Poetry by Marc Ladewig, Liz Balise, Eileen Hugo, Rodney Wood

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    Marc Ladewig is a native Californian and the father and step-father of four grown children. He is a swimmer, veteran, world traveler, mandolin player, language teacher and lifelong lover of poetry. He has written an original, novel length, narrative poem entitled Odysseus-The Epic Myth of the Hero, published by Infinity Publishing.com., and recently published Orion’s Guiding Stars, The Myth of the Hero and the Human Instinct for Story, with Algora Publishing.

     

     

     

    I Swim at Night without a Beacon

     

    I swim at night without a beacon

    And hear the deadly surf upon the shore.

    While most have one, of you, I had none.

     

    I pray hard for the rising of the sun

    To warm this dread that chills me to the core.

    I swim at night without a beacon.

     

    The clouds obscure the moon upon its run.

    The winds rage with the waves’ unending roar.

    While most have one, of you, I had none.

     

    I long for that sweet time when night is done

    And I may something more than loss explore.

    I swim at night without a beacon.

     

    I wonder if the past can be undone,

    Become a ghost that I do not deplore?

    While most have one, of you, I had none.

     

    How is it that you never knew your son

    O Father dead and gone as ancient lore?

    I swim at night without a beacon.

    While most have one, of you, I had none.

     

     

     

     

     

     

     

    Liz  Balise – What can I say about myself as a person and a writer? Life— by the time I’m aware, it’s gone by me. I’ve read some important books. Music is sometimes more than I can bear. My favorites: the song of the wood thrush at dusk, the opus of the ocean before a storm, the way white pines mourn when the wind is right.
    So important were words and music to me that as a five-year-old, I had out-of-body experiences watching American Bandstand.  And words?  The spell of my mother’s voice!  She read, and the gray lines took flesh and clothed in brocade.  I reached out to Midas crying in his garden. I rescued the “Ugly Duckling” a hundred times!  “The Selfish Giant”— my all-time number one.  I could not get enough of other people reading to me.  So, I figured, why bother pulling that skill together?  I could always pay the little Catholic-school-scholar a dime to read to me.  I was always a dawdler, scattered— a population of one in my own world. No matter.
    My father once summed me up: “She’ll be late for her own funeral.”  He knew better than I gave him credit.  I putter and poke around, practice and ponder my way through everything.  Finishing the work, closing “the shop”… late and long after dark, pausing to watch– my breath in the night air— the sky so open, the wind tagging me with winter….  For a moment, I am free—far better late, than never.

    Graduate of Marywood University; Scranton, PA

    A long-time resident of Scranton, Pennsylvania who grew up in Springfield, Massachusetts
    -Poetry published in The Endless Mountain Review and
    -Mulberry Poet’s anthology, Palpable Clock, University of Scranton Press
    -Short stories and articles published in Ergo magazine of Prufrock’s Cafe
    -poetry published in Switch magazine, April 2017 edition
    -poetry published in Ripen the Page, March 2017-

     

     

    There Comes the Day

     

    There comes the day

    when the leaves plummet

    at the slightest breeze

    giving up of their own accord

     

    bleeding victory of the trees

    who lumber on

    in winter’s eyes–

     

    I now can see

    where the robins built a nest

    in last year’s spring

     

     

    My name is Eileen Hugo and I am retired and doing all the things I love.

    I have been published in various anthologies. I won first prize in the David Osgood Poetry Contest. I also served time as the Poetry Editor for The Houston Literary Review.

    In April 2015 my book Not Too Far was published.

     

     

     

     

    Cloon Chambers

     

    The walls are still tight like a puzzle

    with fieldstones that grow from the earth

    tinged with circles of green lichen.

     

    The thatch is tearing in the rain

    and the cows wander in and out

    doing what animals do

    wherever they want.

     

    One room gathered around the hearth

    and the cows wander in and out

    the living room is the eating room,

    is the sleeping room, is the birthing room.

     

    And the cows wander in and out

    of a room now filled with

    old tools and yellowed feed-sacks.
    I cannot get inside.

     

    I want to feel the peat fire in the hearth

    run my hands over the plank table

    where my grandfather packed for America

    and the cows wander in and out.

     

    Cloon Chambers   1928

    Meadows rundown to the River Suck

    where the dog named Dog cut off the path

    of the cows who wandered there to their peril.

    The high meadow called a cloon

    sat between the bogs that grew

    from dying moss and bog cotton

    and the river.

     

    Rocks lined the walls of the houses

    carved the lines of property

    where parents scratched stony ground,

    prayed the last child stayed at home

    or waiting for the mailman bringing

    a pittance from the emigrant children.

    The house is empty walls with a thatched crown

    but for the rocks    nothing thrived.

     

     

     

    Rodney Wood is retired and lives in Aldershot. He’s been published in many magazines (Magma, Envoi, Tears In the Fence etc) and has published a pamphlet, Dante Called You Beatrice, in 2017. He also runs an open mic.

    https://thepoetassassin.wordpress.com/

     

     

     

     

    BURNING MOTHER’S BELONGINGS

     

    fur coats / scarves / hats / shoes & dresses / bras / handbags / glasses & false teeth

    they were superfluous to her present needs / fur coats / scarves / hats / shoes & dresses

    they were superfluous to her present needs / bras / handbags / glasses & false teeth

    I would never hear / touch / smell or see her / mother’s life & belongings

    at the end of the garden feeding the flames / I would never hear / touch/ smell or see her

    at the end of the garden feeding the flames / mother’s life & belongings

    fur coats / scarves / hats / shoes & dresses / bras / handbags / glasses & false teeth

    I purged myself with the bitter smoke / fur coats / scarves / hats / shoes & dresses

    I purged myself with the bitter smoke / bras / handbags / glasses & false teeth

    one side of his pine had caught the late frost / I didn’t mention the flames yellow tongue

    talking with my neighbour / one side of his pine had caught the late frost

    talking with my neighbour / I didn’t mention the flames yellow tongue

    fur coats / scarves / hats / shoes & dresses / bras / handbags / glasses & false teeth

    I wasn’t going to say I’d been burning / fur coats / scarves / hats / shoes & dresses

    I wasn’t going to say I’d been burning / bras / handbags / glasses & false teeth

    buried ashes & half-burnt rubbish / buried my childhood but kept the guilt

    behind the under the timber shed I dug a hole / buried ashes & half-burnt rubbish

    behind the under the timber shed I dug a hole / buried my childhood but kept the guilt

    I’ve created toxic & dangerous airborne by-products / I’m fined £3,000 & imprisoned for life

    forgive me / I know I’m guilty / I’ve created toxic & dangerous airborne by-products

    forgive me / I know I’m guilty / I’m fined £3,000 & imprisoned for life

     

     

     

     

     

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