Itasca Illinois Poetry & Willow Tree Dreams

Stand Naked

By Mechi Renee

I stand naked before the rain.
I wait droplets from above to wash
sin and dirt from my body.
Each moment passes like an eternity.
My eyes roll back, I find them in my head.
Looking at sky my arms reach there.
My knees buckle.
Back to the ground I fall, bruised, battered,
I’m no longer perfect in love,
scared forever

-2011-

Bio: Mechi Renee, a sister, daughter, mother, lover and best friend has been writing since the tender age of 21. She spent most of her years in Texas, Florida, and SC, now residing in the ATL. Secretly writing all her dreams, hopes, and fears in a journal book she has bared her soul for all to see.

Editorial Comments: Mechi Renee, writing since 21, is now reaching out to share her first works
with us all. Some revision and edits by Michael Lee Johnson with Mechi Renee created this
collaborative effort. Look for additional works soon from this talented female poet.

Mother, Her Reflection
By Stephanie M. Wytovich
(Dedicated to Charles M. Wonsettler)
 
Mother, when I look into your mirror
I see you staring back through my eyes
The same warm browns
That looked at me when I was born
Still bring me to tears
For so much of you is inside of me
Buried deep within,
Where nothing could ever hurt you again
Where I can protect you this time
 
For
 
Mother, the mirror in this old farmhouse
Still holds its own,
Forever imprinted with your grace,
And a remembrance of your smile
Strikes my memory –
I touch the glass
Hoping to hold onto your face
For one minute longer
Because I still smell the scent of your perfume
Lingering in the air around me
 
And mother,
 
I can feel you standing next to me
Your arms wrapping themselves
Around my waist,
Reassuring me that everything is ok
That you’re still here,
With more love than ever before
So proud of everything I’ve become,
Of the man that I’ve grown up to be,
And as the years passed,
When I look into your mirror, mother,
And see those brown eyes
Looking back at me,
I know that even though you’re gone
You’re here more than ever before
And I can find peace,
Knowing that I see you again,
Every time I look at my reflection.

Bio: Stephanie M. Wytovich is a senior at Seton Hill University where she is a double major in English Literature and Art History. Amongst having numerous publications, the most recent being her poem “Crickets,” she enjoys painting and playing the piano. She plans on attending graduate school to pursue her doctorate in art history and creative writing with aspirations of teaching at a graduate level.
 
Editorial Comment: Stephanie wrote this poem for a dear friend, Charles M. Wonsettler in honor of his deceased mother who passed January 9, 2006. She was strong figure in her community, devoted wife, mother of three sons: Cliff, CJ, Charles. In our belief in God, she is in good hands.

Lugaidh’s House
By Joseph Farley

in a house without heat,
in a winter of record cold,
you crawl into your bed
to get warm under layers
of blankets, comforters.
there you will stay
at least until spring,
sleeping, thinking, reading
the Book of the Dead,
searching for the chapter
that mentions your name.

Bio: Joseph Farley edited Axe Factory for 24 years. His books include Suckers, For The Birds and Longing for the Mother Tongue (March Street Press).

Editor Comments: I love the way this poem talks about the hear and now, then alludes to the Book of the Dead-to the imagist last 2 lines.

Scarves
By Joan McNerney

I want to make scarves from the sky.
Since I’m not much of a seamstress,
here’s hoping it won’t be too hard.
 
To start I’ll just pick up a fleecy
white cloud to cover my neck.
 
Maybe create a dove grey scarf
and cut out pale blue ones too.
Make entire closets full of them.
 
At sunset I will fashion boas
of bright ruby and tangerine.
 
My midnight shawl will be long
gleaming ebony covering my
shoulders keeping me warm.
 
If lucky I’ll find some rainbows…
kaleidoscopes to wrap up in.
 
I will list them on eBay and Craig’s,
hang pictures on my Facebook wall.

Imagine, everybody will want them!
Would you like one too?
Better put your order in now.
 
Bio: Joan McNerney’s poetry has been included in numerous literary magazines such as Seven Circle Press, Dinner with the Muse, Blueline, 63 channels, Spectrum, and three Bright Spring Press Anthologies.
Four of her books have been published by fine literary presses. She has performed at the National Arts
Club, Borders Bookstore, McNay Art Institute and other distinguished venues. A recent reading was
sponsored by the American Academy of Poetry. Her latest title is Having Lunch with the Sky, A.P.D.,
Albany, New York.

Editorial Comment: I have a few favorite poets, and Joan McNerney is one of them. I guess we all like what we like that sounds like us. If that is the gravest of sins, I wait for judgment.

The Last Orange Tree
 By Richard Hartwell

They didn’t used to top the orange trees when I was young.
The leafy, tendril fingers still aspired to the clouds,
Like supplicants bearing fruit from the gods of the groves
And allowed to slumber through the spring awaiting
Renewed appetites from the summer Santa Anas.
 
Now there are asphalt-glutted masses
Upheaved from the bulldozed groves,
Shoving skyward like phallic sores,
Their social diseases spread like leaf rust
Or cankers of concrete and steel and glass.
 
In a not too distant future that I fear I’ll live to see,
In a mall, mauled and overrun by tired shoppers,
Withdrawn, seeking a planted central court in which to rest,
There’ll be a potted green preserve with what purports to be
“The Last Native Orange Tree In Southern California.”
 

Looping Coyote
By Richard Hartwell

Looping coyote,
Captured for an instant in the middle of the yellow meadow,
Enthralls my attention.
 
Frozen on alert,
Senses acutely aware for dinner or danger or distress,
He awaits the wind.
 
His coat ripples backward,
As the breeze vacillates and vagrantly changes direction,
Then he breaks his pose.
 
Whether dawn or dusk,
To the solitary figure it doesn’t really matter as he heads home,
Back to the stoney arroyo.
 
Lonely coyote,
Continuing off obliquely, angled away from me, diagonally,
Looping his journey.

Bio: Richard Hartwell is a recently retired middle school teacher who taught English Language Development and reading remediation to the hormonally-challenged. He has cycled through approximately three generations of adolescents. He is worn out, jaded, not certain he can spell any longer after reading student papers for years.

Editorial Comment: I absolutely love Richard’s work, I knew immediately when I glanced at it, it was special. I’m not sure he know it yet. Rich in imagery, concise, and real human telling experiences.

Crickets
By Stephanie M. Wytovich
 
Sinking into the down comforter
I let my muscles relax,
And outstretched my limbs
Feeling the tension leave my body
While my still wet hair
Melted into the feathers of my pillow
 
After endless hours of exhausting stress,
That took its toll on me
Like a constant weight pushing onto my chest,
It felt good to uncurl my spine
And step out of my skin
Returning to the natural wonder
Of bare skin against silk sheets
That felt like lying on clouds
On a cool autumn night
 
I felt my edges soften
While the crickets sang me to sleep
Luring me into a false sense of security
With their monosyllabic song
That hypnotized my eye lids,
Easing them closed
And shutting out the day
While the night put me to sleep

Bio: Stephanie M. Wytovich is a senior at Seton Hill University where she is a double major in English Literature and Art History. Amongst having numerous publications, the most recent being her poem “Lipstick,” she enjoys painting and playing the piano. She plans on attending graduate school to pursue her doctorate in art history and creative writing with aspirations of teaching at a graduate level.

Editorial Comment: This is a special poem of weaving in and out of images.

A Meditation on Poetry and Myself
By Phillip Ellis

I would like to think that I am kind
in effect, and that, nevertheless,
that I am mindful of the way that
sounds and rhythms play, of the way that

poetry evolves into being,
the way that a fern upturns its fronds,
uncurls and turns them in a mountain
valley, where, lazily, the kiwi

rustles among the roots for a worm
in the earth, and for whom the ferns turn
their shadows against the whiter clouds
of winter rain, with the clouds staying

thick like the mists in mountain passes,
where travelers pass between markers
before pausing to parse the way poems
seem to hone in and make a home

from a world of ferns, and birds, and worms,
and mists in mountain passes, markers
and the clouds, the clouds ever present,
and the clouds that are birthed by the earth.

BIO: Phillip A. Ellis, a freelance critic and scholar, has recently
completed English Honours. His “The Flayed Man“,
has been published by http://www.gothicpress.com/, Gothic Press.
He is working on another collection for
http://www.cyberwizardproductions.com/
Diminuendo_Poetry/, Diminuendo Press.
He is the editor of http://australianreader.com/index.php,
AustralianReader.com, Melaleuca,
and Breaking Light Poetry Magazine.

THE NOTHING ZONE
By Roger Singer 

A twist of air boldly pushes past
August light; a song of different color;
the end of summer.
 
Night air signals the aroma of change.
Cooler breezes mark time like a parade
turning a corner.
 
No wall of wishes prevents the rolling
pattern weaving around me;
I am a patchwork of sadness.
 
Sand and waves stand alone in winter,
absent of voices; time absorbs everything.
 
The nothing zone is the space
between summers.
 
IDLENESS
By Roger Singer 

Idleness.  The sin of loss.
An empty room brags of alone.
Stale curtains.  Weeping cloth.
Tears stain the floor.
 
An open window.  A piano marks
the air.  An invisible tightrope
balances the sound.  Crossing
the alley.  Notes playfully line up.
For a moment the room breathes.
 
A setting sun.  Gray angles.
Sharp retreating edges.  Concrete cools.
Bricks remain dull red.
Pigeons circle lazy air.
 
The music stops. The room refrains.
Quiet returns.
 
THE HOUSE
By Roger Singer 
 
The voice of the house
cringes under winters
contractions
and yawns with
expansion
during summer.
Creeping ivy finds
hold into porous
red aged bricks;
a carpet of green
Engulfs the house.
Faint winged breathes
of butterflies touch
sea grass tops that
sway like deep
green ocean bottoms.
Sandy floors welcome
the outside in.
Lawn candles mark
a landing strip
for onshore breezes.
Lounge chairs
embrace company.

Dr. Singer served as a med-tech at MacDill AFB in Tampa Florida for three in half years during the Vietnam era.  While stationed at MacDill he attended evening classes through the University of Tampa.  When discharged he began studies at the University of South Florida attaining his Associate and Bachelor degrees.  In 1977, Dr. Singer attained his doctorate in chiropractic from Logan College of Chiropractic, St. Louis, Missouri. Dr. Singer has had over 450 poems published in magazines, books and on the internet.

Editor Comment: Dr. Singer send 3 poems, I could have picked anyone of them, they were all excellent, bursting with imagery and delicate construction.