Poems
At the Crossroads
A selection of poems from “At the Crossroads”
Crossroads
by Lina Belar
Driving the back roads
of west central Minnesota
it's impossible not to notice
how many signs point to Wolf Lake.
The town itself is small,
with a newly remodeled
gas station, a VFW club,
several abandoned buildings.
The Kinnunen general store
is closed and shuttered,
its second and last letters
missing for decades.
At the crossroads, signs
point to other distant towns.
All roads lead to Wolf Lake,
All roads leave here, too.
How A Century Farm Begins
by Lina Belar
Inside a small farmhouse where
women grind grain for the bread
while the wind turns the gristmill and the men
wrest a living from the rock-laden soil,
through hot summers and bitter cold winters,
the grain, seed for next year's planting,
lies protected from heat and cold and wet
in a tightly sealed room with no windows
in the middle of the house.
Children are forbidden to play here.
Mice and rodents dare not chance the wrath
of the farmer's wife with her sharp blade,
Like fairy tale princesses the seeds slumber
in safety, dreaming of languid summer days,
blue skies and occasional rain.
In spring, the door to the room is opened
all but a small amount of the seed removed.
The fields are sown, produce grain
to feed the livestock, cows give birth,
provide milk for their young with enough left over
for the human babies who will soon grow
large enough to help plant the seed,
cut the grain, thrash it and store it
for the next generation, in the room
with no windows in the middle of the house.
Recognition
by Lina Belar
At the entrance to the market in Ljubljana an old woman
has settled herself on the pavement, a black and white kitten
on her lap, aluminum cane by her side.
She holds a stringed instrument made of wood. There are spaces
for eight strings but only one is attached. The woman saws at it
with a curved bow, making a small discordant sound.
The belly of the instrument is papered with pictures,
Blessed Virgin Mary, St. Joseph, the Pope, and the head shot
of a young girl, perhaps her daughter, with the heavy-lidded eyes
and prominent nose that I had when I was twelve.
Instead of walking past the old woman, I stop and drop some coins
in the box by her side, hold up my camera, make hand gestures
asking her permission for a photograph. As I snap the picture she smiles,
perhaps in recognition of my familiar features or the shared
realization that now I know how I will look, when I am an old woman.
Strawberry Moon
by Lina Belar
Last night
the strawberry moon
over the gunmetal lake
casting a trail of silver shards
each step a hazard
for the mermaid's
fragile tail.
The Future of the World
by Lina Belar
I am waiting for the day you can't buy pens anymore.
Who needs a writing instrument once telepathy replaces speech?
Already, most communication has been reduced to the fingertip.
With one swipe you can sign your name, message a friend,
capture a picture. Pens and pencils are but crutches
for those unable to see how evolution is at work.
The tap follows the thought and soon the tips of our fingers
will become the conduit for all that is glorious and beautiful
in our minds as well as the sad and forlorn.
From final tap to telepathy we will once again be able to hear
the vast symphony of the earth as it goes about its business
of living and eating and dying.
As I write this, I am watching a great blue heron poised
at water's edge, waves breaking across his bony feet
waiting for the sea to bring him his breakfast.
Poems of Hope and Reassurance
A selection of poems from “Poems of Hope and Reassurance”
Corona
by Michael McCormick
Let things fall apart
just for a while
Take a walk
on faded hopscotch roads
Remember when others touched your skin
not just the sun
Breathe
your six feet
of safe clean air
Giving Thanks
by Laura Hansen
Because you asked for poems of hope, I have decided to write
the saddest words. Because writing is itself an act of hope.
Here is your hope, this spray of heron feathers below
the abandoned rookery. I stop on the path, give them
their moment of silence and then, as an act of defiance,
give them voice. I give them the hard word gun-metal
to name their particular shade of blue.
I give them the words stiff to describe the shorn
quills and loose to describe the way they still move.
Because you asked for poems of hope, I have decided
to tell you about my brother’s death, how he sang
until he couldn’t sing, then danced in his hospice bed –
emaciated arms and legs flailing under white sheets.
Because you asked, I speak. I testify for the losses
in this world, for the swamps drained dry
and the resident swans that circle looking for
their old northern home. I testify in the harshest
words, because in protest there is belief, belief
in change and change is life, is living, is re-
becoming, and hope is stiff grey feathers
lifted by wind.
Giving Thanks
by Lina Belar
Nothing is ever the way you expect.
The job doesn’t last a lifetime,
neither does the marriage.
Your children speak an unknown language.
People you love die too young
and you can’t even climb the stairs
without huffing. Yet, there’s something
about living that draws you in.
Yellow cushions on garden chairs,
bright flowers on the green lawn
Little blue stem grass that shoots up overnight
while geese gather overhead to discuss travel plans.
Today, even the weeds in the garden
seem thankful to be alive.
And so,
it must be admitted,
am I.
One Beautiful Thing
by Morgan Grayce Willow
Bald eagle flying low,
directly across my path.
Setting gibbous moon,
its filigree against winter blue,
behind clouds, light, airy,
pushed by arctic winds.
And in between, swathes of sumac
blazing up ditch banks.
Hills lolling dun, russet, tan and gold,
quiet as winter-dressed goldfinch.
Pine-green stands collar lakes,
their slate bellies bare
before ice takes them.
A single ancient oak,
its scrubby leaves potato brown,
still holding on dark-shadowed branches.
Field, textured and worked
as if by enormous embroidering hands.
Peanut shell hills with a prickle
of late-planted green shoots
punctuating roiled black soil.
Pooled waters in low places
where egrets rest before traveling south.
Kestrel on high pole, scanning
in low-angled light.
The sudden bright of sun
just emerged from dark walls of cloud.
One each day.
Just one.
Recognition
by Steve Yasgur
When finally the question is presented
of whether we persist or pass away,
When in our minds
we can at last imagine
Some sunrise that our eyes
will not betray,
Denied at last our myriad distractions,
We’re left to face
the worry in our heart:
Not that our life
might very soon be over,
But that it might, at long last,
have to start.
Rift in the Universe
by Lina Belar
First the dragons
rollicking through the cornfields
leaving scorch marks
on the back country roads
Then the guardians
clothed in soft white
descending over the blackened land
like seeds from milkweed pods.
Majestic in flight
but when they land
surprisingly ordinary
The girl next door
a teacher I liked in second grade
the simple man who runs errands
for the owner of the local clothing store.
Rural Score
Poems by Lina Belar from “Rural Score”
Beneath the sagging canopy
of an abandoned gas station,
two dozen six foot hollyhocks
stand guard like weary sentries.
Camomile tucked in cracked cement
releases sweet fragrance with each step
Across the highway, seagulls follow
furrows left by a tractor that turns the earth
leaving black lines, dotted with white birds,
a kind of sheet music for the land.
Except for the bales of hay
the corn tall and tasseled
it might be summer’s start
and not its end.
In the green woods, the poplar leaves
have turned to yellow and gold
like anxious debutantes
trying on dresses
for the Harvest Ball.
Not just the first icy patch
but the second, the third and so on
an accident on every one
a pick-up truck spun out of control
hits the rock-hard snow of late winter
flips on its back like a surprised turtle
shaken bodies emerge
wave away their would-be rescuers
next, a yellow sports car overturned
in the median between east and west lanes
men form a silent circle around the wreckage
a police officer leads a woman away
face cupped in her hands
impossible to tell which way they were heading
now the only direction is back
to home, to hospital or to dust
it’s snowing again, by morning
the ditches will be unbroken white
ready for the next turn of the wheel.