By M. F. Charles
A meager beginning slowly flourished my presence, a subtle start. Your life altered as we changed. My promise made known with kindly kicks, restive pauses. Tethered naked, in your warm salty sea, my drifting dreams are of your pervasive pulse. Our bound bodies followed your rhythms a pattern of timely contractions cresting in a fated wave at my borning time. You cry out. Catching the air in chest-born sails, I cry out.
From a comment by local librarian Ryan Webster
The howls of young wolves echo through the steep canyon complex, in search of food for their hunger. They seek a nourishment for their growing selves to fill a need for discovery. The sound of the pack rises and falls as they move from high ground couches to speed across the open foyer then back, rushing through the canyon stacks in search of stories, feeding their curiosity from discs, books and story tellers. Stories of birds and bugs, dinosaurs and character dolls, elephants and ants, facts and fantasies, imaginary worlds and faraway places, heroes and villains. Please may we have more?
An Old Hand
A ballet of fingers grasps my pen, forms a familiar cradle coaxing a dual purpose from an enticing empty page that begs for words and witnesses their birth. My hand, a conduit for my craft, fields an evolving landscape as it stretches & glides with my motions, browning shapes, an emerging map of unnamed continents, wrinkly interruptions, pearly streaks of scars, obscure its once flawless surface. Its allied elements deftly deliver an essence, a distillation of my emerging thoughts, fact and fancy, memories and musings, exploring time and space.
Word came today
Crisp cold word came a Sorry to Inform. A lifeless page in the story of a life. Regret unspecified. Regret our banal words, a mumbled ‘have a good one’ around a gulp of tepid coffee a chomp of cold toast that morning’s fleeting touch a peck on the cheek, a quick embrace a cursory joining. Touching like the tide. Touching fleetingly then moving away. A regular occurrence void of significance sapped of warmth. I lie in the seagrass, face caressed by an uncaring onshore breeze, reading again sorry.
Time, ripens the future into the past. The future lies, not yet here, in the realm of speculation, hope and trepidation always nearby, unknowable. The past, forever flown, sweeps by our senses parts forgotten, parts remembered, idle fog or impatient river. We live in the now. It approaches then recedes Slipping off the edge of the future onto the edge of the past. Lingering shades of the past harbor the beginnings of the future. Future and past, two sides of a knife-edge. The space between a gasp of existence vanishingly brief, sometimes an eternity.
M. F. Charles, new to writing poetry, lives in Waverly, Iowa. His career has been in academia instructing at the public high school and undergraduate college levels. For him, a poem provides a chance to produce an affect in a reader, to: challenge, inspire, console, persuade, validate, teach. Retired, he spends time writing, gardening, and in community service. He has been published in Duck Head Journal, Last Leaves Poetry Journal, and Last Stanza Magazine