Nutmeg
I’m watching the Premier League
when she comes home, hurrying,
with a jar of whole nutmeg.
This seems a good time to share
that nutmeg is a soccer term
for a humbling trick, and that some say
Connecticut, where she is from,
is nicknamed the nutmeg state
for wood mixed with the pits.
She takes a breath, then tells me
she left the store wondering,
Is this the last whole nutmeg
we’ll ever need? I understand.
It’s October, and we’re awash
in painted bones and memories.
I try to say we’ll nutmeg time
and win another life
as fortunate as this.
She just turns the glass and reads,
Whole nutmeg,
properly cared for,
lasts indefinitely.
—William Keller
The Dogwood on the Left
I don’t have to venture further than the front
door. Coming or going. Can’t tell which
sometimes. There they are standing upright—
two dogwoods, sentinels, one on either side.
But it’s the one on the left as I’m leaving
that I’m thinking about today. Torrential rains
yesterday, sheets of water plunging from eaves,
their troughs overflowing, waterfall making
its way under the door and onto the floor.
No matter to that four-petaled white flower
still hanging on through baking sun and now
the downpour, the solitary blossom on both
trees. For more than ten days the lone flower.
No matter the news, I, too, have to hang on.
—Jim Tilley
Bird Is the Word II
listen to us
we like it
when light fades
and even more
when it dawns!
—Peter Coco
The Fourth
I had me a sweet watermelon back
in ’58. Yessir! I didn’t even
spit out the seeds they was so sweet.
And I slurped me some fancy
ice cream out of one of those cardboard
containers. It came with its very
own wooden spoon! This is while my folks
just about drowned themselves
in bourbon playin’ gin rummy in the bar
of the Cheyenne Country Club.
My lips wet and red from watermelon,
belly bloated by ice cream,
I leaned my eight-year-old body against
one of them wicker lawn chairs
and watched the other kids blow the dickens
out of each other—sparklers blinding
an eye, a thumb-tip blastoff from an M-80,
an ambulance for the four-year-old
with a tiny rocket stuck in his leg. Yahoo!
The fourth of July in Ole’ Cheyenne
where the buffalo were in cages at Frontier Park
and discouragement was all that bloomed
on the prairie.
—Charlie Brice
Windstrewn
I have a thing for the wind.
Against my back it pushes me.
Whips around my bones and reminds me,
who is really the boss.
Sometimes it quietly whispers.
Through the trees it speaks to me.
Reminding me of who I am, and where I come from.
When it’s quiet, it still says something.
Enjoy the stillness, find your peace.
Invoking me to reflect on what, and who is yet to come.
I have a thing for the wind, and I do believe it has
a thing for me too.
—Norina Vigeant
Hothouse
this much is certain:
there is something to be said
about the aftertaste, about
exhaustion following hours
of hothouse sex, flesh
sprinkled with the sweets
of love, lips already alive
for the next time:
a Hollywood moment,
a happy ending.
hallelujah.
—Cary B. Ziter
The Sprig and The Stone
I came across a sprig
and stone today, side by side,
placed in the gutter by someone
who must have hurried on.
I picked them up, held them
in my hands, studied them
in disbelief. Sprig spoke first
and said: Keep me, take me
home. Water and root me.
I will grow to be your friend.
Stone spoke next and said:
Sprig will only grow to wither
and fade away one day.
Take me home. Use me
as paperweight or whatever
you desire. I will stay the same.
I stood on the path myself,
wondering which I should
listen to, one, both, or
none at all.
—Patrick Hammer, Jr.
Brands
Rolling Rock, Natural Ice, Keystone,
and it’s not the beer aisle at the store.
A two-mile round-trip dog walk
along the rural road and one could pack
a large trash bag with cans and bottles
tossed from cars. Budweiser, Busch,
Coors Light. Think about it. Most
beer drinkers stick to their brands,
so if there are thirty different brands
both sides along the one-mile stretch
of road, that’s thirty different people, many
at the wheel, who think it’s okay to drink
and drive and litter too. Oh, they know
drinking while driving’s illegal. That’s partly
why they toss their cans. Don’t want to
get stopped with empties in the pickup
or car. Maybe one day one will get caught
and sentenced to gather cans and bottles
along this stretch of road. Narragansett,
Pabst Blue Ribbon, Stroh’s. Lying in brush
and bushes, ditches and shallow streams,
mostly tough to get to, unlike at the store.
Schaefer, Old Milwaukee, Genesee
Cream Ale, Miller, Milwaukee’s Best.
—Matthew J. Spireng
Write Happy Poems
upon posting a poem online
an ex lover texts me and says,
“you changed that poem?”
yes, i added a verse
changed the ending
felt better to me
“i like the first one better,
i got a knot in my stomach
with that one new line…”
she pauses, questions herself,
“huh, maybe that makes it
a better poem.”
i always enjoy her feedback,
more than she knows
she hates my depression
and hates to love the words
it spews out of me
i sip my coffee
enjoy the warm sunshine
on my face
in the cool autumn air
and i think,
life’s not so bad sometimes
so don’t worry about me
happy friends,
my melancholy poems
help me feel better
and for those of you reading them
wholeheartedly,
and especially feeling them
wholeheartedly,
i am truly grateful.
—L. V. Bach
Carpool Commuters
The gas station coffee’s too hot
to chug at 5:58 AM en route to work
so we fill our first few highway miles
with recent recollections
of the minuscule victories
and minor defeats
that shape our daily lives
laughing ourselves to tears
at these predicaments—
acknowledging how we’re turning
slowly into our fathers
just enough to be grateful
while achieving
the one unspoken wish
that these better men
maintained for their sons:
Not losing ourselves along the way
like the embers of our cigarettes
flittering off behind us
between white and yellow lines.
—Mike Vahsen
Loss
The headstones in the old graveyard
on Verplanck Avenue
in Beacon are crumbling,
inscriptions effaced—
Here are some dates,
1808-1888,
there a family name,
La Farge
We can only tell by the small size
of the markers
where a child is buried
and many stones just say
MOTHER
—Joanne Grumet
you may discover
walking in autumn evenings
where the wild things are
—Jennifer Howse
The Most Oft-Repeated Sentence of All Time
And I was like,
“Oh my God!”
—George J. Searles
Resolutions
I took an oath.
I will not covet the life
of Methuselah and watch
inventions become obsolete.
I will not rewrite the Book
of Genesis, nor will I skydive
in some desperate attempt
to fill a bucket.
I took an oath.
I will not allow the rants of
newsroom addicts to mute the
laughter that keeps me young,
nor will I cross an expanse of
ocean simply to touch a tomb,
learn a new culture or buy
trinkets from children.
I took an oath.
I will follow stone walls under
the super moon of winter while
the female moths emerge from
their pupae, and I will read adventure
stories in a wicker chair until
my lids become heavy or a dinner
bell rings in my head.
I took an oath.
I will keep my hedonism simple
so as to refute its dissolute
reputation; the debauchery
will be limited to that dream that
fades too quickly, and I will keep
the bucket empty as all that I have
is all that I need.
—William A. Greenfield
Prayer to Today
Today,
Help me wring out joy from my day
A wet washcloth
Dank from blood, ink, dirt
Squeeze out an American goldfinch
And a nuthatch
A moment’s rest on the couch
A short string of words from my daughter
Or son—without expletives
A text about tofu
A friend’s new haircut
An evening walk with a lacrosse stick and a boy
And the cool twilight breeze that comes after a storm
—Ilyse Simon
This article appears in October 2024.
