Poet's Ink Review

August 2008

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The Journey

I reached the exit
for the town where I grew up
in exactly 60 minutes,
turned right at the end,
went down the road,
and up the hill to the nursing home.

No sense of urgency that day …
house in order, suitcase packed
to stay for however long it would take
to walk beside my mother
through her final journey.

The night before
we talked on the phone. She said,
I’m feeling great,
looking forward
to leaving here.

A call to the nurses’ station
the next morning revealed
her condition had worsened
during the night.
Two weeks, two days, they weren’t sure.

She didn’t know
I was coming …
decided it was time to be there,
called my family,
told them when I would arrive.

The last turn … into the parking lot …
right on time, as promised.

When I reached the room,
everyone was already there.
No one called to say
her timeline had narrowed
to a few hours.

It’s unsure if they told her
I was on the way.
Any reason not to is elusive,
hovering behind
possible hidden agendas
I still can’t comprehend.

My mother had traveled into the place
where morphine took her,
a place unreachable
during those last hours,
hope her eyes would open,
say my name,
acknowledge the hand being held,
moistened lips,
counted breaths,
until there were no more.

Our final walk together
was on a sunlit November day,
just past the vegetable stand,
the fence, through the gate
into the small family plot
overlooking the farm where she grew up.

Judy Swanson

A retired paralegal, Judy has been writing music lyrics all her life and performed professionally for more than 15 years. She has been attending the “InnerVisions” poetry workshop in Windsor, Connecticut since the fall of 2006. Judy is also an artist who is represented by a gallery in Bloomfield, Connecticut and enjoys writing children’s stories. She previously won the “Silver Poet” and Honorable Mention awards in World of Poetry competitions.


homemade black holes

clear light shines
reflected in a mirror
itself reflected in a mirror
does the light travel on forever,
escaping the bounds of time?

back and forth
rinse
repeat
moving along a singular path
its weight goes Haagen-Daz
exponentialing until it collapses
in on itself
welcome to your very own
home-made black hole

never heard of such a thing?
of course not
any scientist with a spark
of curiosity rushes to try it
once the light reaches critical mass
1 scientist, 2 mirrors, a beam of light,
(and what used to be a fine kitchen)
discover that exponents turn to zeroes
as their 4 dimensions implode to 1

if the insurance people only knew,
they could close a multitude
of house-fire cases
that stretch on unsolved toward the future.

Erik Richardson

Erik is a teacher, business consultant and freelance writer in Milwaukee , Wisconsin . Some of his previous work has been published in Arbor Vitae, Poetic Hours, and Free Verse.

I remember a little girl, with big brown eyes
And long dark hair, a face that knew a
Smile not. I remember a tree she sat under,
Looked to the sky for ribbons of dreams,
Tried to reach one and pull it down. A barrier
Spread thick, between her and fulfillment.
She placed her life on creases of dreams,
And shed the skin of reality.

I remember a little girl, who looked to the sky,
Placed herself in cockpit of planes
Traveled pages of books to far off lands
Where cultures seeded different gardens.
Listen, the world’s map beckons to wondrous fishing
In Nova Scotia, a Safari in Africa, to Newfoundland,
To romance in Paris, the

Fog of London and of course Italy, where
Plants of heritage bloomed.
I remember a little girl who dreamed of hugs and
Kisses, but bare feet cut and scratched on stones
Sharp rocks and dark corners of indifference.
I remember a little girl tied with ropes
And chains of loneliness, and saw the stains
Of man and boy in a home not her own.

I remember a little girl that found a voice
That saved
And cradled to her heart, God’s love, and
Pocketed his angel.

Theresa Reynolds

Theresa has been writing poetry all her life. She is currently enrolled at the University of Nevada Reno, obtaining a BA in English Writing. Her work has previously been published in Brushfire.

Page from the Scrapbook

black and white patches around her
old cotton quilt, worn softer by sliding
across her elbows and thighs
early in the morning, drinking coffee with her cousin.

those two who gave me their couch to sleep on
in my dress pants and crumpled shirt
the women who live their days
inventing words, making beds for friends
who drink too much
in the basements out in the city.

yesterday I spent
all my thoughts and moments
sitting on their sofa, beside that girl’s quilted feet
folds of cream and alabaster
below her pink cheeks and knotted hair.
the candles blinked out and
they washed their faces,
walked to their beds
and left me there to rest again.

and when I awoke, they were gone.
I grabbed my shoes, stepped out the door;
the locks clicked and
I started home
very content and hungry,
beautiful girls who were to kind to me
whose pictures ran black and white, black and white
all the steps to my home.

David Waite

David is a graduate of the Master of Fine Arts Program from Goddard College.

Insomnia

The sky creates new color
behind relentless wind.
It shocks to stand within
this hermaphrodite
that straddles day and night.

Rachel Brower

Rachel has been writing poetry on and off for almost 20 years. Her work has been published in a number of journals, including Lynx Eye, The Advocate, Poet's Haven, South Ash Press, and Sacred Journey.