HARVEST MOON Tonight is the harvest moon when the full moon rises early, sits upright on the horizon, bright as sun in lingering twilight. Field hands grab a couple more hours – cut, bundle, and sort the crops, children tag after, search out the leavings, nothing to waste. It’s not labor to gather the gleanings, cross the pasture, wash them for a neighbor, waft the scent before hollow cheeks, fill bare spaces with a harvest moon. Click to hear the poet read the poem. Cindy M. Buhl lives in Washington, D.C., where she is a member of the Writers Center. For over two decades she has worked in Congress as a foreign policy expert, with an intense focus on hunger, food security, nutrition, and agriculture. Her work has appeared in Spillway Magazine, Crosswinds Poetry Journal, Minerva Rising, NELLE, San Pedro River Review, District Lines, and elsewhere.
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Yeast This is for all the things we start on, hold like a ball of unrisen dough warm in our hands, imagine the loaf risen, baked, glazed and golden, sitting there on the table ready to share with others drawn to the sweet, yeasty smell of two friends succeeding in putting away against tomorrow’s hunger – one sunny afternoon, two women who pause to stir together the plain, ancient mix of water, and grain then draw from the air where it always waits the yeast, to join with our kneading hands to make this live – this loaf we see so clearly waiting to rise. Ottawa poet Susan McMaster has published some 40 poetry books and word music recordings. She founded Branching Out, Canada’s first national feminist/arts magazine; and Waging Peace: Politics & Political Action, which brought poetry and art from across Canada to Parliament. She’s a former president of the League of Canadian Poets. Seeds of Grace and the Hope of Harvest I hold in my left hand a past that was given a poor woman’s name, Hope, she carries a child in her belly who will walk the earth with only grains and rainwater to feed his body, when the child is released to earth like crop and cornhusk, he will feed the world through heart and hope, his mother will place the earth in his hand, his life will be a testiment of sacrifice and seeds. And in each arm, he will carry the prospect of hope and the pain of hunger, he will weep for the unfed, and mourn the sick and dying, he will examine the lives of those who holda field of crops and livestock in their hand, food and water, and shelter he will loosen the soil around the hearts that bury an answer he will pray for each closed mind to open a harvest of hope he will shake loose the trees to feed the poor, sift through the fields for the compassion of strangers to find a savior. I hold in my right hand a future that was given a rich woman’s name, Grace, she grows the earth back green and finds a savior in the sun, we are the ripened fruit of the shaken trees, we are the hands that will plant the earth before a child’s empty belly protudes, before tears fall to hollow’s hunger, we are the overgrown fields that will feed the famine, we are the knotted past that will unknit scarcity and deprivation by sewing seeds of Grace and becoming the hope of the harvest. Diane Wilbon Parks (Prince George’s County, MD) is a poet, visual artist, and author; Diane has written a Children’s Book and two poetry collections; her most recent, published collection is The Wisdom of Blue Apples. Diane is one of six PG County Poets whose poetry has been highlighted throughout the DMV. She celebrated the permanent installation of one of her poems and art pieces at the Patuxent Research Refuge - North Tract. Humble Pie Whadda ya mean you don’t like that kind? You little ingrate, what gives you the right? Show some respect; beggars can’t be choosers, my mother used to say. You think this is some kinda restaurant? a fast food place, a Timmie’s drive-thru? May I offer you a menu, ma’am? How about dessert? Hey, I got news for you – there’s no happy meal here; no golden rule says we gotta keep you fed - no prerequisite, no extra credit; we do it out of the goodness of our hearts. In my day we didn’t expect to be fed at school by god, we ate what was plunked in front of us and were grateful for it. We minded our manners lip-synced grace; still, she reminded us nightly to clean our plates, there were children starving in Biafra. She bets they would appreciate the hard work and sacrifice to provide her kids wholesome balanced homemade meals. We knew better than to ask how stuffing our bellies til we were full enough to puke, helped the big-eyed kids Lotta Hitschmanova pitched for on those dinner-hour TV PSAs for the USC. Turn that damn thing off my father used to yell I’m trying to enjoy a meal here! And I’ll tell you what; we didn’t leave the table til we’d eaten every bite. Even then we had to ask to be excused and it better be a ‘may I,’ or our just desserts just might be a flying knuckle sandwich. Click to hear the poet read the poem. Since retiring in 2017, Brenda's immersion in family research inspired a collection of poetry based on her paternal ancestry. A proud member of the Edmonton Stroll of Poets and the Parkland Poet's Society, her work has been published in Canadian journals and anthologies. Brenda is completing a certificate in creative writing and is at work on a second collection of poems. Say where ever you are--here, tonight, gazing across this Malibu canyon--or there, thirty-six years ago, sitting at the kitchen table, your open face reflected in the silver of cans left over from a war, the wolf in your belly already growling for golden peach halves bobbing in sweet syrup even as your uncle took each round tin out of the box and stacked them on your mother’s table--say that even when you were alone, later, in the dark kitchen, shaking each to solve their mystery, that even when you opened the one you were sure held fruit and found instead what you hated most--lumpy, yellow, creamed corn--you ate it anyway-- say that in this moment so long gone you see your life, each day peach gold or corn yellow, nights devoured like sugared plums or endured spoon by spoon swallowing a black mush salted with stars--say that this is the best there is and so you’ll have it--say it and eat it and say it till there is nothing left to say. Eating Poetry Mornings I go Polish, potato pancakes and dark humor, sausage and Symborska, laughter like a mountain stream trickling through blue shadow, Milosz’ rooster singing the earth’s terrible waking. What is the day breaking sunny-side without a word? What is the work waiting, the face coming down the stairs, the moon melting in the mouth of clouds? What good are the songs if not to sing? * Afternoons I picnic lightly, lie under an umbrella brushed with clouds, nibble on greens of watercress, lady fern and haiku, slices of orange and Basho, the world in a palm of shimmering pond. A thrush trills from a cherry tree. A white lilac breathes a sweet bouquet. Prayer flags flutter blessings to the sun. I doze, dream perhaps, turn hawk, wing, glide silently, wantonly through the dusk. * Evenings I dine on halved moons, the darker side of absence. Through the window, Transtrommer’s train, heavy with burdens, waits. Vallejo passes by with a loaf of bread, weeping. Dark matter swallows the light, burns with unrequited desire, night not night but unending shadow, I black hole to my day. I spoon soup, stew, see a cow still as a boulder eaten by a school of stars. Click to listen to the poet read the poems. rg cantalupo is a poet, playwright, filmmaker, novelist, and director. His work has been published widely in literary journals in the United States, England, and Australia. |
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