PALMETTO POEM: I heard irises blooming
Al Black: By Al Black
Yesterday, in her voice
I heard a little girl who
walked rows of beans
picking worms from the vine
to plop in a tobacco can
Al Black: By Al Black
Yesterday, in her voice
I heard a little girl who
walked rows of beans
picking worms from the vine
to plop in a tobacco can
By Marjory Wentworth, contributing editor
Unfolding my grandmother’s apron, tucked
deep in a box of Christmas decorations,
I rub my hands across the wrinkled
cream colored cloth as thin as gauze
and the bright red and blue boxes circling
the hem and see her standing at the stove
wearing her Christmas apron, stirring pots
on every burner, a turkey already roasting
in the oven, plates of gingerbread men
cooling on the counter.
By Samuel Henry Dickson
I sigh for the land of the Cypress and Pine,
Where the Jessamine blooms, and the gay Woodbine;
Where the moss droops low from the green Oak tree,
Oh! that sunbright land is the land for me.
Kendra Hamilton: You speak of the rivers of your homeplace far to the north,
How you’d leave the city in summer for the long trek
to Minnesota, then gather at the creekside in boats,
singing, to beat the grasses till they yielded their sweet black grains.
Music of doves ascending, by Marjory Wentworth:
Yellow crime tape tied to the rod iron fence
weaves through bouquets of flowers
and wreaths made of white ribbons,
like rivers of bright pain flowing through the hours.
Palmetto Poem author: Originally from Vidalia, Georgia, home of the world’s best onions, Katrina Murphy is a poet and baker living in Charleston, S.C. Both of her English degrees are from Georgia Southern University, and she is active in Charleston alumni events and planning.
Palmetto Poem, by Gilbert Allen: Driving, I barely hear—because
on Route 291,
beside the Greenville cemetery,
this afternoon’s big wind
Joanna Crowell: “He asks, ‘What do you with your poems?’
“I play with them. I fight with them. I flirt with them. I avert from them. I dress up for them. I am stripped down by them. I skinny dip into them. I dance naked on them. Yeah, I even get jiggy wit’ em! I sing the blues out of them. I pour the joy back into them. I open my French doors for them. I abstain from them. I get wet waiting for them. I am a drunken fool for them. I take twelve steps toward them. I am sobered by them.”
By Zoe Abedon | My sister is running down the stairs
in front of me,
sees the frog first and lifts
the smooth, green beast between two fingers.
By Laurel Blossom | Kafka said a book must be an axe for the frozen sea within us.
Because pelican means axe
Even if you don’t believe in it, wouldn’t you like to come back as something useful?
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