I Learned From Mom by Alyssa Abell

How to love, unabashed.
How fresh fruits, canned
or jammed are the best.
That baked goods can lift
a broken soul or bring
 holiday joy to a home.
How to do things we would
rather not, and smile.
To pay your respects
to the living and dead.
To cherish time now,
it will pass too quick.
How to be brave, fierce,
know we'll make it through.
That being popular doesn't
mean anything, but
being you means the world.
To be creative, let no one
take that from you.
My mom taught me how to be.
There are lessons I still can't
grasp, but she always grips
me tightly, you'll be fine.

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What I Learned From My Mother

By: Julia Kasdorf

I learned from my mother how to love

the living, to have plenty of vases on hand

in case you have to rush to the hospital

with peonies cut from the lawn, black ants

still stuck to the buds. I learned to save jars

large enough to hold fruit salad for a whole

grieving household, to cube home-canned pears

and peaches, to slice through maroon grape skins

and flick out the sexual seeds with a knife point.

I learned to attend viewings even if I didn’t know

the deceased, to press the moist hands

of the living, to look in their eyes and offer

sympathy, as though I understood loss even then.

I learned that whatever we say means nothing,

what anyone will remember is that we came.

I learned to believe I had the power to ease

awful pains materially like an angel.

Like a doctor, I learned to create

from another’s suffering my own usefulness, and once

you know how to do this, you can never refuse.

To every house you enter, you must offer

healing: a chocolate cake you baked yourself,

the blessing of your voice, your chaste touch.

Breast Cancer By Ellyssa Pearce

Bed ridden after the chemo

What is it I asked but he would not let on

She laid there gray and sullen

Words like hair, new hats, comfort

Swirled around in whispers of the day room

The hospital became a home for her

She sits on a chair made of red velvet

Words like hours, veins, relax

Swirled around in whispers of the chemo room

The house is now empty

But full of people who used to know her thoughts

Words like loved, too late, now miss

Swirled around the blackened party

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Multiple Sclerosis

by Cynthia Huntington

For ten years I would not say the name.

I said: episode. Said: setback, incident,

exacerbation—anything but be specific

in the way this is specific, not a theory

or description, but a diagnosis.

I said: muscle, weakness, numbness, fatigue.

I said vertigo, neuritis, lesion, spasm.

Remission. Progression. Recurrence. Deficit.

But the name, the ugly sound of it, I refused.

There are two words. The last one means: scarring.

It means what grows hard, and cannot be repaired.

The first one means: repeating, or myriad,

consisting of many parts, increasing in number,

happening over and over, without end

Eye Exam By: Mylinh Nguyen

Eye Exam
By: Mylinh Nguyen

It always begins with the letter E,
which is so large on the eye chart
that I should be able to read it in the mountains
from the floor of the valley below.

The F and the P on the second line
are just a little smaller,
still not much of a challenge.

By the third line
myopia begins to take its toll
and I wonder, perhaps out loud,
if T O Z isn’t a word.

Line four, I’m sure,
contains a reference
to the Los Angeles Police Department.
At least, I am certain about the L and the D.

The next line is a guess at best,
the first letter being a C an O or a G.
There’s no way to tell which.

Below that are what appear to be several lines
that were written by an unknown Russian poet.
This I can tell from the sadness
of the few letters that I am able to read.

Imitation 12

To Our Dog

By: Lauren Jernberg

The time we went to the shelter

We thought that it couldn't be better.

I brought home a puppy oh so cute,

it fixed things starting at the root.

We became closer and much happier.

We even became quite a bit chattier.

We gave the dog the name Masson.

He tended to do a lot of chasin’.

He chased sticks and balls and cars,

and sometimes wound up in other yards.

He was very strange at first

We even thought he'd make things worse.

Running around and tearing things up

we thought we made a mistake getting a pup.

We were relieved when it stopped

and started his training from the top.

He learned so many new things

That he started acting like a king.

Then we realized something was wrong

When he didn't sing along.

To the vet we went and found

A growth seen with an ultrasound.

A few months later our best friend died

And we thought we would never survive.

But there is no need to fret

We went and got another pet.

And now we can laugh but will never forget.

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To an Athlete Dying Young

The time you won your town the race

We chaired you through the market-place;

Man and boy stood cheering by,

And home we brought you shoulder-high.

Today, the road all runners come,

Shoulder-high we bring you home,

And set you at your threshold down,

Townsman of a stiller town.

Smart lad, to slip betimes away

From fields where glory does not stay,

And early though the laurel grows

It withers quicker than the rose.

Eyes the shady night has shut

Cannot see the record cut,

And silence sounds no worse than cheers

After earth has stopped the ears.

Now you will not swell the rout

Of lads that wore their honours out,

Runners whom renown outran

And the name died before the man.

So set, before its echoes fade,

The fleet foot on the sill of shade,

And hold to the low lintel up

The still-defended challenge-cup.

And round that early-laurelled head

Will flock to gaze the strengthless dead,

And find unwithered on its curls

The garland briefer than a girl’s.

To an Athlete Living Prosperous by: Nicole Busch

To an Athlete Living Prosperous

By: Nicole Busch

That time you won your first trophy

We chanted your name through the whole course;

Family and friends stood, cameras in hand,

And at home we celebrated with cake and soda.

Today, the competitors gather round,

Sit at tables and chairs,

Recognizing your big accomplishment,

You catwalk across the runway, shoulders high.

A smart little lad comes up and takes your hand,

Bows down and gives it a peck,

You smile and he soon becomes shy,

For he withers down quick like a worn out rose.

The echo of applause starts to fade,          

As you lay down, bed all made,

Your day filled with festivity,

You close your eyes and drift away.

A Beginning and Ending by: Nicole Busch

A Beginning and Ending

By: Nicole Busch

I don’t love you as if you were a rose of salt, topaz,

As if your petals fell slowly to the ground,

Every time you saw the glimmering shadows of my face,

Or my name was so much as whispered, by word of mouth.

I don’t love you as if you were rain on a summer’s day,

As if you cast a spell over those happy, alive,

Its like you stood watch, ready to catch your prey,

Ready to sprinkle acid-like raindrops on everyone’s parade.

I don’t love you as if you were a tart and bitter mango,

As if you cringed at the sound of my harmonic and angelic voice,

The first bite, the sour juice, the unpleasant glare,

You get the shivers as if my wonderful sensation crept you out.

I don’t love you, as if you could ever learn to love me,

For love is a foreign concept, word,

Unspoken bond and phrase that links two separate worlds

In the universal sun.

In a Bright Time by: Nicole Busch

In a Bright Time

By: Nicole Busch

In a bright, bright time, the eye can see,

The rays of the golden-yellow sun casting a shadow upon me;

The green of the mountain fresh pine,

I live between the blue lake waters and the green forest,

I live in the sanctuary city I call my home.

What’s this madness that we call summer,

No school, no worries, just the fire hot day.

My shadow pinned against a sweaty wall,

That place lay out in the sun like a basking girl —

Is it welcome in this world?

A night full of shinning stars, a halo of a moon,

Outside playing games in that warm, gentle breeze.

A dog goes sniffing for his well-buried bone,

A girl searches far and wide to discover herself –

The moon guiding her long, narrow path into the now dark night.

Graffiti Man by Liz Snader

Graffiti man by liz snader

Our angel, our rock, our inspiration-

He brought light to so many dark lives.

He filled empty places with color-sketches

And paint cans and art pens littered his home.

He loved and he shared and he

Helped those who needed it the most.

He drove the pain away from your mind

And body by medicating the problem-

That was his down fall-he medicated,

Not fixed-he knew he couldn’t fix it all-

So he’d just dull the ache for a moment.

He lived and he loved and he moved on

To the next best thing-Paige, Sara, Wendy. . .

The list goes on—

But his list ended at

The ripe age of 22-a few months ‘til 23

Why couldn’t he wait? Why couldn’t

He slow down?

We shall never know-

Our angel, our rock, our inspiration-

He left out lives to live his eternity.

A Phenomenon by Kimberly Stutevoss

A Phenomenon

I doubt that if there is a God he does harm

He is well meaning and kind

But tell me why the pain continues

The suffering throughout the lands he created

Did he plan all of this when he created the sixth day, Man?

His previous days were flawless,

Beauty of the water and lands, even the animals

But when Man was introduced to the world,

Evil joined him

The greed overpowered them all

But was it on purpose?

Or a fatal flaw that is slowly destroying what he created

I look up at the sparkling silver stars each night

And try to see the Heavens

Trying to see the man we call God

To ask him why the pain continues.

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Poem of the Day: Yet Do I Marvel

BY COUNTEE CULLEN

I doubt not God is good, well-meaning, kind,

And did He stoop to quibble could tell why

The little buried mole continues blind,   

Why flesh that mirrors Him must some day die,

Make plain the reason tortured Tantalus

Is baited by the fickle fruit, declare   

If merely brute caprice dooms Sisyphus

To struggle up a never-ending stair.   

Inscrutable His ways are, and immune   

To catechism by a mind too strewn   

With petty cares to slightly understand   

What awful brain compels His awful hand.   

Yet do I marvel at this curious thing:   

To make a poet black, and bid him sing!