Monthly Archives: October 2023

The Darkness

 
Darkness has never been my enemy.
Whatever the night could bring, the dark
Was solid, sure and safe. Four o’clock light
Is a deception, and four o’clock dusk
A temporary blip. We get it right,
The balance, only twice a year, if that.
 
These days, at nightfall, I welcome in the dark,
Wrap its sure and silent fabric round me, let it
Billow out behind me, my dark cape.
I stroke its velvet, finger its folds, take comfort
From its blanketing embrace. I feel no loss
When light fades its dimmer into twilight, and clicks off.
 
I have faith in darkness, in knowing that I don’t know
What I don’t know. What is there is all that light can show.

Edward Alport is a retired teacher and proud Essex Boy. He occupies his time as a poet, gardener and writer for children. He has had poetry, stories and articles published in a variety of webzines and magazines and BBC Radio. He sometimes posts snarky micropoems on Twitter as @cross_mouse.

A Monk's Burial

We see on the ice plains,
the snow on brittle stubble.
From the white lake
fishermen leave the shacks
to watch the slow line
of mourners -- singling
up to the holy ground
broken open, like the holes
for ice fishing
in the deep, flat water.
The pile of sandy dirt
seems to cover
the broken backbone
of an ancient whale.
Each of us, with a hand full
of soil or line
is drawn down now
into the silence.

Royal Rhodes taught the history of Christianity for almost forty years. His poems have appeared in a number of literary journals, including: Ekstasis Poetry, Amethyst Magazine, Foreshadow Magazine, The Cafe Review, New Verse News, and  STAR 82 Review, among others. Art and poetry collaborations have been published by The Catbird [on the Yadkin] Press in North Carolina.

The Mystic’s Autumn

We remind ourselves how we have more time
now that the backyard pool is covered and the leaves
are splotched with color; out the back window 
the neighbor’s maple is doused with red wine.

You cover yourself with my mother’s old blanket,
open the book of puzzles and get to work – the tip
of your dark yellow pencil is sharpened to a point.

The leaden sky revealed at sunrise is ominous,
reminding us that winter has risen from its long
sleep and pulls on its heavy, worn boots.

The furnace restarts with its long exhale
while the words of a favorite poet settle
into consciousness as if spoken directly from Rumi.

Rumi, ancient jester, how would you feel
if the dervish wind spoke through the maple’s branches
that slowly, slowly, shed their fancy suit of clothes?

Bruce Gunther is a former journalist and writer who lives in Bay City, Michigan. He’s a graduate of Central Michigan University. His poems have appeared in Arc Magazine, the Comstock Review, the Dunes Review, Modern Haiku, and others.