you are the windchime
October 27, 2022
October 25, 2022
and the vast emptiness
between each blinking lamp,
but what might his mindset be
should these lanterns that delineated paths,
leading to answers so desired,
disappear, leaving dark, empty pages
and the sky’s black ink indecipherable.
The impenetrable shade,
would suffocate a summer’s night
when he might otherwise launch himself
toward the shimmering silver signals
to navigate extended black pastures
and linger to contemplate the many queries
the endlessness inspired.
This quizzical stare at infinity
unnerved him yet oddly instigated hope,
possibility woven amid
these barely perceptible balls of fire
awakening him to a surrealistic
yet contemplative awareness,
immersed in a longing to solve the riddle,
his dull pale pupils, reflecting a desire
to rise from the shadow of himself
into the refreshing breath of night
where chances twinkled
and telegraphed messages
into extended darkness,
as Earth embroidered it all
into comfort and a silent sleep.
October 20, 2022
in nineteen-sixty-six, still less
to be finding things so exciting.
In recent past, the crowd, the club, Young Farmers,
even, for Heaven’s sake, square dancing.
The brows, the cheeks of the young were ruddied
with bright cold weather and a brawny humour.
Now the sophisticates. He so enjoyed
the bouffancy of petticoat and expectation.
The beehive hairdo’s had a gloss
you wouldn’t get after a morning’s milking.
And last night, leaving the espresso bar,
he’d walked those two girls home.
Young Farmers style, for sure, was one to one,
that was traditional, but these were college girls,
clever girls (they’d been to lectures on Free Love),
so when they asked would he walk them home,
the three of them, it sounded pretty cool.
Both were pale, were pretty, both were flirty, both
seemed to be laughing at him just a little
as he tried to kiss the other one good night.
October 18, 2022
when Emily Dickinson wrote
on scraps of found paper in her delicate cursive,
her pen was soundless with wonder,
her white sleeves wavering with her music,
hesitating only for the right word.
There are days when asters dream —
white bloom whispers, into long dashes —
the quiet hides inside the center.
The secret tentative voice
sews Emily’s poems into booklets,
messages given in the silence.
She keeps tuning the fretwork her heart,
the act of surrender
and it’s bright, sweet-tasting acceptance.
October 14, 2022
paints vertical white stripes
between silhouetted planks
of wood nailed into a wall
rising like organ pipes
residing in a church alcove.
Wind whistles through cracks
like a practice melody
until the sun sets
in a curtain-closing darkness
followed by a gasp
as pipes echo in surround sound.
Diane Webster enjoys the challenge of transforming images into words to fit her poems. Her work has appeared in "El Portal," "North Dakota Quarterly," "Eunoia Review" and other literary magazines. She will have a microchap of six poems published by Origami Poems Project later this year.
October 13, 2022
October 11, 2022
Running late again, Jack whispered curses when the driver before him didn’t speed through the yellow light. Jack sighed, then noticed in his rearview a man, gray-bearded, stained-hatted, lift an enormous mug and sip. Morning sunlight on that silly white soup bowl with a handle broke Jack’s annoyance and filled him with an unexpected burst of love (no other word for it), love for mug man, for yellow-light driver, for everyone on the road and at home around this oversaturated planet. But Jack watched for the light to turn green. Love this fragile could be shattered by one mistimed start.
John Sheirer lives in Western Massachusetts and is in his 30th year of teaching at Asnuntuck Community College in Enfield, Connecticut. His latest book is the award-winning short story collection, Stumbling Through Adulthood: Linked Stories. Find him at JohnSheirer.com.