ENDING WITH THREE
by Matthew Woolven
I am no longer a soldier. Nor a hero for the public.
Each is too often confused. Each is as lonesome.
And I gave up martyrdom after the blues in the
Garden put their summer petals down.
Hubris withers colorful memories, valleys at a time.
I am a poet now. Where do I begin?
Honestly. So where should I begin?
Copyright © 2008 by Matthew Woolven.
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RAIN
by Matthew Woolven
It wasn’t until years later
that I realized the rain does
the one thing we are unable to
and soon began to wonder how
doors begin their slamming
and closets begin their
screaming and no one checks
the weather or peeks outside
where a single drop of water
can turn two congruous
images belly-up and reveal
how drenching the other
side of not enduring the first
four seasons can be.
Copyright © 2008 by Matthew Woolven.
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RAIN
by Richard Aston
They say it also falls upon the just,
so why worry that now it’s chilling me?
With that tradition bolstering my trust,
along with some protection from the trees,
I should, though shivering, get sleep tonight,
and perhaps even find some small comfort
in sounds assuaging my childish fright
of silence. Like a sentry on a fort,
suspecting silence, I strain to hear
the accidental noise of enemies
behind the trees who may be lurking near.
I’m grateful for the sound of rain on leaves.
And after sleeping all night in the rain,
I’m thankful that the sun will come again.
Copyright © 2008 by Richard Aston.
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CAKE SONNET
by Adam H. Tessier
When you ask me to promise that I’ll love you
forever as a birthday gift, I bake a cake.
A chance to use a recipe derived
from Irma Rombauer’s wedding cake: flour,
creamed butter, sugar, egg whites, baking powder,
whole milk, and good vanilla. It survived
in careful transcripts that her daughter tried,
found true, and sent to press in ‘74,
The Joy of Cooking White Cake II, to score
a hit with generations of new brides.
Two layers take a half an hour to bake
at 350°. (The oven gives them room,
hot quiet space to rise, to be a cake.)
Let cool, then frost. (Wax paper on the plate
makes this step easier.) Then decorate,
with flowers, candles, or a bride and groom.
Copyright © 2008 by Adam H. Tessier.
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YOUR ICON BOX OF MICHAEL
by Adam H. Tessier
A lesson on the value of belief,
you tell me how you hold your angel-saint
inside a box, describing the relief
one feels, or ought to feel, suddenly faced
with mock-up Michael, brandishing his sword
and scales. He’s shuttered there, hot hours when
the dragon’s near. Just spin the latch-a horde
of cherub cronies flurry from within.
A child’s eager hand upon the crank
wild for the revelation of the clown,
your gesture opens doors, and tries my faith:
this envy is a sin, it weighs me down
but how I want a box of holiness
like yours, to hide or rattle, or caress.
Copyright © 2008 by Adam H. Tessier.
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ONE RECENT SEPTEMBER AFTER A LONG HOT SPELL
by William Ruleman
In just the past few days, the weather has altered:
A few cool mornings—magic for one’s moods.
A sign of how our scientists have faltered
In their predictions of Mother’s attitudes?
So much for tragedy? The polar bear
Must feel all right, we feel, if we all do.
And if some pesky fumes remain in the air,
Well, aren’t they simply part of life’s rich stew?
I jest. I do? The coasts, besieged by rain,
Continue, soggy, to crumble. Worrisome winds,
Now “gathered like sleeping flowers,” poise to give pain.
And yet, though not required to be our friends,
In serving us suffering, might they help us see
A path to purity? Humility?
Copyright © 2008 by William Ruleman.
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NOCTURNE FOR AUTUMN’S ADVENT
by William Ruleman
A night in mid-September. East Tennessee—
A cooler night than we’ve had since early June.
My window’s open. Dogs bark with a clarity
I haven’t heard for months. An icy white moon
Will bathe my face tonight as I drift toward sleep;
A chill will settle itself upon my room;
The crickets’ chime will calm to only a cheep;
A fog will hover, adorned in its thrilling gloom,
The hush in the air betraying a nature in wait
For death descending gently upon the leaves,
Preparing their tips with flame, as if for a date
With ravishing fire that triumphs, then only grieves
When it’s spent, its embers floating down to the earth,
Conveying the end of summer’s emerald mirth.
Copyright © 2008 by William Ruleman.
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AUTUMN SONNET
by Stefan Zweig
translated by William Ruleman
The days have long since climbed down the golden ladder
Of summer. Late brilliance warms the land.
The shadows wax early and fall in broader
Spans from every tree in the evening’s hand.
Many a ripe fruit, as if wind-brought,
Still gleams in the leaves. Bare, the meadow’s breast;
And clouds above that chase themselves west
Make the sky seem restless, burdened with thought.
Above the woods (leaf-stripped, with forlorn look),
The swallows’ flight quivers, already in distress;
And all this warns: Prepare for autumn presently.
Incline tomorrow toward the landscape’s book:
The look already, perhaps, from the letters so motley,
Of life’s loveliest word: transitoriness.
Copyright © 2008 by William Ruleman.
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