THE POET – Featured Poetry – June 2022
Featured Poetry – JUNE, 2022
By Doerthe Huth (GERMANY)
We can stop thinking about the future
because it sometimes overtakes itself.
What we thought yesterday for tomorrow
was erased by the present.
With everything we know today
the decision to start a war can destroy everything.
It crawls into the frame of our life and
carries plans to absurdity.
The world can be put into different frames,
waiting to be filled with light and colours.
Inserting an image means to
protect and highlight it through the frame.
Building frames is a solid handcraft.
The measurements must be precise, and
the actions must cope with the ideas,
to compose an era of brightness.
Not very craftsman is gifted.
Some frames are not made solid enough
to defend the image against the ravages of time
such as dirt, corrosion, and decay.
With all we know today,
we also have to realize:
Not every manufacturer is gifted
Some frames break at some point.
Doerthe Huth is a poet, Life Coach and author of books about the joy of life. She is a member of the German Writers’ Association, and her first collection of poems and essays appeared in English in 2022.
➡️ Cách thờ cúng Nhị Ca Phong như thế nào? Vị tổ cờ bạc có thể giúp bạn chiến thắng hay không phụ thuộc rất lớn vào quy trình cúng bái và xin vía.
RUN-AWAY BRIDE — OR THE MERMAID’S LAMENT
By LindaAnn LoSchiavo (USA)
Bree made a wish inspired by broke girls
In fairytales, not realizing then
Mist magic isn’t free. Before smoke curled
For dinnertime, she quit the sea for him.
Her human limbs are pale, not powerful
Like mermaids’ tails. They can’t kick hard enough,
Return Bree to the deep blue beautiful
Realm underwater, force that made her tough.
Their wedding lullabied anxiety
Away. Then moods wrecked her loveboat. And she’d
Draw baths, avoiding his society
To sink beneath, imagining seaweed,
That salt encrusted skin, fins, cool order
She’d dreamt of giving up. He built their pool.
The shoals and eddies of chlorined waters
Are hers to rule now, cruelly fooled.
LindaAnn LoSchiavo, a Pushcart Prize, Rhysling Award, and Dwarf Stars nominee, is a member of SFPA, The British Fantasy Society, and The Dramatists Guild.
By Allan Lake (AUSTRALIA)
Big Girl dominates cafes, bars. Barks
like a bitch during basketball games.
So like you, mate! That voice can rock
then silence an entire gym. Topics cascade,
laughter erupts and we all have to smile
as jelly dances, wobbles joyously.
You two share that and a certain style.
Soiled track suit, slip-on sneakers,
square glasses perched on square face.
Like you, she doesn’t try to please anyone
but delights everyone as she demolishes
jam doughnuts washed down with beer
by the bucket. Jokes about losing weight
by sawing off one leg, then cooking it
for a between-meal snack.
I know that, like you, BG loves cats
and kids, stops just short of devouring them.
A welcome pest, a balm – kapow – to oldies,
essential at a party, will remain deafeningly
alive till heart gives out then receive a ‘departy’
to die for. You come to mind when I look
at Big Girl. I know you’re still single
but, perhaps being ‘like’ magnets,
you wouldn’t connect, without strain
on those over-worked organs. Anyway,
you should probably disregard this;
it’s just wrong with our tenth (tin)
anniversary coming up.
Allan Lake is a poet from Allover, Canada who now lives and writes in Allover, Australia. Some coincidence! His latest chapbook of poems, was published by Ginninderra Press (Aus) in 2020.
By Gabriella Garofalo (ITALY)
Got it? It’s a dirty job, a foul play
When fear digs into her soul,
Who knows, an act of kindness maybe,
When stalked by water words madly fight
With her to see the light,
While you stare at the reeds
So averse at welcoming water-
And where’s the heaven in all that scrape?
A red orange idiom, that set ablaze
Lovers and baskets to weave?
Say,do you really think light
The rawness of a freshly mown grass?
Do you really call garden
A constellation of constraint, and dissent,
Do you really think clouds wild maenads
Shaking the sistrum all over orgasms and skies?
Foul play, sure, but only by birth
Grass can see the life,
And an acrylic moon can’t stand out:
Hills and heights deceive,
No mercy from the girdling grass
As trees and bonds grow older-
My snaky disease, I know
Mornings are your pawns,
What can get your eyes if you win?
No need to silence the soul,
No need to drain the sounds,
So, stop faking you are torn
About which road to walk,
When you know only too well
All the debris of the sky gather in a womb-
Mothers or births?
But who plans the route,
Who designs hurdles, and labyrinths,
Maybe creatures who dodge them
To hurl themselves
At limbs that catch, grab, grasp-
It’s too late I’m afraid,
Only when water floods you realise at last
Heaven needs births, and mothers,
To enjoy a life of pure white,
Free from creatures, and limbs,
Only good for starving and whining,
Only too hungry for a stony life.
Born in Italy some decades ago, Gabriella Garofalo fell in
love with the English language at six, and has written poetry ever since.
SIFTING THE DUST
By Bobbi Sinha-Morey (USA)
As the days dissolved our lives
grew like sprouting weeds sifting
the dust on dirt roads, our hands
brought to manual labour on the
farm – my brothers, sisters and
me; and we were so far away from
town you’ll never see the outline
of a lilac tree. Each morning an
hour before dawn two of my brothers
would be milking the cows and I’d be
going down row after row turning soil,
growing herbs and vegetables til my
skin would brown under the sun;
a backbreaking duty while my mother
would spill seams of intricate half-truths
from her lips equalled with her undivided
devotion to converting our big barn into
an antique shop. The youngest one we
didn’t know what to do with; she’d tear
her paper dolls, watch their scraps fly
away in the wind – an odd intrusion
in her mind; it made me want something
normal like finding a lovely bird, holding
it in the cage of my hands listening to it
sing. My mother taught us girls how to
sew clothes, fry, cook in the kitchen,
write in shorthand, practice typing and
math for a practical profession. I never
wished for anything. One day in the winter
I bought a heavy coat with my own
money; owned a calico cat, the one
thing I loved the most before it got
loose one freezing night in the wilderness.
The only time I saw it again I was
asleep and there were tears of ice on
its face inside my dream.
Bobbi Sinha-Morey’s poetry has appeared in a wide variety of places and her work has been nominated for The Best of the Net Anthology
as well as for The Pushcart prize.