November 12th Poems – Center for New Americans

Forgiveness

In the land of plenty yet divided,
We glance at each other sideways
From the edges of far corners,

The old souls from old countries
Of forget-me-nots
Close eyes,

You never know what flavor
Of the summer side of life,

Wanders back remembering
The time when the crooked arms
Turn into bear hugs
With promises in tears.

All day and all night I hear
The drum beats of broken hearts
Marching on the pockmarked road

Of despair dreaming
The respite and repair
savoring the hours of forgiveness to come
Like summer night the moon fills the ether
That is not meant for a faint of heart.

Here, the poem meets its prayer–
The big heart with forgiveness,
Playing the flute to soothe sorrow
Bringing joy like wind
Calming the face of water,
Lays an olive branch on the side.

2020
Year of the Rat

Yenna Yi

An Inventory of My Mother’s Pocket

Her apron hangs on the kitchen door,

slack as a snake skin, emptied of its occupant.

She is gone.

Gone to the Home

that isn’t a home,

the memory morgue.

The apron pocket gapes,

a hungry mouth.

In it I find:

3 pills she forgot to take,

cookie crumbs,

a comb entangled with grey gossamer strands,

a broken safety pin that failed its mission,

a brown newspaper clipping of my dad’s

obituary,

her house key that opens the door she will

never enter again.

I fold her apron carefully and place it

in the cardboard box marked

Save.

Rose Oliver

Tea

I’m in love with silence

the way my mind goes missing

folding into time’s colorless envelope

how the still, and not still, of air ‘round rock

— other side of earth

slips beneath my door, makes tea, then sits

close to me, basking in the presence of so much absence

Lindsay Rockwell

Inspired by a Botanical Drawing of Patricia McDonagh

Crucibulum Laeve, Bird’s Nest Fungus

Quite the challenging task for your art.

A view of nature’s micro-beauty

you have provided.

The minute feathery drawing of the

nest, painted with the affection

of a Renoir.

The delicate basket is shaped like the most

intricate badminton shuttlecock,

At the base ,the “splash cup”,

the container for the precious cargo.

In that base, were nested those eight

waiting spores, sitting patiently

for their portrait.

Only a single raindrop can serve

to release their latent energy,

causing a micro-explosion,

launching the spores like

rockets into the air above.

I wonder if your soul too, was waiting

for the special infusion,

that magic thrust into something new.

No doubt that made you craft this species

of coiled excitement, that sat

under your microscope.

Perhaps we all contain splash cups,

waiting and needing a particular

magic launch code.

I saw that release many times,

the thrill of spotting the Lobster Claw mushroom,

or when finding the first Morel of the season.

You burst into an incandescent glow,

your heart jumping, filled with joy,

conditions perfect for the leap.

And so with the delicacy of a single haired brush

you froze the event on the paper.

See those two spores flying free

with their gossamer tails trailing,

frozen in time and space.

An invitation for us all to catch the

wonder and excitement of release.

Paul Redstone