Breathing Poetry

Written by Therese Broderick
She lives in Albany, New York, USA
Her site: Small Returns

Originally posted on Every Photo Tells A Story
for the image prompt shown here

Operation Smile

Child, because I sent my pledge
to some torn patch of the globe--
Cambodia, Morocco, Honduras--
you can now smile for the first time
at your mother's deep brown eyes,
or chew the banana she peels for you,
or learn how to say another word, tongue
meeting the new roof of your mouth.
The word for "love" or "tasty" or
"more." More hugs, more bananas.
And when you are no longer a child,
when you are healed enough to
recite your village's oldest words,
smile when you come to that story's
tragic ending. Mend whatever you can
of our clefted world. Smile often
for the sake of disconsolate poets.

Posted with consent from the writer.

Written by Arlene Ang
She lives in Spinea, Italy
Her website: Arlene Ang

(Originally published in Creations Magazine,
Vol. 18, Issue 3, June/July 2004)

Blood Oranges in Spring

Like Botero's women,
plump with dimples --
an orotund sunset gathering.
My eyes grow accustomed
to windows, observing
fruit fall on grass.
Since the slip downstairs,
my wrinkled ankle has bloated
to sanguinello beauty.
The hired gardener comes daily
to tend my flowers, a stillborn
loneliness on his lapel.
Twice now, he has left two
ripe-red orbs on the porch bench
like a humbling confession of love.

Posted with consent from the writer.

Written by Kathryn Kirkpatrick
She lives in Boone, North Carolina, USA

(Originally published by The Cortland Review, May 2007, Issue 35)

When she left

you went into the barn
to open windows,
release house wrens
trapped in the eaves,
and they rose to the top
branches of the buckeye
while you stood below,
rooted, facing what was left
of the day, until finally
they flew beyond memory
into dusk and you went in
to sleep so drenched by dreams
you did not want to wake.

Posted with consent from the writer.

Written by Gordon Mason
He was born in Fife, Scotland, and now divides
his writing time between Scotland and Spain.
His blog: Catapult To Mars

(Originally published in Snakeskin)

Blue

Blue passion flower, anvil
for butterflies delivered
by a soft yellow-dressed afternoon.

I think of the amethyst cross
between her breasts,
coffee in small rococo cups

and wood smoke that braids
her hair a fragrance of olive.
Her hands speak

like keepers of my old dreams.
Let the bad winds blow, they say,
they will never open scars.

Posted with consent from the writer.