CYCLES

Another full moon, another cycle closer
to fond farewells of hot flushes
and bloated ankles.
Another quarter of packing and sealing
tape and tags to precious packages;
dropping off shopping bags of old clothes
to charity shops. Good will is last
season's sizes.

A full moon of plenty settles over
the freshly budding trees of Napanoch,
hanging like a paper lantern, heavy
with dew and listing in the lonely
branches beyond the lonely window eye
of this single room,

charged with the passion of
relinquishment and tipping to a
matron's roll, while I sort the mail of
three months, collecting a
fine sheen of dust.

Suitcases stand on naked boards.
No downy covering here,
just flaking, aged wood, waiting
for resurrection, reflecting
moonlight as frosted wrapping.

And me, white as a beam,
charging at windmills in the darkness,
donning my raiment of reluctant
farewells and dipping a delicate
ladle to drink the stars of another heaven,

I close my eyes to the waving frost
of a disk beyond my touch, it's maiden
madness veiled in the smokey haze
of age, my dreams allowing me refuge;
sleeping beneath the flag of
another land.

I close the shades upon the faces of
fantasies and blanket my shoulders,
breasts and thighs with celestial promise.
My feet alone, stand naked in the last
of the thinning beam.

By Adele C. Geraghty

FRED

My friend tells me he's going senile
Because he remembers lucidly scenes from his childhood.
He can tell you in detail what he did when he
Was three years old,
But he can't remember what he did three days ago.
My friend says he's aging; he's thirty-three!
His older wife's wrinkles annoy him.
"I'll marry a younger girl next time, if and
When", he says.
But, oh my friend, then you'll just be annoyed
By your own wrinkles in the mirror.
When you've got a wrinkle consciousness,
All the world's a prune.



By Robert Friedman
INSOMNIA


SOFTLY SEEING ALL SIZES OF THE MOON
WADING THROUGH THE BACK END DOOR
OF A MORNING DREAM


WAKING UP BEFORE THE WORLD
RIPS THE QUIET NIGHT OPEN
IN A TENDER GESTURE


MY WHOLE SELF QUIVERS
LIKE THE RIPPLING OF SILK RAIN
POURING OUT INTO THE DREAM
WHERE FEET ARE SHADOWS
WALKING WITH ABANDON
ONTO GARDENS
OF SNOW PASTURES


A PIECE OF FACE RIDES LAUGHING
OVER THE DREAM FIELD
WHERE I WAIT
TO FALL ASLEEP........


Donna Kerness Walence
TRACES

You towel dry,
all traces of guesswork gone;
fibers and filaments
washed down the drain.
Aromas of Seventh Avenue
and blonde highlights,
a trickle on the tiles,
a vapour on the glass
of the medicine chest.

All thought of indiscretion lost,
but one finite card,
falling from your wallet,
like a beacon.
I look,
I see,
and wipe it quickly away
with my broom,
as silently as I wipe
the steam from the glass.
A moment's denial,
before we embrace.

by Adele C. Geraghty
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