Comrade, walk to the water’s edge, a grab bag
of all you possess dragging over wet sand.
Red light frays the surface; see, it splits,
a trough of loaded syntax, a drift, apostrophe’s
belonging, where we’re headed now.
I thought you might like my company.
Remember, we gathered shells,
listening for omens. Remember, inundation dreams
woke us early mornings,
but we shelved them away with old books,
proceeded to the day, its repetitions, editing.
I don’t have much to say, no point, you know it.
Hold on to something, this horizon even.
Our feet sink into wasteland,
grit, erosion, we’re stumbling.
No remedies, no life rafts. But stand. Wait.
One last thing…
I know why you suddenly screamed,
seeing, on the instant, the arc of our travelling,
the startled flight from the orchard,
future tenses hanging, like ready fruit,
from the branching out of our birth.
All rumours of my solitude
have been wildly inflated.
It’s simply that today was a chilled depth
of indecision, its winds finally calling
heads or tails. I stayed home. Though
I had planned to go,
do an open mic spot if allowed.
I have done these things instead:
a quick chicken dish,
portions needful to be taken
from raw to readied plate,
several poems, also raw,
but they will succumb later
to my seasoning, last preparations for
forthcoming joint art show,
hopes re competition, ( I’ve “run it up”
twice prior ), and I’ve finished the antibiotic,
stopped coughing, except for sometimes.
Apart from thinking.
Apart from hoping that you’d find your car keys,
apart from keeping company with the cat,
apart from remembering and thinking.
Rumours about my thinking are rife, inflated,
quite apart from the ones about my solitude,
my memories, and my relationship
with the weather. I think you know that.
Just hope it’s a nicer day tomorrow.
The Time Traveling Poet
Born in the early Internet age, she seems a bit out of place.
Her words, her thoughts, very untypical for her generation.
Almost like she got sucked into a wormhole
and ended up close to the third millennium.
She longs for the daring American poets
who stayed in Paris after the Great War was over.
Elaborate swing halls,
sharing music that goes against their parents and grandparents.
Flapper culture suits her well as the jazz music plays on.
Like Alice down the rabbit hole,
she somehow got sucked into a wormhole
and ended up in the early twenty-first century.
Wanda Morrow Clevenger is a former Carlinville, IL native. Over 443 pieces of her work appear in 155 print and electronic publications. Her flash fiction “Roses and Peppermint Candy” won the 2014 Winter Short Story Contest in The Holiday Café. Her poem “corsage” won the 2014 Black Diamond Award for Excellence of Craft in The Midnight on the Stroll Poetry Contest. Her nonfiction “Big Love” was nominated for 2016 Best of Net by Red Fez literary journal.
the first poem in weeks
.when Mom passed
my meds for PTSD
the confluence of
the customary emotions
leaving me venerable
to any number of potential
and tongue lashings
we had spent
the entire day
the week before
at the bottom
of the barrel
for fresh conversation
I am grateful
when she passed
I wrote the first
poem in weeks
not this one
he says we have
nothing in common
as though he’s been
dead Koa wood
as to how we
in the first place
I ignore the remark
a sinless observation
he’s maybe right
he’s maybe wrong
as is my way
I beg to differ
to play cupid
and a boy
down the road
but he was very tall
I was very short
she didn’t see
how I saw
‘he goes to church’