Paper Plate, by Linda Keeler

a sun, a clock, a face, a hat 

a paper plate can be all that

in summer — potato salad piled on top 

be careful there, don't let it drop

or use it for an easy way 

to keep the dish soap far away

toast for breakfast, there's no mess 

use it again for lunch I guess

look at this plate, it's thin and flimsy 

it can't handle Korean kimchi

after use, don't worry dear plate — 

a recycled reincarnation will be your fate

Cottage Inventory, by Isobel Reade

In the kitchen, a jar of coffee, bottles of wine, a few pots and pans, dishes in the sink, cat bowls on the floor, also Sandburg and Safire.

In the dining room, a long table of tiger maple, three Duncan Phyfe chairs, a book of Tarot, both Agatha Christie and Simenon, chatting quietly with Chas. Finch, Arturo Perez-Reverte, and Alan Bradley.

In the sitting room with the corner fireplace, now gas, a Portuguese mirror remembering centuries, silhouettes from the Jazz Age, an old trunk from the Far East, and Ishiguru, all alone.

In the east room, two leather chairs from an old inn, a daybed from a spinster aunt who remembered the Titanic going down, also Faulkner, Borges, Lightman, and in the shadows of the shelves a motley crew, drinking cocktails, coffee, beer — Irving, Poe, Churchill, countless poets, a few artists and historians, some young, some old, da Vinci muttering to himself, various lady novelists, a few hikers and gardeners, Hemingway, Gertrude Stein, Rash, Patchett, a few Irishmen, god knows who else — enjoying themselves though, in the small room, either laughing, in earnest, or distracted.

In the bedroom, dead relatives dim and quiet on the walls, cats sleeping on a bed — and in the far corner, Jefferson, Umberto Eco, Cavafy, and Kalinsky, wondering how they came to be together on the same small table under a lamp.

This, by Maureen Owens

Laura told me this morning

“the snow-geese are coming.”

You see, that’s what I mean

about this; we know these things

about each other. Our stories

of lost mothers, dogs, passions for

fabrics, birds, children –

grief and reverie

and on and on.

This –

the stuff of lasting,

deepening friendship –

accelerated, because here,

we cut to the chase;

we lament, muse, reveal.

Hearts uncloaked,

land on the page,

call to each other heart,

a beckoning to the circle itself.

This is the voice

of camaraderie and connection.

This is beyond

the gift of being moved.

This is necessary.

This is what leads me to this city

each week. Just this.

The Ordinaries, by Xin Li

It is a kind of love, is it not?

How the lake waits for you to come around the bend

How the door opens to take you in

How the street is lit on nights when you don't go jogging.

What patience they have, inside.

The longing, untold.

How the cupboard keeps things you have abandoned

How the pillow receives unwashed hair

How the water is there, drinkable, any given moment.

What faith they have, in you.

The acceptance, pure.

What if toilet paper comes in a block instead of a roll

Oil in a plate not a bottle

Books with sheets, unbound, unnumbered?

What if there is no button, no zipper, no elastic band

Soup spoon with no handle

Light without switch?

What respect they give, to you.

Ordinaries, unnoticed.

It is a kind of love, is it not?

Inspired by the poem The Patience of Ordinary Things, by Pat Schneider

Billow, by Stacey Murphy

On the back porch

above a white chair of summer

there is a cobweb

dust coloring it visible,

billowing in October wind,

undulating like a wave.

Peaks then valleys

Peaks then valleys

So much change in just 

one windy second

fast, violent

like a ghost shaking its bedspread

And yet it hangs on —

no breeze, no bug, no trumpet vine

has come to release it,

to break the peaks, the valleys.

And neither will I.

Because each morning

at breakfast it reminds me:

my life is, also, neither all peaks,

nor is it all valleys.

Change is constant,

some moments are surprising.

But I trust the rhythm

and I, too,

Hang on, dance, and billow.

Sometimes, by Sue Norvell

Sometimes there is no later
   I can't think about it now
   I can't do it just this second
I'll wait until the time is right

But sometimes there is no right time
   While waiting for the moment
   Waiting for perfection
Waiting for the urgency

For energy, or inspiration which
   may never come, a space slips in —

Easier to hesitate, to discuss, to defer, delay
But sometimes there is no later

Unlike our childhood games
There are no do-overs to fill the void

Inspired by this line from the poem I Go Back to the House For a Book, by Billy Collins: "a space that will now continue for the rest of my life"

Song Without Words, by Barbara Cartwright

A musical motif calls to me like a long forgotten lover 

who had his way

then disappeared. 

Such familiar notes. The memory excites.

Until I ache.

I am trapped in a horror movie where they have taken the music away so that 

when the demon killer strikes, I am unprepared.

Alone. A victim. 

Suspended 

in evil silence.

Vulnerable, ungrounded by my treble clef. My bass. My middle C.

I survive.

To lie in bed this very night, listening to that song again and

imagining scenarios with people from my past

who knew me when I couldn’t even dance.

Who knew me when I hadn’t even started becoming who I wanted to be. 

As if I was (even) supposed to know.

My dance teacher says 

that if the leader makes the follower look good, 

they have done their job. 

In real life, by day, I find most leaders to be

in it for themselves.

But in my dream dance, I am all there is. I amaze myself

with my gracefulness and fancy footwork.

I am the light

the sprite

the caterpillar turned moth. 

(You thought I was going to write butterfly, didn’t you!

Don’t look away and try and hide.

I know you did.

But it’s the moth that makes my metaphor sing today

and always.

The way it appears to your naked uninformed eye as a dull grey cloying thing.

A prisoner of light. 

Look more closely though and it is iridescent.

A thousand delicate shades of grey.)

My moth is my untold story. Hidden

to everyone but myself.

Especially at night.

This music I am hearing now

It is our song.

2 Poems, by Melissa Hamilton

The Answer Was YES

I awoke last night, stars tapping at the sheets

and asked God, if it was okay to be frightened —

to know less as a grown up than I did at seven

and was so sure everyone who drove or could

type fast was good in her eyes.

I asked her if it was okay to be tall or to not have

children, for I had seen too much pain to believe

I could ever save anyone that small.

The cover of night brought courage,

so I queried on, "is it okay that I read to my dog

or would rather follow a leaf down the river,

than sit in a Church?"

In silence was YES, a YES in the stars, 

a YES tapping at the sheets,

a YES in God's quirky code.

Inspired by the poem God Says Yes to Me, by Kaylin Haught

On Turning 41

Last week, I hopped over the border

the birthday women are supposed to dread

with another year under my belt.

It's nothing as I expected; to the dreamy teen —

"you were wrong!"  I can dutifully file my taxes

and still draw chalk figures at noon.

Dreams do whittle down, but like a sculptor

years get us closer to revealing a form.

Dancing back and picking up pieces, there were

clues all along.

When we can no longer count our age on fingers

and toes (and we're not good at math),

why bother?

Inspired by the poem On Turning 10, by Billy Collins