The View from Behind by Sr Anne Higgins

Tapestries look

like battlefields

from the back.

Threads like soldiers

in hand to hand combat -

who is most resilient?

Arms locked,elbows out,

clenched fists of knot

scattered

like small skirmishes

across the expanse.

Who is most flexible?

Stitches quarrel

in overbearing voice,

rush to trenches,

maintain positions.

Colors invade

each others' territory,

singing violent

victories

of light.

All clamor, all struggle,

it faces the wall of faith

while the weaver

and the watcher

work from the front.

Sr Anne Higgins, Maryland, USA

Reflected Light by Penny Smith

Remember how this winter day gave light
to country fields where frost and snowflakes lay?
It held at bay the terrors of the night.

When phantoms lurk and prowl our inner sight
and blackest thoughts intrude and bar our way,
remember how this winter day gave light.

Its hoarfrost beauty kept the landscape bright,
intending evening darkness to delay...
It held at bay the terrors of the night.

To those who'd choose to flee to calm their fright
there's scant advice to give, except to say
"Remember how this winter day gave light."

Then their unease must give way to delight;
although the sun had seemed to hide away,              
it held at bay the terrors of the night.

And should your future self meet such a plight,

in each reflective moment, do, I pray,

remember how this winter day gave light;
it held at bay the terrors of the night.

Penny Smith, Havant, UK

 

Daily Diary by Michael Keshigian

All day,  

every day,

through the night

while you sleep,

dust floats upon airy parchment

to silently describe the moment

and soon

another page is complete.

Early, when it’s quiet,

the faint sound

you think you hear

is a streak of sunlight

that sings

the chilly dawn breeze

into a story. 

Even snowfall covers

a page of barren countryside

with white ink,

transforming blank to verse,

rain erases most mistakes.

On a bright day

you may catch hand shadows

swirling fair weather fonts

into words

in front of the sun,

creating a gust

that inspires leaves and twigs

to choreograph the landscape.

When the inkwell runs dry,

the rattling pen resounds

a thunderous clap

and the dark hand pulls

upon the spigot moon.


Michael Keshigian, USA
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Michael Keshigian,  USA