauty of words alight on sensitive
lips, her dark eyes scan a literary landscape.
An erudite scholar in the digital world
she travels the planet, harvests beauty
in many different tongues, hungrily absorbs
other cultures. Her acute perception
free as a bird, she roams our globe, looks
for new tapers of inspiration to feed a flame
that burns deep in her linguistic soul.
She enters the garden of each poet’s heart
finds truth in words to bridge a lexicon fence,
gifts poetry with new and exotic pearls.
Unselfishly, she graces the literary scene.
May she discover many facets of her own beauty
in the secret garden of her translations.
by GAEL BAGE
Sister J’s Home Cookin’ Helena, Arkansas
Sister J prayed constantly for remembrance,
said “What he want?” all too often. She worried
them all. Even when she smiled, said hello
to all the folk sittin’ at the tables, she worried them.
Eggs need salt only once.
Butter needs cuttin’ only once.
She made a finger-mark in flour to count it.
She could bake the pies, hand-memory
waltzing to years of dough and spice,
but her shirt, sweat-stained and ripe,
made her doctor furrow-browed with
concern when all he wanted was grits,
and coffee a warm brown caramel color
of the local river, not black-mud thick
ooze of its thirsty bank.
And so she prayed. With her grand-daughter
and her daughter’s grand-daughter. She
was gettin’ fuzzy-headed and tangled
as the Spanish Moss hanging off leafless
roadside trees, their branches husked
and waiting for the end of a long winter.
She feared even the echoes of her everyday
would not let her see the spring.
T’aint no memory for that.
by TOBI COGSWELL
A poet’ s garden
Ideas grow and flourish as I walk
a wilderness garden; I plant new seeds
of inspiration and renewal, tread the dark
rich soil of fertile imagination. In moments
of paroxysmal madness, I return to source,
a temple, gripped by roots of ancient
woodland; here I feel my way, expand
intuition that floods me in reddened waves.
I peer through vinacious mists of dawn,
drink tomorrow’s sun, captured
in drops of morning dew that hang
on natures tussie-mussie planting. I pick
a posie of words, on which each dew-drop
scintillates. I am a snake, the sun’s close
bosom friend, eyes of a predator,
I uncurl, writhe in hunger for new
language to digest, slough off old skins
side-wind across a rainbow bridge that spans
uncharted land, here I transform,
in auditory form, become a wild exotic.
by Gael Bage
Poet’ s Place
The heart is a sacred temple
In each and every thing
Where love is but a word
And words have no meaning
It is the door of the Absolute
The still Center of the Wheel
The silence of Eternal Om
The Place where eyes can’t see
It is the heart that finally opens
When all other doors have closed
When grammar loses its savour
And there is nothing left to choose
Then knowing is but knowing
Faster than a beam of light
As reason follows behind
And poetry comes into sight
Do not think the poet
Uses ways of clever men
The Poet is the speaker
Standing at the door to heaven
The Silver Willow Tree
when my soul is in pain and tears fall like rain
like a willow tree i bend but i don’t break ….
yet heaviness of strife causes my heart to ache
and darkness descends like an old familiar friend
i crawl back into the shadows to heal my ills
& within my mind’s eye a sliver of light appears
and a voice from without finds my inner ears …
… in silence it invades my space covers my face
opening up avenues of escape it reshapes …
a waning imagination creating new formations
releasing hope from within it becomes my friend
lifts the willow tree burden from the heavy rain
& the voice from without joins the one from within
reaches up to the heaven they begin to sang
… be ye not afraid of the heavy rain nor the pain
that it brings giving life to all dormant things …
Linda Jones Malonson
Dedicated to Magdalena Biela
The Story is the Rose
I am no Philosopher
That has never been my role.
I only have a story
And that story is a Rose.
In fire gold is tested
I am tested by the gold
But I have no use for riches
When my story is a Rose
In the Name of Love
Into the fire of love I go
To burn away this image of
The story of the Rose
Melting into ashes
The mystery unfolds
Death is an illusion
And my story is my Rose
Should we meet together
Upon this storied Road
Please, sit down and share
Your story of the Rose
I have no love for grammar
Nor love for weighted tomes
I only: love our stories
Each story is a Rose.
When I hear your Voice
In any tongue or tone
I am the child listening
To a story of a Rose
I am an empty vessel
There is nothing that I know
I too but beg and plead
And offer up this Rose
Garnet Shaw Robbie April 2013
for Magdalena Biela